Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. I only partially own Joanne since she was inspired by a name on The Deadpool, but any other OCs you happen to come across are 100% mine.

I meant to upload this yesterday but things were just too busy and hectic, so here's a belated Christmas present for y'all! Happy holiday!

It's so quiet here
And I feel so cold
This house no longer
Feels like home

"So Cold" – Ben Cocks

Chapter 2

Joanne had been sitting on her front porch for…well, she wasn't exactly sure how long. Once she'd regained control of herself, she'd called the cops and then went outside. She'd collapsed on the steps and stayed there, staring at the bloody athame until the sound of sirens snapped her back to reality. Shoving the ceremonial dagger back into her boot, Joanne wrapped her arms around herself as the police and an EMT swarmed past her into her home. One of the EMTs crouched in front of her and tried to coax her over to the ambulance. She needed to be checked for injuries, but Joanne refused to move. She didn't even have a scratch on her, just some bruises. They were insistent but she was rooted to the step. She only moved out of the way when the forensics people had to go by with Grams' body.

The EMT had wrapped a blanket around her and rubbed her arms. It wasn't because she was cold but because, in stressful situations, the human body would be in danger of going into shock. At that point, the body's systems would shut down and the extremities would become cold. A blanket helped to prevent this. She'd read about it once. He didn't truly care, she guessed, or maybe he did. All she knew for certain was that he wanted to give her something to do other than focus on the tragedy that had just occurred. After she'd given her statement, the officer tried to convince Joanne to go with him to the station but, like she'd told the EMT, she wasn't leaving her house.

"Why don't you let me try?" Joanne looked up to see a familiar face flashing a badge at the cop in front of her. The officer nodded and left her alone with a man she hadn't seen in quite some time.

"Mr. Stilinski? What are you doing here?" she wondered.

"Your grandmother was a pillar of the community. Something like this, word spreads fast," he explained, taking a seat next to her. "She was also a good friend." The call of Cynthia Warren's murder had gone though his department and the officer working the desk at the time had remembered that Joanne had been good friends with his son and called his cell. After passing off what little information his department had to the FBI regarding the suspected murders by The Orphans and catching up with Scott and Stiles about the Deadpool, he'd rushed over to the Warren house. "Thought you could use one."

Staring blankly into space, she replied, "I don't have any of those."

"I'm sure there's someone," he argued positively. "You, Stiles and Scott used to be close."

""Used to be", being the operative words. I haven't seen either of them let alone talked to them in years. At least until Stiles showed up at Eichen and, even then, I kept it to a minimum." Since she wasn't technically part of the staff at Eichen, her contact with patients had to be kept at a minimum to avoid any legal problems but it worked out for Joanne in the end. Like she'd told the Sheriff, she hadn't seen or spoken to Stiles in years so suddenly trying to reconnect in the madhouse would've been too awkward for words. She'd just ended up avoiding him all together; it was for the best, that's what she'd told herself. "How's he doing, by the way?" she inquired offhandedly.

"Good. Much better. I forgot you worked there." He didn't go into details. She didn't need to know that her grandmother had told him she didn't think it was healthy for her to work at the asylum just to be around her mother. "What about, uh…a classmate? Anyone?" he questioned, shrugging. Joanne scoffed, bemused.

"Again, no friends and, unless you think my mom is suddenly a fit guardian or my father shows up out of the blue, then no. There's no one to call." The Sheriff looked solemnly at the grieving teen beside him.

"Joey," he began, his voice lowering to that iconic 'cop voice', "you understand, if there's no one you know that'll take you in, then they'll send you to a foster home."

"I'm not going anywhere," she stated defiantly, finally looking him in the eye. "This is my home." Sniffing, she wiped the tears off her face with the blanket and cleared her throat. She had to remain some sense of composure. She couldn't just fall apart at every little thing. She was stronger than that; she had to be. "Thanks for coming to check on me, but I think you should leave. I'll be fine."

