There are times you wake up knowing that nothing in the universe is right. This is one of those times.

My head pounds, a steady thump thump thump behind my eyes, and my eyelids feel as though they've been glued down after having grit rubbed into them. My mouth has gone dry, far too dry, like it had been stuffed with cotton balls. The thought of moving - I let out a weak whine that tapers off into a whimper at George Michael's continued cheerful chorus of an alarm.

The alarm shuts off before it should, and I manage to pry open an eye to see a figure hover over me.

"Ares?" Scott says, voice timid and full of concern. "You okay?"

"Nnngh."

"You… you want some water?"

I consider the offer. Water. Why do I feel like such shit? Water. Water would make me feel better, right? Water makes Drunk Ares feel better, but Drunk Ares has never felt this bad. Before I can comprehend what I'm doing, I shift, preparing to sit up.

Why is it so hard to move?

Scott's there, though, and he's sitting me up and propping a pillow behind me. He's turned on my scentsy, and even the dim light hurts my eyes.

"Here," he says quietly, and there's a water bottle pressed into my hands. I blink at it, and with shaking hands try to uncap it. Trial and error, and Scott's taking it away before handing it back. But his hands never leave mine, and he's guiding it to my lips. The water is cool, but not cold, and it washes away the cotton in my mouth. Brings with it a small sense of clarity.

God, but I'm still so tired. Why am I so tired?

"Better?"

I manage a nod and settle back down, trying to figure out what the hell happened. Before I can ask, Scott's talking. "You got sick last night," he says in a rush. "You said you weren't feeling good, so you came home." He pauses. "You probably shouldn't run this morning. Or-or go to work."

"Scotty-"

"I'll call Dr. Deaton for you," he says. "You need to rest."

I open my eyes to look at him. Really look at him. It takes a second for my vision to focus, but once it does, I can see the dark shadows under his eyes. The throw blanket tossed over my computer chair's armrest. Did. Did he sleep there?

"When do you go to school?" I ask.

"I still have a couple hours."

I nod, and with the grace of a lethargic sloth, roll over. It's a win I didn't take the blankets with me. I hold an arm out, letting my eyes fall shut. "Lay down with me, primito. Nap."

The fact he doesn't argue or make an excuse to run to his room would make a more awake Ares suspicious. He crawls under the covers next to me, and pulls my hand into his. And just like that, it's as though he's four and I'm seven and we're in Catarina visiting our abuelos at their rancho and forced to share a bed while our parents and tios are still outside singing and dancing and drinking.

dont go to work stay home an rest
(HP)
Hey, Scott said you weren't feeling well, but if you're up to it, can you run to the store and grab me some eggs please?
(Auntie Dearest)
Are eggs all you need? Do you want me to bring you lunch?
(A)
You would be my favorite child if you brought me lunch.
(AD)

I smile down at my phone before setting it aside on my nightstand, exchanging it for the bottle of water Scott left. He left hours ago, and I can only just remember how he insisted I stay home when my alarm went off earlier.

Apparently I was feeling like complete and utter shit yesterday, and judging by the lethargy and the fact I can't remember jack shit, I'm inclined to believe the kid when he says that. Which is annoying. Having gaps in your memory is never good, though from past experience it usually comes from too much alcohol. I'm not sure it's much better if it comes from being sick.

I push up off the bed, and steady myself when my legs shake a bit, but not the point of threatening to give out. I inhale deeply and give a little shake. I've no time for this. I have errands to run and the title of favorite child to snatch away from Scott.

It's supposed to still be chilly today, and I push through my shirts hanging in my closet before settling on my light purple long sleeve, which had an outline of a couch screen printed on it. A gift from Warren's older brother - or rather, stolen from Warren's older brother. Parker wasn't going to miss it anyway. I toss it on my trunk for the time being, and make a half-assed attempt to make my bed.

"Pants, pants pants," I sing to myself as I free myself from the ones I already wear and dig through my dresser for a replacement. It's dangerously low on garments. "Pants," I whine, then sigh as I grab my sole pair long overalls, the only clean thing that isn't yoga or running pants. They're ripped at the knees, and my foot catches in the hole as I try to pull them on, almost sending myself sprawling. But I finally manage to pull them up to my waist without killing myself.

