Disclaimer: No I do not own Teen Wolf.

Edit: 08/22/2014 Stilinsky-Stilinski, Peter-Paul

Last time:

"Wolfsbane! Wolfsbane, got it!"

"My god, you are so not prepared for this."

"Shut up."

"Well, you aren't!"

The bell rang for first period before he could find Allison and as his anxiety grew, so did his clinginess. He was actually hanging on my sleeve and popping up and down like a meerkat by lunch. I was not amused.

"Look, you texted her, right?" I gestured questioningly and he nodded, "Said you'd meet her by the parking lot after school?" He nodded again, this time nibbling on a nail and leaving finger-shaped bruises through my sleeve. "She said she'd be there?" He nodded for a third time. "Then you really need this."

He never did see a slap coming when I delivered that line. You'd think he'd have pieced those two together as cause and effect by now.

He held his cheek and rotated his jaw a few times, looking at me with betrayal, "Oh, god, Stiles; why did you do that?" I waited in superior silence as he tilted his head a little to stretch his neck and then rotated his shoulders a bit, "I actually do feel a bit better."

"Unlike you, plebian," I addressed him haughtily, preparing my delicious sandwich to receive my holy bite, "I know more than one way to use my awesome powers." As Scott put the pieces together I raised my sandwich towards my mouth only for Scott to move between us (my lovely sandwich and I) and take an enormous, sloppy bite.

"Tha's fa' sla'in' me whe' ya' di'in' haf ta'" he informed me smugly through a mouthful of my defiled sandwich.

"You're a jerk." Although I didn't have to slap him to calm him, he had been getting on my nerves. "Your 'exposed skin' is your face and your hands 'cause you wore long sleeves today."

He swallowed the stolen sanctity of my sandwich, "So?"

"So, did you want me to hold your hand in front of the entire cafeteria?" It was my turn to be smug and take a bite of my wonderful sandwich.

Good thing he hadn't taken the whole thing or I would've tackled him- werewolf powers or no.

After school he was off like a shot to the parking lot, and I could make my leisurely way to the locker room without a single detour to look for Allison, or weight dragging me down, or the odd little remarks Scott quips off when he's not thinking about it… All right, I'm a nerd and I have no friends so, of course, I missed Scott after getting an extended dose of companionship.

Luckily there was always Danny.

Poor, poor Danny.

Scott rushed in before practice and collapsed heavily on the bench in front of his locker right around when Danny's fingers seemed on the verge of snapping off from how tightly he was clenching them against his palm.

As I pulled my sock on, I nudged Scott with my other foot. "Didja apologize to Allison?" He looked at me blearily.

"Yes."

"…And is she going to give you another chance to knock her socks off?"

"…Yes…"

"That's great!" I slapped him on the shoulder and started grabbing his lacrosse gear from his locker, "So what's your problem?"

"Her dad is a Hunter." Scott let his head sink down onto his knees.

"What? Her dad-"

"Shot me-"

"Is a hunter?"

"-With a crossbow."

I gaped at him in honest shock and I must've looked a bit like a cod because Danny snapped my jaw shut with his lacrosse stick as he passed by, snapping me out of it. I lowered my voice to an urgent whisper, "Oh my god, did he recognize you?"

Scott propped his chin up on his hands, "No. At least," He amended, "I don't think so."

"Does Allison know about it?" I followed up, shoving Scott's gear into his lap.

Scott's entire posture became picture perfect as every muscle in his body went rigid. "Oh god, I didn't even think of that. Oh no…." He moaned, his visage becoming the very image of pain.

I 'surreptitiously' checked the locker room for stragglers and, when the coast seemed clear, grabbed Scott's hand. I held it between mine until his breathing had leveled out and I had his attention, "Don't freak out right now. Think about lacrosse. Or whatever will distract you from Alli- …All your problems. Something that'll make you calm."

Scott was staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face, "I'll do that."

I laughed a little in relief, "Ookay, so I'll just uh, get on out there, huh?" Releasing his hand and clapping him on the back I left to go occupy my bench space until Coach had finished roll call. Eerily, I felt myself being watched the entire way out.

Lucky for me, Paul is a funny guy when you're not in a bad mood or feeling insecure about your height. The two of us joked around a bit as we waited for all of the team to assemble for practice. Jackson and the Coach appeared just barely after Scott made it out onto the field, still focusing that too intense stare at me every chance he got. Not to mention the invasion of personal space he could get away with as we jogged around the field in full gear to "prep you little ladies for the next game, so don't you whine and cry to me!" Or so Coach explained it. Scott ran beside me rather than behind; so, there was one blessing counted. Wait- What was that train of thought imply-

"Stilinski! McCall! Head in the game! You're falling behind!"

"Yes, Coach!" We both nervously snapped out at once. However, Scott wasn't just coming out of some random daydream. As Coach shouted, Scott distinctly turned his gaze away from me. Great. We can add inappropriately long bouts of staring into the werewolf symptom bin for now.

It wasn't long before we were all taking shots at Jackson. Almost literally. Oh, I crack myself up sometimes. Anyway, I didn't even get to take a crack at releasing years of repressed anger at the little Lydia-stealing creep because Scott had to go and wolf out. That's right. He wolfed inconveniently.

