As it turns out, a murder at a high school is kind of a big deal.

"This sucks," I lament, wrapping my arms around my middle and pressing against Derek's side in an attempt to use him as a shield against the night's chilly breeze. We stand by the front of a cruiser while Allison, Stiles, and Scott stand by its trunk, far enough apart to have separate conversations but be assured of each other's existence. Jackson and Lydia had left almost immediately after getting out of the school, because apparently their parents live closer and have more money and can buy their freedom. Or something. I wasn't really paying attention, just happy that Jackson finally left.

That boy is so unpleasant to be around. Then again, Derek did kinda traumatize him. We gotta work on that, I think.

Cops are milling around, and there's more inside doing a sweep of the school after Scott and Stiles told them about the janitor. When I asked why the cops were here, Stiles explained - bitterly - that Jackson had made him call his dad.

You can always count on the Sheriff for a good last minute rescue.

I glance over at the kids, and shake my head at Allison and Scott, huddled together and staring at each other with the brightest Steven Universe eyes I've ever seen. Despite their intimacy, they have their bodies open and facing Stiles, who stands close enough to almost be part of the cuddle fest, and they're all speaking in hushed tones I don't care enough to eavesdrop on. Probably just some post near death experience bonding. Allison clutches at Scott's arm, and every so often she'll look up at him as if to make sure he's there and real. It isn't hard to read her face, the hero-worship and the promise of never ending love - as never ending as teenage love is.

She has no idea how close she came to dying at his hands. If he hadn't found me first. If I hadn't remembered my flashlight. If-

"You alright?" Derek asks quietly, drawing me out of my thoughts. I look up at him and blink in surprise at how close he's leaning in, but don't move back. "You're too quiet."

I drop my head and fight back a tired laugh. Someone died; it feels inappropriate to laugh, even ironically. "I'm internalizing," I say, and Derek's concern becomes more evident at my hollow voice. "I'll be back to my normal self in a couple minutes."

"Ares."

I don't look up at him, because I know he's got the judgement thing going on, and I don't need that in my life right now.

"I'm fine," I tell him, dropping my head on his shoulder, tightening my arms around my middle when a gust of wind bites through my sweatshirt like it's nothing. "Just cold. Aren't they supposed to give you a blanket when you go through something traumatic?"

"Usually. Here," he says, pulling back, and I immediately miss his warmth. He shrugs off his jacket and holds it out for me. I stare at it, then up at him, who's looking down at me expectantly. And, okay, it's not like this is the first time I've seen him without his jacket. I've seen him without a shirt, and that was great, very aesthetically pleasing. It's just, this is his jacket. Derek without his jacket is, like, blasphemy.

I shove it back at him, shaking my head. "I can't take your jacket, you live in it," I say before I can stop myself. He arches a brow and I flounder. "You-you'll get cold!"

He rolls his eyes. "Hardly," he says, dropping the jacket over my shoulders. I try to pull it off, despite how nice the warmth is and how it smells just like him and how it feels safe, and Derek grabs my hands and pulls them down. "Ares. Wear the jacket."

I huff, pulling my hands from his. "Yeah, alright," I say, pushing my arms through the sleeves. "Thanks," I add quietly, not looking up at him. The jacket's entirely too big, but it's warm, and it keeps out the wind. Derek snorts when I bring up my hands to show him how the sleeves hang over them completely. He steps in front of me, close, and grabs the front of the jacket, straightening it as best he can. I stare at him in surprise as he zips it up, his expression soft and sincere, his eyes brighter than they should be, considering what we just went through.

He finishes zipping up the jacket and moves his hands to the collar. My hair is caught underneath the jacket, and his fingers brush my neck as he gently pulls it out and pulls the collar up. His hands are warm, and it's all I can do to not lean into the touch.

Which. What.

Before I can think too much about what that might mean, I catch Scott glaring at Derek's back. He looks like Allison's grip on his arm is the only thing keeping him from marching up here. I duck my head into Derek's chest, struggling to hold back a hysterical giggle.

"Scotty's looking at you like you just did him some serious dishonor," I whisper, and Derek snorts before schooling his expression. He gets that laughing when someone just died and a serial killer just tried to end us all is highly inappropriate too. "Maybe he's just jealous that I didn't have to taze you." Derek goes still in front of me, and I frown, looking up at him. He looks away, expression closed off.

The alpha's roar had affected him just as it had Scott. He had lost control for a moment, could have torn down the doors that separated us. But he didn't.

"Why didn't I have to taze you?" I ask. He looks down at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't quite place.

"I found my anchor," he says, but doesn't offer any details. Which, okay, I can see how something like that can be personal.

"Oh." I clear my throat, then look up at him again, squinting at those magical eyebrows of his. "So, like, not that you weren't the coolest thing I had ever seen in my life, ever, but, uh, where did your eyebrows go?"