"Parker's shirt, it's so comfy, Parker's shirt is my shirt," I hum to myself as I pull off my shirt and toss it into my hamper. My scratches from Scott have healed enough that they don't need to be bandaged any more, and I'm hoping the shirt is still as soft as I remember and won't catch on the scabs. I reach for the sweatshirt and-

That bruise. On my right forearm. Is that new?

I bring up my arm and narrow my eyes at the dark mark on the skin, and then look up in my mirror at my face. The bruise on my face has since faded to a murky green, and the one on my arm is more purple in color. And because you can't have a mystery bruise without poking it, I press a finger on it and hiss in pain. I glance at my other arm, and sure as shit, there's another bruise on my left wrist, but not as big, and not as dark.

"What the fuck," I mutter, noting a third, much smaller mark in the inside of my left elbow. "What the fuck," I repeat, pressing on the smaller bruise. There's a barely there bump, and it almost looks like the bruise I got after giving blood at a school drive and the nurse completely skewered my vein.

Eyes, fiery red-

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. A dream. Just a bad dream.

"It's fine," I say quietly, snatching up the shirt and throwing it on so I don't have to look at the bruises. "It's fine."

"There's my brilliant, beautiful, wonderful-"

"Okay, tia, ya, I get it," I say, holding up her bag of food in my hand. Melissa clasps her hands together as she moves around the counter of her workstation, and she stops much closer to me than I expected.

"How are you feeling?" Melissa asks, taking her food with one hand and using the other to lift my chin and angle my face in the light. She examines my fading bruise, and then stares into my eyes with an intensity you can only see in those trying to make sure their young aren't dying. "Follow my finger."

I huff, but humor her.

"I'm fine," I tell her, letting her put her palm on my forehead. "I dunno what happened." I don't tell her about the memory loss - could that be a concussion thing? She said I didn't have one the other day. I don't tell her about the bruises, and I don't tell her about the knots of dread that started twisting and turning in my gut the moment I walked into the hospital.

I'm sure it's fine.

Melissa narrows her eyes at me, but seems to let it go. "What are your plans for the day?" she asks as she moves back to her station. I follow behind, and try to shove down the feeling of unease that comes from being in the hall.

I shrug, and then realizing she can't see it with her back to me, say, "Dunno. I'm not used to not going to work - last week doesn't count." I shake my head and lean on the counter, cupping my chin in my hands and pouting. "Tia, my paycheck is gonna suck."

"Well, you still have work tonight with the Sheriff, don't you?" Melissa asks, opening her lunch. "Chile relleno, Ares, you really are trying for favorite child."

"Gotta be someone's favorite," I say brightly before sighing. "And I'm not working tonight. Stiles is a little shit and told his dad and now I'm not allowed to go in." I straighten and cross my arms. "Which is stupid. I feel fine-"

"What're you doing here?"

The scream that comes out couldn't be helped.

"Ares! Christ, girl, it's just me!" Valerie, one of Melissa's co-workers and one of the only other nurses I've gotten to know, holds up her hands in defense. She takes a step back from where I'm half crumpled against the counter, and I blink away visions of bright red hair and eyes-

"Jesus, rude!" I snap, and it comes out cracked and hollow. Val raises an eyebrow, looking past me to Melissa.

"Someone had too much coffee this morning," she says before dropping a small pile of files on the counter. "These are Jennifer's - if she bothers to come in today." The last bit is added with a hint of annoyance and rolled eyes. Melissa makes a noise in the back of her throat, like the human mom equivalent of a growl, and Val shrugs. "She's a controlling bitch."

"I know a thing or two about those," I say under my breath. Val catches it, though, and pats my arm lightly.

"Sorry about scaring you, baby girl. Coulda been worse though. Coulda been Jennifer."

I look between the nurses. Melissa has rolled her head back in a can't you drop it manner.

"Who's that?"

"Glorified candy-striper."

"She went to school just like the rest of us."

"She's got an attitude problem." Val shakes her head. "Red hair, always looks like she's got a stick up her ass. She works with the coma patients mostly, and she'll rip your head off if you try to help with any of her patients."

I crinkle my nose. "Wow, what a weirdo."

"Right?" Val shrugs. "Well, I have to get back. Unlike some, I don't have a lovely niece to bring me food."

I wait until she's disappeared around a corner before turning back to my tia and slumping against the counter, crossing my arms across it and dropping my head against it. I squeeze my eyes shut, and there are flashes of redredred. Red hair, red eyes, hands gripping too tight.