Scott had stepped up to the plate and fallen dramatically short, not even budging Jackson, and Coach took him aside, said something I immediately identified even without audio as "a precursor to Very Bad Things," and sent him back to try again with a little humiliating chant thrown in for good measure.

Oh Coach. Sometimes I want to strangle you.

Scott's second shot was more than successful; Jackson was down for the count. Probably wouldn't make it to the game on Saturday. However, my major concern as I rushed down to where they were, was that Scott was doubled over and it was entirely likely he was sprouting fangs that very minute.

"Come on, Scott," I hissed, heaving him up and pulling his arm over my shoulders as I dragged him to the locker room. Terrifying deadweight, that's what he was all the way there. I babbled nonsensically to him until I got him seated in a less-visited corner of the boy's locker room. To this day, I have no clue what I might have said, but I'm relatively certain it was all in English.

I must have waited a maximum of four seconds before I took his hand, but for some reason Scott began to shake his head. "What? Scott, what is it?"

"Not enough," He growled through gritted teeth. Seeing as he appeared to be incapacitated with pain and anger, one can imagine my surprise when Scott actually jumped up, pinning me to the row of lockers behind me with a rattling clang and pressing his forehead to mine. Of course, the hand that had crept under my shirt merited a little more concern, but it was less obvious in the way Scott had sneakily slid it there.

I didn't even fidget, so paralyzing was my fear that my calming effect had suddenly and catastrophically failed. I could feel every heavy, strained breath Scott dragged into his lungs, and little pinpricks of pain blossomed on my stomach from the claws he unwittingly pressed against my skin.

"Claws, claws, claws, claws," I reminded him breathlessly, trying somewhat hysterically to suck my stomach in, away from the imminent threat.

"Sorry," He rumbled through slowly shrinking fangs even as he shifted- but did not remove- his hand on my stomach so his claws wouldn't come in contact with me. "Let… Please let me for one more… One more second…"

The plus side to being close enough to feel his breath was that I knew the precise moment when his heart rate came back to something more normal, even though my own was fluttering in my throat like a frightened bird. He groaned as the last extra bit of keratin was sucked back into his skin and let his head fall to my shoulder. I grabbed his elbows to keep him from slipping off and down to the floor.

"Really takes a lot out of you to start and stop uh- shifting so quick, huh?" I rambled nervously. After a few moments passed, however, the fading fear gave way to irritation, "Scott, old buddy? I'ma sit you down because, regardless of how wonderfully comfortable I pride myself on being, I am not going to stand here until my legs buckle holding you up." Scott actually laughed a little into my shoulder, but pushed against the lockers to fall back onto the bench and release me. I crossed my arms and stared him down, fighting the urge to fidget as he watched me back. "Well?"

I wasn't exactly sure what I was asking for. It appeared, though, that Scott knew. He gave me a dramatic seated bow, "Thanks be to you, oh mighty Genim 'Stiles' Stilinski!"

"Don't call me that!"

"How can I ever repay you, sir Genim?"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Your wish is my command, Stiles."

"…Yeah, okay, that was cheap, but anyway," I took a moment to kneel down and really look at his face so he could see how serious I was about this, "I don't think you should play in the game on Saturday."

"What?" I searched his upset visage for comprehension. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

Okay, let's take it from the top, "Your heart racing, your breath quickening, aggression is what makes you transform right?"

"…But that's lacrosse…" Scott concluded as the last vestiges of cheerfulness drained from his features. A sort of grim determination, though, marched in, "But if you're there-"

"Didn't you have to basically molest me a few minutes ago just to get calm?" I reminded him, trying not to think of it myself. It wasn't that it had felt entirely bad- Shut up, Stiles. "Are you that eager to do something like that in front of an entire audience of witnesses?"

Scott opened his mouth to say something with a hint of red to his cheeks, but the locker room door burst open with a slam as the other players filed in.

Jackson was being bundled through the room and I grabbed Paul's arm as he passed, "Is he okay?"

Paul hesitated, "He'll live, but…" With a 'so-so' motion of his hands he continued, "I don't know if he'll be able to play." He glanced at Scott, staring grimly at a locker with dejection written in every angle of his posture and asked, "Dude, is Scott okay?"

I tried not to flicker my gaze over to the werewolf as I replied nonchalantly, "He'll be fine; he's just eaten up that he hurt Jackson so much." Scott, luckily, chose that moment to groan and drop his head into his hands.

Great timing. I must congratulate him on it later.

"You know how Coach can rile us up," Paul shrugged, "We're just lucky they weren't both heading for each other with intent to kill." With that last, dubious (in my mind) remark, Paul was gone, along with most of the team as they bobbed along in Jackson's wake like so many hand-wringing ducklings.

"I guess," Scott started tentatively when the sounds of the few remaining players changing blocked out most of any other variety of noise, "I guess I should tell Coach tomorrow that I can't play the game. It's not like anyone will die from one game."

I clapped him proudly on the shoulder, "Especially if you're not in it." Honestly, Scott isn't as hopeless as I make him out to be; he has higher functions of thought even if they only temporarily shine through.

It's just too bad that resolve couldn't last.