The cool metal of the bench presses against Stiles' sweaty back as he waits in Deaton's surgery room. Deaton had said he'd meet him at the clinic as soon as possible. That had been an hour ago. Now, the once bright room was bathed in the glow of a dying sun.
Since then, Stiles' thoughts have only been on two things, firstly, how he had managed to break a remote in half with nothing but his hand. And secondly, the itching smell of disinfectant that had crawled its way up his nose to stab at his brain.
The door to the clinic creaks open, the bell rings, and the door thumps shut. He hears rustling but the fogged door renders him blind to all that lies beyond.
Stiles tenses. He thinks he sees a white shape in the corner of his eye and spins, but the operating room is empty. He supposes it must be an escaped pet from the back, or something. He looks back to the door.A shadow fills the pane. The under-greased handle squeaks as it turns and Stiles jumps up from the bench.
"Dea-" Stiles begins.
"Just me, Stiles." Deaton walks through the door and turns on the florescent lights. He puts down his leather briefcase on one of the tables and sighs, from within the suitcase he takes some swab samples and throws two blood splattered latex gloves into the trash can.
"What happened?" Stiles asks.
"Never mind that for now. Let's talk about you. Tell me what's wrong." Deaton's liquid voice makes Stiles feel at ease. It was an effect Deaton had on people, that unswerving calm that poured off him, even in the most intense situations.
"I broke the remote to my T.V." Stiles drops the remains of the remote onto the table, a misshapen lump of plastic and bright wires.
"I'm not an electrician, nor do I stock remotes here in my surgery." Deaton stares at Stiles the same way one might stare at a three-headed fish.
"I split it in half with my bare hand. I shouldn't be that strong and I'm worried that…"
Deaton's face snaps from confusion to look at Stiles intently. "You're worried that you might not all be you."
Stiles nods slowly. The bleak thought has been chasing itself out of breath around his mind ever since he noticed his strength. The fear that dwarfed all his fears, that he might one day lose control again.
"Well, I warned you that when you got back from your trip the Nemeton you would be different. That the darkness would be with you always. And it would change you, it seems it is changing you."
Stiles remembers. He remembers how he felt the day before travelling to the Nemeton, it seems like a simpler time to him now. When rouge alpha's and hunters seemed like the worst possible calamities that could possibly happen. He knows better now. He knows that Peter isn't the foulest thing that walks the shadows, not by a long shot.
"So it's nothing to do with…"
"The Nogitsune? I don't think so. There's a possibility that it triggered the process. But this was inevitable."
"What process are you talking about? What's next? Claws? Fangs? Wings? A Kanima?" Stiles slams his fist on the steel operating table and it leaves a dent. "What am I becoming?"
Deaton doesn't flinch. He just keeps staring. "Stiles, you need to reign in your anger, if you don't, it will consume you."
Stiles takes some trembling breaths.
"This, actually, is going to be the least of your problems."
"Huh?
"As it happens I was just with your father. A body was found deep within the Beacon Hills Reserve. Mauled by…" Deaton pauses and gives Stiles a pointed look, "...an animal."
After a moment Stiles says, "I heard there was a wolf back in town."
"If I were you I would stay at home for the next few nights over the full-moon period. I doubt it will stop at just one. It's not a wolf, you see. It's the she-wolf. And it's not looking good."
They lapse into silence. So it wasn't Derek. Or Peter. But then who was it? Kate? Impossible. She was dead. Long dead in fact. And good riddance, Stiles thinks with venom.
"So the darkness thing…" Stiles reminds Deaton, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Ah. Yes. I'll do some research. I'm exactly not sure how much I'll find, but I will try. In the meantime-"
Stiles finished for him, "In the meantime I'll try not to turn into a flaming-rage-monster."
Deaton rumbled a chuckle, but stopped abruptly when the doorbell jingled. Stiles spun towards the doorway.
"Deaton." The voice was deep, and Stiles would have recognized it in any state of mind he was in.
"Derek?" Deaton calls.
"I need to talk. Open the gate." The wolf shouts back.
Stiles' stomach quakes and he makes for the back door. Deaton gives him a questioning glance but nods, and Stiles runs out into the night, and away from Derek.