"Joey…" She didn't acknowledge him. Instead, she wrapped the blanket tighter around her and went back to how he'd found her: staring into space. He was losing her. He had to do something. Then it hit him, like a bolt of lightning, a brilliant idea! "You could come stay with Stiles and I!" Joanne blinked and slowly stared at him, half confused, half horrified. She started shaking her head and protest but he just grinned at her. "Yeah! His girlfriend, Malia, comes over sometimes. Well, a lot," he amended with a mild frown, trying to scrub the image of them on Stiles' bed with chains from his memory. Christ, he hoped he wouldn't have to explain that one to Joanne. "But, you know, " he continued, his tone back to being as peppy and positive as ever, "it'd be just like old times!"

"I don't think that's a good idea." The Sheriff stared at her a moment before he leaned in close.

"Well, way I see it, you got two options: stay here, be forcibly removed and sent to a foster home," he offered conspiratorially, "or you come stay with me for a couple days until we solve this and figure out what to do." Joanne gulped and stared back out at the law, weighing her options.

"I wouldn't have to change schools again, would I?" He shook his head. He knew better than anyone that Cynthia had gone above and beyond to ensure Joanne had the best education possible. Hell, she'd offered to help him with Stiles' education on more than a handful of occasions but he'd been adamant that he'd pay for his sons' education on his own. Joanne nodded. "Okay then." Rising to her feet, she headed back inside the house to pack some clothes and other necessities. When she exited the house, she let the Sheriff lead her to his car and put her bag and backpack in the backseat. "Mr. Stilinski, what about…" Letting out a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and forced herself to spit the words out. "What about the funeral?"

Squeezing her shoulder, he assured her, "I'll help you with the arrangements. Okay?" Biting back a sob, she nodded and thanked him. "Come on, let's go h…" Home. He almost said it. "Let's go," he muttered awkwardly, walking around to the driver's side.

"Mr. Stilinski?" He looked at her over the roof of his squad car. "Don't call me 'Joey' anymore. Grams…" Only Grams had called her that. No one else was allowed to, not anymore. She wanted to tell him that but couldn't manage to spit the words out. But he understood and nodded all the same.

"Stiles!" he called up the stairs. Joanne hovered by the door as the Sheriff placed her bags on the floor. She looked around the house with calculating eyes. It hadn't changed much, from what she remembered.

"Dad, hey, wh—" Stiles had been bounded down the stairs but paused at the sight of their guest. "Uhhh, heeeeey, Joey," he drawled slowly, confused. Joanne demanded he not call her that and Stiles squinted at her. "Okay," he scoffed, perplexed. He gave his dad a weird look but the older man just waved a hand at him. "What's, uh, what are you, doing h-here?" he questioned, awkwardly crossing his arms.

"Stiles, Joey – sorry, Joanne – is gonna be staying with us for awhile."

Coming down the stairs, he started to casually ask, "Cause of—?"

"Yes, Stiles!" he cut off, glaring at his son. Stiles got the hint and nodded, giving him a thumb's up. No mentioning Mrs. Warren: message received loud and clear.

Joanne suddenly piped up from behind them and interjected, "Because Grams was murdered and I have nowhere else to go." The Stilinski men gave her a look and she shrugged helplessly. "It's the truth. You can say it." The guys shared another look, the Sheriff more concerned to Stiles' sufficiently weirded out look.

"Stiles, why don't you show Joanne to the guest room?"

"Actually, I was on my way out." His father stared at him and Stiles stared right back a moment before it was clear that he wasn't going anyway. "But, yeah, sure, I can do that. Absolutely! No problem. Follow me." She started to pick up her bags when the Sheriff stopped her and lightly smacked the back of his son's head. He'd be damned if his son didn't have manners, for the moment at least. Eventually, Stiles took the hint and grabbed both bags with a strained smile; they were pretty heavy, what the hell had she packed? Joanne started to follow Stiles up the stairs when he suddenly stopped and looked back at his father. "Oh, hey, Dad, any word on Garrett?"

The Sheriff shook his head. "Nothing yet. If you see him, you call me. No one else, you call me. Immediately, you understand?" Stiles nodded but, knowing his son, the Sheriff had a feeling he wouldn't follow through with that promise.