A hand cards itself through my hair, and I pick my head up miserably to see Melissa looking at me, sympathy in her eyes. Such a contrast to those I see when my own shut.

"Are you okay to be alone?" she asks, resting her hand over mine. I exhale, considering my options. This could just be a delayed reaction to Monday.

That wouldn't explain the red though.

"I'm good," I lie, and I think she might catch the lie, but she doesn't call me out on it. "I'll see you later, tia." I straighten and turn to leave.

"Be careful, and call if you need me." I give an absent-minded salute, and my sleeve dips a bit, just enough for me to catch sight of the smaller bruise on my wrist.

Hands gripping too tight.

I stare down at it, narrowing my eyes at it as I enter the elevator, the doors shutting after I punch in my number. The bruise didn't seem to have a shape before, but now. Now… I shove up both sleeves, and examine the larger of the two, and my breath catches in my throat in realization. It isn't just a random blob.

It's a handprint.

Did something happen last night?
(A)
u got sick
(HP)

Bullshit. Mentiroso. I all but throw my phone down on my bed and close my eyes. Redredred. I shake my head, try to banish the sight. It could have been a nightmare. Could have… I stare down at my arms and bruises. Nightmares don't cause bruises like that though.

Fuck me.

I pick up my head, and a small ball of paper catches my eye. It's crumpled up, and left right behind my wastebasket. Thrown and missed, probably. I sigh, and make to pick it up. It's just a scrap piece of paper, and I try to remember the last time I actually sat at the desk to do anything other than fill out school applications and beg the government for financial aid. There's imprints on it, words hidden away.

Curiosity gets the better of me before I toss it away, and I smooth it out.

What. The fuck.

I stare at the words, will them to rearrange a la I am Lord Voldemort to spell out something, anything else.

This is the only way we can kill him. She can't know. Delete the messages on her phone.

-D

The paper is shaking. Trembling, and it blurs. It doesn't take a genius to know who the D in this is.

That motherfucker.

I wipe away the tears of anger that threaten to spill and clench my hand, crumbling the paper as I do. Something happened. Something happened, and Derek and Scott are hiding it from me.

I snatch my phone from where I had thrown it on my bed and pull up my messages. The last I had sent yesterday was to Scott.

Heading to Allison's now, wish me luck!

Allison's. I try to recall yesterday, try to remember why I was at Allison's. Did Allison have something that would help any of this mess we're in?

Nothing. A fuzzy picture of Chris Argent, of Lydia Martin, of all people. I groan in frustration. Why can't I remember anything? I stare down at the half crumpled note in my hand.

This is the only way we can kill him.

Kill him. My mind falls back to Monday night, after Derek brought me home. After stopping Scott. Derek had said they needed to kill the Alpha to get it out of Scott's head, that it was the only way to stop it.

Him. Stop him. I never gave much thought on gendering the Alpha. It sufficed. Giving it gendered pronouns felt… humanizing. And after the people it had killed, the times it tried to get Scotty to - to kill me…

Him. A person. Scott and Derek know who the alpha is. They know, and the fuckers are hiding it from me. A flare of anger, of annoyance and betrayal, flares in my chest. Haven't I been a part of this from the beginning? Haven't I been the one to keep them from killing each other? Did they think they were protecting me?

Had whatever happened last night made them think I was too much of a liability to include on their stupid werewolf adventures.

My phone vibrates in my hand, a message from Scott flashing on the screen.

Ur still home right?

If I ask him what's going on, he'll lie. He won't answer. If Derek had been the one to tell him, then asking Derek wouldn't do me any good either.

But if I guilt Scott… I've been around Elisa long enough to pick up manipulation tactics…

The idea makes my stomach roll. No. We won't be doing that.

Yeah

I've wanted to know what the hell is going on since everything started and now. Now that I have have a chance, now that I'm so close to the truth… The sleeve of my left hand falls back a bit, exposing the bruise, and a flicker of fear blooms in my chest.

redredred

I press the lock button on my phone. Two options pop up on the screen.

Power Off
Restart

I press the former.

My dad married Elisa when Alicia was eighteen, in her first year of college at Corpus, and Aaron was twenty-three, in Catarina, trying to fix up our Abuelo's rancho in an attempt to think about anything other than the last four years he spent in the military.

I was thirteen and in eighth grade, and when Elisa told me to join a sport to get rid of last year's baby fat, I joined track.

I started running, and I don't think I've ever stopped.