The almost-full moon lights the world well as Stiles climbs the framework of Scott's house. It takes him little effort to pull himself up, which worries him. If he'd have tried this a year ago, he'd have been panting and sweating like a dog in heat. But there was no burn in his muscles, no sweat on his brow.
There is an orange glow coming from Scott's window and Stile's taps on it lightly.
There's a scuffling, some hushed whispers, and Scott appears at the glass, pulling on a sweater over his naked torso. "S-stiles? Hey man, come in."
Stiles slips in through the window.
"I didn't even hear you coming," Scott sounds surprised.
Stiles notices that Scott's cheeks are flushed and he's out of breath.
"Wolf-hearing not what it used to be?" Stiles throws himself down in the desk chair. "Were you…were you with someone?"
Scott looks around the room wildly. "Huh? No. I was…er…studying." He picks up a heavy textbook and waves it at Stiles who pretends not to notice that Scott no longer even studies advanced chem.
Stiles sniffs the air. "Do I smell strawberries?" When Scott remains silent Stiles continues, "Where's Isaac? Isn't he still staying with you?"
"No. What?"
Stiles raises an eyebrow as he watches Scott try and stealthily kick a tube of something under his bed.
Scott shrugs and says in a hurried voice, "I don't know, he probably went out, I don't keep tabs on him all the time, what do I look like, his keeper? Man get off my back already would you?" He calms down and says, "What's up anyway? I haven't seen you in forever."
"The usual, no psychopaths after me, yet. But I hear someone's dead."
Scott runs a hand through his hair. "You heard about that? He was one of Gerard's hunters. Gerard won't tell me what he was doing in town. And we don't know why he was killed."
"We?" Stiles asks trying not to sound irritated.
"Yeah, just me, Issac, Ethan, Kira, you know…my pack." Scott can't meet Stiles' eyes.
"Do I still fit in there?" Stiles has his hands gripped tightly on the arms of the chair.
"Of course, Stiles. I just wanted to give you time you know, to get over everything."
"You mean to make sure I wasn't still a serial killing madman?"
"No. Stiles. Look I really wanted to call you, but I spoke to Derek and he said-"
"You spoke to Derek about me?" Stiles interrupts. A flurry of heat explodes in his chest. A cocktail of emotions. Betrayal that Scott wouldn't go straight to him. Anger that Derek thought he had a right to an opinion. And something else, something far more curious, a thin vein of excitement. Derek had talked about him, which meant he'd thought about him.
"He just said I should give you time and that I wouldn't be able to understand. He said he'd speak to you." Scott says looking sheepish.
"Well he-"Stiles stops as his phone begins to vibrate. He fishes it out of his pocket and puts it to his ear.
Without Stiles' hands covering the arms of the chair, Scott sees the wooden arms have been sculpted by Stiles' grip. He raises an eyebrow. "What-?" he begins, but stops short when Stiles starts talking.
"Dad?" Stiles immediately slips into a panic.
The Sheriff's voice echo's loudly throughout the room, as though he is in the corner shouting, "Please tell me you're at home Stiles. . . If not, get your ass there right now, another one's been killed, a teacher from the school. I'll be home soon. Lock the house down and stay there. I mean it Stiles, don't go messing in this."
"Dad, what-where?" Stiles struggles to process the information that has been dumped on him. Scott had become alert and his eyes only contain the smallest glint of red.
"I can't talk Stiles, I have to go, we're tracking him now. Get home," The Sherriff's voice is replaced by a monotonous beep.
Stiles eventually pulls the dead phone away from his ear. He and Scott speak at the same time, "HIM?"
"Then it's not the She-Wolf." Stiles summarizes.
"Wait, how do you even know about her?" Before Stiles can answer Scott cuts him off. "Stiles, I have to tell you something." Scott's voice has another layer to it, a deeper layer.
Scott is stopped from continuing as a large figure rolls through the open window and lands on the floor with a thump. The surprise sends Stiles tumbling out of the desk chair.
Slowly, Derek stands up and looks at the two of them. His hands, which are claws, are covered in blood, as are his clothes.
In the distance they hear sirens. There is a charged silence before Derek speaks. "I can explain."