"Whose Garrett?" Joanne asked.

Stiles nonchalantly answered, "Assassin on the lacrosse team."

"Stiles!" his father shouted, scolding him with a very familiar look.

"Right!" Stiles exclaimed, pointing at his father. Looking at Joanne, he told her, "Confidential police business. We can't talk about that. I don't even know anything about it." That was clearly a lie but she hummed and nodded anyway. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."

"Hold up." The Sheriff shook a finger, waving his son to follow him into the kitchen for privacy. Joanne sat on the steps with a sigh and waited, looking around the house as the father and son spoke in hushed whispers. Maybe she should've gone to a hotel instead? "Do you know what she is? Is she a werewolf, too? Or a banshee? Kanima, what?" Stiles looked over his shoulder. Joanne didn't seem to be able to hear what they were saying so heightened senses probably wasn't in her skillset. So not a werewolf then, at least that was something – unless she was faking and actually could hear them.

"I don't know, Dad!" he answered. "I know the same as you: just that she's on the list."

As soon as the police had arrested Violet and Brett had taken off from Deaton's, he'd gone to the station to meet with Malia and Lydia. The second part of the Deadpool was cracked and there had been some familiar names on it. Kate Argent, who he wouldn't mind an assassin taking out if he was perfectly honest. Under her was Kira's mom so she'd gone to make sure she was safe. Underneath Mrs. Yukimura had been Joanne and her grandmother, both worth five hundred thousand dollars. It seemed their little pack weren't the only ones in town with a secret. Deputy Parrish was it, too, near the bottom, which was exactly where the deputy rested in Stiles' list of growing concerns.

"Stiles, someone murdered Cynthia tonight," his father stressed. He was going to get that through his son's skull even if he had to drill it in. This wasn't a game. This wasn't like when Stiles would listen to the police radio and try to find a body for the hell of it. This was someone they knew, who cared about them, and she was murdered. "My guess is they did it to lure Joey into a trap to kill her, too."

"Yeah, two for one," Stiles noted. Joanne had told the police about the text she'd received. An assassin using Cynthia as bait was the only thing that made sense.

"She's on that list, which means she's a target, and they didn't get her, ergo, they will try again."

"And your brilliant plan was to bring her here?" Stiles questioned, gesturing wildly to their home. "We don't know what she is, if she's dangerous or not, and assassins will be coming for her! Assassins will be coming to our house! Where we live! Where I would like to keep living!" The Sheriff took a deep breath and placed both hands on his son's shoulders to calm him down and get him to focus.

"That girl used to play video games with you," he reminded Stiles. "She put gum in your hair and your mom had to shave your head." Stiles rolled his eyes and nodded, remembering the exact day that incident had happened. Joanne had laughed for days at the sight of his shaved head. Peachie, she'd called him, cause of how it'd felt like peach fuzz. "She used to sleepover and I'd catch you two reading comics under your covers with a flashlight. You two had Star Wars marathons, for God's sake!" Stiles looked at the ground and nodded. "She is not dangerous—"

"We don't know that," the teen interjected smartly. His father pointed a stern finger at him.

"She's Joey. And we are all she has now. We're it, Stiles," he gravely stressed. "It was this or foster care, and I can't protect her there. We can't protect her."

Stiles nodded slowly and admitted, "You're right. You're right, you're right." His father thanked him with a rather sarcastic tone. "I'll see what I can find out."

"That's all I ask." Stiles picked up the bags again and the pair walked back to Joanne. "Okay, I gotta go back to the station but Stiles is here and there's a deputy posted outside. If you need anything, Stiles will call me and I'll come, or you guys can come to the station. And, if you get hungry, there's leftover pizza in the fridge or you guys can order Chinese, whatever you want."

"Okay. Thanks again for this, Mr. Stilinski. I know it's inconvenient."