He stares at me before letting out a defeated sigh and stepping back, dropping his face in his hands. "You are the most impossible human," he mutters, and it's then that the Sheriff and a couple deputies - Silverman and Pauly - walk out of the school. Stiles notices his dad walking out and rushes up to meet him. The Sheriff stops in front of the kids with a look of defeat on his face. Derek and I watch from our side of the car, not wanting to be dragged into anything if we could help it.

"Did you find the janitor?" Stiles asks.

The Sheriff shakes his head. "Not yet, kid."

"Did you check the locker room?" Scott demands, detangling himself from Allison. "It happened in the locker room."

"We checked the locker room, just like you said." Scott opens his mouth to argue, because something in the Sheriff's tone seemed a bit off, but is cut off. "We found blood in there, a lot." Scott slumps back into the car and Allison hides her face in his shoulder. "I believe you that something happened, but until we find a body…" he trails off, shaking his head. "How about you tell me why you were here to begin with?"

Scott glances over at me, quick enough to miss if you weren't paying attention. "I got a text from Allison," Scott says, before quickly adding, "except it wasn't her that texted." Allison nods in agreement, and Sheriff Stilinski's face warps in confusion.

"And I got a text from Scott, but he didn't text me either. Our texts are the exact same too," Allison says, pulling out her phone, and Scott does the same. The Sheriff leans in to see the messages, narrowing his eyes when he realizes what it means.

"You were lured?" he demands, and there's anger in his voice. Not at the kids, but at the fact someone would do that to them.

"Well, when you put it that way…" Stiles says, rubbing the back of his head. Sheriff Stilinski pinches the bridge of his nose before looking past the kids at Derek and me.

"Gimme a second, kids," he says, walking past them toward us. I duck my head, so not ready for the Dad Lecture™ about to be unleashed. "Ares," the Sheriff says as he comes to a stop in front of us. "Derek." And he looks like he wants to say something about the fact that Derek's even here, but seems to decide against it. Which is good.

"Hey, Sheriff," I say, pushing up the jacket's sleeve so that I could scratch at my nose. "Shitty night we've been having, huh?"

"Ares, please don't tell me you also got a fake text," he says.

I let my hand drop. "Well, if I did that, I'd be lying to you, and my siblings raised me better than that," I say.

The Sheriff let out a frustrated huff that sounded suspiciously like a curse as he steps back, rubbing a hand over his face. Stiles' head shoots up at the sound, because he has a sixth sense when it comes to his dad, and throws me a if-you-break-my-dad-I-swear-to-God look. It's equal parts adorable and terrifying. After taking a second to compose himself, the Sheriff shifts his attention to Derek.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, not even trying to play nice at this point. His tone, accusing as it is, takes me by surprise, and annoyance flares in my chest. As if the night couldn't go any worse, Derek's about to get accused of murder. Again. Before I can say anything I might regret, Derek's hand catches the jacket's too long sleeve that hides my hand. He gives it a gentle tug, barely noticeable, as he answers the Sheriff.

"Ares called me," he says.

The Sheriff looks skeptical. "Why?"

"'Cause it's Derek," I say. Sheriff Stilinski arches a brow, a prompt to elaborate. "Would you rather I not call anyone at all?" I demand, crossing my arms and shifting my weight. He opens his mouth to counter, but stops short and eyes the jacket I wear. His expression changes, shifting to understanding, annoyance, and then finally settling on resignation.

"Right." He sighs, shaking his head. "Alright." He looks back at the kids, who are watching the exchange - Allison curiously, the boys suspiciously, though Scott more so than Stiles. "I'll have Deputy Paulson swing over here and take your statements while I get these kids sorted out."

"Then we can go home?" I ask hopefully. Because there are tortillas to finish and if there's anything that will make me feel better about every horrible thing that's happened since this shit started, it's making and then eating tortillas.

"Then Deputy Silverman will follow you and Scott home," Sheriff Stilinski corrects. "Make sure you get in alright, and we'll have someone patrol the neighborhood through the night."

This seems sensible, I guess. "Yeah, alright. I can deal with that," I tell him. He nods, and I kinda really hate how relieved he looks that I'm not going to argue.

"Same for you, Derek," he goes on. "Where are you staying?"

Derek shifts, just a bit, and I look up at him expectantly. Maybe if he admits he's been squatting in that burnt out shell of a house, Sheriff Stilinski can actually make him go somewhere that Crazy Kate Argent doesn't know about, and therefore can't pop in and shoot him dead, as she has been known to do.

"I'm at the Super 8 on Mason right now."

Oh? That… I was not expecting that. Sheriff Stilinski glances down at me, then back up at Derek when I make a point to not meet his questioning look.

"Right, well, we'll have someone make sure you get there alright." He gives us another once over before turning and going back to whatever cop related thing he has to do so we can all go home.

"You left the house?" I ask quietly, looking up at Derek. He doesn't meet my gaze and keeps his expression carefully neutral, but nods. "Alright. That's…" I can't think of anything, so don't bother trying. "Alright."