The track isn't an option - school's still in, and it's track season, so the track team will be on it soon. The Preserve isn't safe. Even if it was, I've fallen too many times during my time in cross country to know that's not something I want to try.

So a run through town it is.

It takes longer than it should have for me to fall into a rhythm, and a shorter time for me to fall out of it. I find myself, of all places, running out of steam by the very same park I had fallen in front of last time. It's still empty, and I don't know if it's because it's because school isn't quite out yet or if it's still too cold for kids to be out - I'm from Texas, my sense of what's cold is a bit skewed.

Knowing I won't look like a creep if I have sit since there are no kids, I make my way to the bench I sat on last, and plop down heavily.

Let's take a minute to try and figure out what the fuck is going on.

I went to the Argents yesterday. I saw Lydia Martin. Which was weird, but considering how she and Allison are friends, not completely out of the realm of possibilities.

Something happened last night. Something bad that Scott and Derek know about. Whatever this thing was, I can't remember. So. That's clearly not a good sign.

Whatever happened revealed the Alpha's identity, if my reading of Derek's note - and honestly I'm gonna stab that shithead in the throat-

I'm getting off track. I huff, scrubbing my face before moving my hand up to push the flyaway hairs out of my face. My phone sits in my pocket, and I pull it out. Stare down at it, but don't turn it on.

Would Derek have called? Would he have texted? The asshole didn't even check on me earlier. Did he think he was protecting me?

Did I even want him to call?

Did he even still care? Maybe he just wanted me out of the way.

"Maldito," I mutter under my breath, shoving my phone back in my pocket. I let out a huff and glare out at the park, crossing my arms. Who is he to decide I shouldn't be a part of this anymore? Who is he to pull Scott into a plan without telling me? (Nevermind I've been wanting them to work together since this mess started.)

"May I sit?"

I start at the voice, not having heard anyone approach. A man stands by the bench, white dude, conventionally handsome, dark hair a bit longer, and curled just a bit. He smiles pleasantly. It doesn't reach his eyes.

Redredred.

I blink up at him, glancing past him to the other, obviously empty bench. If he notices my obvious eyeing of it, he doesn't say anything. It occurs to me, in that very moment, that there hadn't been any traffic on the street.

Unsure of what else to do - I could make a run for it if I had too - I give hesitant nod and try not to make it obvious how I move over to give a wide space between us.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he asks, and I glance up at the dull grey sky.

"It's a day," I say before I can stop myself.

"Good enough for a run?" he asks, and I swallow at how he eyes my get up - my running pants, my shoes, my light jacket. "Do you run often?"

A honk, sharp and short, saves me from having to answer. I glance back at the road to see a blue car - not new, not old, bigger than small - stopped on the side of the road. The wrong side of the road, and it's at a bit of an angle, like it swerved over quickly to stop.

The window rolls down.

"Hey!" Angie the Waitress, Angel of the Lord, call out. "I have been looking everywhere for you, get in the damn car!" she snaps, giving me the out I so desperately needed. I shoot up, trying and likely failing to hide my relief.

"Oh, look!" I say brightly. "My ride." The man narrows his eyes - only just - at Angie, before smiling thinly.

"On your way, then," he says, gesturing me to move. I don't run, but it's a damn near thing. He says something else, something I don't quite process until I'm safely to Angie's car, until after I assure her I'm okay, and that yes, please, I'd love a ride home.

"It was nice to see you again, Ares," the man had said.

YOOO! A quick note - did you by chance see the schnazzy new cover? That was made by the incredibly talented and amazing and generous molotovsoul over on tumblr, and everyone should go check her out because her stuff is pretty freaking great.

Also! There's another tumblr you guys should check out! (and for once it isn't mine I'm trying to get you to go to, but you can do that too) A couple wonderful writers over on tumblr and here (musiciatee and kisaageckos, go follow them they're great) are making a new fyeahoc blog: fyeahocsofcolor! it's brand spanking new, and once it's up and running, you'll will find some super great ocs of color - because representation is important, even in fanfic. especially in fanfic. So go check that out and follow the blog!

As always, thank you to new fav/followers! And of course, those of you who have been here since the beginning, because y'all. Y'ALL. kerosene hearts turns 3 years old on july 28. THREE YEARS. (you think id be done with season one by now)

anywho. drop a review and let me know what you think about this chapter, because I'm not sure how i feel about it~

Stay schway, my dudes