"It's really not," he assured her with a smile. She tried to smile back but couldn't muster up the energy. "Try and get some sleep. Both of you," he added, giving his son a point look. Stiles nodded, giving him a thumb's up; it was obvious that his father didn't want him leaving the house for the night. As soon as he left, Stiles nodded for Joanne to follow him up the stairs.

"Someone else was murdered tonight?" she asked curiously. Stiles told her no, that him and Scott stopped her before she could do anything. "You and Scott still hang out?"

"Yeah. Friends do that," he retorted pointedly. Joanne bit her lip and nodded, holding back on what she really wanted to say. Stiles holding a grudge about her basically dumping him and Scott once she went to private school was not her biggest concern at the moment. In the back of her mind though, she wondered if Scott hated her, too.

"I guess I deserve that." Stiles just scoffed at her, leading her down the hall towards the guest room. "You said you guys stopped "her". I thought the assassin was a guy." Stiles let out an exasperated sigh, as though explaining everything to her was an inconvenient burden, but still explained that Garrett's girlfriend, Violet, had been the attacker. Apparently, they were a team. "A couple that murders together. How romantic," she noted sarcastically.

"Yeah," he scoffed, just as sarcastic as her, "kids these days."

"And this guy, Garrett," she questioned, interest piqued, "he's missing?" Stiles told her he'd taken off in the middle of the scrimmage. "So Garrett could've been involved Grams' murder?" Stiles stopped outside the guest room and stared at Joanne, her interest in Garrett finally hitting him.

"Um…I don't know. I mean, its, its possible. I-I suppose," he stuttered. She nodded, her brain working a mile a minute. Garrett had a girlfriend that he worked with to kill people – or one person, at least, from what she knew. Who was to say that, while him and his little girlfriend were pulling their Bonnie and Clyde act at the high school, he wasn't working with someone else and had them attack her and Grams? "Do you want some pizza?" her old friend asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

"I think I'd rather have a shower." It was then that she let the blanket drop from her shoulders and Stiles gasped, jaw dropping, at the sight of the blood. She was covered. Her shirt, hands, pants; everything was stained with dark blood.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, dropping the bags to grab her. "Are you hurt?! Didn't an EMT check you over?! You need to go to the hospital, I'll drive!" He started dragging her back towards the staircase when she pulled him to a stop.

"Its not my blood," she stated calmly. Stiles closed his mouth at the shuddering realization: Joanne was covered in her grandmother's blood. "Bathroom still in the same place?" she asked, trying to crack a little joke but her voice held no humor. He nodded mutely and she returned the gesture. "Goodnight, Stiles. Thanks."

Once inside the private sanctuary of the bathroom, Joanne slowly peeled the clothes off her body. She balled them up, wrapping them up in the blanket and chucked it in the corner. She'd thrown them or out burn them later; it was all garbage now. Letting the water run from the faucet for a minute, until it got to the temperature she wanted, Joanne stood in front of the mirror. She looked ashen and pale. Her nose and eyes were red from all her crying. Her hair was a matted mess. And then there was the blood; she was stained in blood all over her arms, hands and even up to her neck, a few spatters on her face. Grams' blood. The feel of the blood gushing through her fingers flashed in her mind. Her whole body started to shake again and she gasped, feeling her eyes well up once again.

Damn it, she was sick of crying!

Moving to the tub, she switched the stream into a shower and stepped in. She started to rub at her skin with her hands, lightly at first and then harder. Some came off but, not much. It wasn't coming off. Why wasn't it coming off? Feeling panic rise in her throat, she looked around the shower and snatched up the bar of soap. Her breaths came out in shudders as tear started to pour down her face. Joanne started to scrub furiously at her arms and hands, scrubbing all over until it hurt. The water at her feet turned pink as it swirled down the drain. Joanne kept scrubbing at her skin until there wasn't a speck of blood left. When the last of it seemed to be gone, she allowed herself to collapse under the hot stream of water. Sitting there, arms wrapped around her legs as she sobbed into her knees. She never knew Stiles was sitting out in the hall, listening to her with a deep frown. He texted Scott. They had to do something. They had to fix this. They had to make this right.