It takes less time than I thought for the Sheriff to let us go. Derek had been the first to be let go, and I think he might have stayed until Scott and I were free, except for the fact that Allison's parents were about to pull into the parking lot, and the whole hunter thing was a problem. It isn't until after I walk into the kitchen that I realize I still have his jacket.

And that's just because Scott points it out.

"You still have Derek's jacket," he says, following me in as I flick on the light and make a beeline for the workstation I had left behind. Melissa isn't home yet, because apparently her boss is the second coming of Dolores Umbridge and doesn't let her off when her son just almost died.

"Jack-oh shit," I mutter, pulling at the collar before sighing tiredly and pulling it off. Not that I want to, but it's nice and probably has sentimental value, and I don't want to get flour all over it.

"Why do you have it anyway?" Scott goes on, and it sounds like he's trying to keep from sounding annoyed, but he fails spectacularly. I shrug, dropping the jacket on the back of a chair and dropping my keys and phone on the counter.

"I was cold. He made me take it." I pull up my sleeves and wash my hands, scrubbing a little harder than necessary. "I dunno, he was trying to be a decent person?"

Scott scoffs, dropping into a chair. "No, he wasn't," he mutters, like he knows something I should know. I narrow my eyes at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He looks up at me, opens his mouth to say something, only to promptly snap it shut and shake his head, as if he thought better of whatever he planned on saying. "Nothing. Nevermind." He waves a hand dismissively. I consider calling him out on it, but I'm not in the mood to have the argument it would spawn.

He stays silent, watching me jump back into work as if I didn't just take a few hours break to get almost killed by a baby werewolf being mind controlled by a revenge driven werewolf. Which is probably something he needs to know. The revenge thing, he already knows about the near murder thing.

"The spiral means revenge," I say. Scott does a double take when he registered the words; he had been falling asleep, his head bobbing. I almost feel bad for dropping this on him. But he needs to know.

"What?"

I choose my words carefully, knowing he'll know if I lie, but also knowing that letting him in on the whole Accusing-Deaton-Of-Being-In-On-It thing would be bad. "I got Derek to tell me today before I got the first text." Scott doesn't move from his seat. I glance at him, and he's staring at the ball of dough I'm rolling out. He looks tired. He looks scared. No, scratch that, he looks terrified. I take a breath and set the rolling pin away and straighten.

"Scott." He looks up at me. "We're going to figure this out, okay?" I tell him, and he huffs, shaking his head.

"How? Ares, that thing has mind control powers," he said, his voice rising. He takes a breath and dropped his face in his hands. "I almost killed you."

"That wasn't your faul-"

"I wanted to kill you." Ope. I blink in surprise. That's. Well, that's not good. Scott picks up his head and looks up at me. "To kill everyone."

It's not every night your little cousin admits he wanted to murder you. But considering the way life has been going since this new year started, I've come to realize that I shouldn't be too shocked by this. And right now, the little cousin needs reassurance that he isn't some kind of monster, werewolf thing aside. It seems as if my own mental breakdown will have to wait.

"But you didn't," I said, pointing the rolling pin at him and keeping my voice light. "And that's what's important, mijito lindo." I crinkle my nose at him when he looks at me in disbelief.

"How is that-"

"The Alpha had you mind-controlled, dude," I remind him. "It wasn't you wanting us dead. It was the Alpha projecting it wanting us dead onto you. There's a big difference." I pause, wondering how big the difference actually was. Hopefully big enough. "And you can't blame yourself for getting mind-controlled, because even Derek got screwed up by it, so really, if the werewolf expert got fucked up, what hope could you have against it? And that might not sound reassuring, but it is. Trust me."

He stares at me blankly for a second before snorting, shaking his head. "You're the worst at this." He smiles up at me. "Thanks." He folds his arms on the table and rests his chin on them to watch me work.

"It's what I'm here for. Crappy but sincere reassurances." I reach out and grab the smallest ball of dough and drop it in front of Scott. "Here, play with this. It'll make you feel better."

He does as I say, rolling and mashing the masa in his hands like play-doh. "Ares?"

"Mande?"

"I'm sorry I almost killed you."

I pause my work and glance up at him. He doesn't look up at me, and instead focuses on the masa in his hands. As much as I want to say it's fine, that it's okay, it's really not, even if it wasn't his fault.

"Just… don't do it again, okay?"

He nods, still not meeting my gaze. "Okay."

Ayy, Happy Holidays!

I absolutely did not mean to disappear for so long, and I'm super sorry. But I have winter break now, and I'm gonna see how much I can get done with this (though it probably won't be much because I'm slow). Anywho, thanks to those who have been reading, thanks for the reviews and follows and favorites, they mean a lot! Welcome to the new followers, thanks for taking a chance with this story. If you like the story so far, be sure to leave a review/follow/favorite.

Hope everyone has a good holiday season!

Translation(s):
Mijito lindo - pretty little boy
Mande - Polite/formal way to say què. Kind of like saying "Yes?" instead of "What?" as a response