disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf
They had a deal.
No movie nights until homework was done.
"This is stupid." Stiles threw his pencil down on his notebook, huffing a distraught sigh through his nose. "I don't get it and it's stupid. Why are we even taking statistics?"
Scott looked up from his own notes, an amused smile teasing on his face. "It was your idea, remember? You said, and I quote," he adjusted his breath, pushing his voice through his nose, "'it'll be the easiest A of senior year'."
A sharp shhh bit after his words. Scott ducked his head, a small wave of his hand in apology. They weren't the only ones left in the library, though with how frequently they had spent the late hours among the shelves and books, it was easy to forget that they weren't at either of their houses, chatting across a dining table over a bowl of potato chips. Scott had deemed those environments counter productive; too many distractions, too many opportunities for someone to come bursting through the door with some sort of emergency or mystery. So they haunted the high school library instead, and for the few to several hours it took to get their work done, they were just seniors, just teenagers.
It felt nice, even if it did take a while for Scott to stop hearing the angry snarls and desperate howls that echoed from the upper floors, for Stiles to stop staring at the same spot on the floor where the linoleum tiles were cracked.
His friend's eyes narrowed, a small, betrayed hurt in the crease between his brows as he leaned back and crossed his arms.
"Okay first of all, I don't sound like that-" Stiles pitched his words, mimicking Scott mimicking him. "And second of all, really? You're pinning this on me?"
Scott said nothing, staring at Stiles until he squirmed. It took all of… three seconds.
"All right, fine, I did say that." Stiles relented, his fingers tapping a frustrated beat into his textbook. "You should know better than to listen to me."
"You usually have better ideas," Scott mumbled, scribbling an equation on his notebook. "Besides, it isn't that hard. What problem are you stuck on?"
Stiles sighed, sitting forward once more and picking up his pencil.
"A computer has three components, A, B, and C. The probabilities for each component failing in a year are…" Stiles petered out, skipping ahead. "Yada yada. Uh… okay, if any one of the components fails, the computer fails. If the components fail independently of each other, what is the probability that the computer will not fail in one year?"
Stiles looked up at Scott, his eyebrows raised.
"Yeah, so find the probability that it will fail, then take the complement of that," he explained. Dropping his own pencil, Scott flipped through the pages of his textbook, looking for a specific paragraph. "We covered this in chapter three."
"I tried that already," his friend sighed. "Add up the individual probabilities and subtract from one."
"But you also have to take away the probability that they all fail," Scott said, assuming that Stiles had already figured that part out as he continued to flip through the textbook. When he didn't hear any word or grunt of confirmation, he paused and looked up. "Did you do that?"
"No?" His eyes flickered around the library, probably looking for the train of thought Scott was riding on in the shadows of the shelves. "Why would I do that?"
"Because they're independent events." Scott flipped his textbook around, tapping at the printed words. "They have no effect on each other. So if only one of them needs to fail, you don't need the event where they all fail."
He watched Stiles work it over in his head, could see the gears turning in his eyes. Grabbing his calculator, Stiles punched at the thing harshly while Scott took the lull as an opportunity to grab a sip from his water bottle. He was sucking the last drops while Stiles pulled the textbook close and flipped the heft of pages all at once, checking the solution in the back of the book.
"How'd you know that?" Stiles asked. Scott allowed himself to take a little pride in the amazement on his friend's face.
"I don't know, it just makes sense." Scott waved his empty bottle, shrugging. "If you really think about it."
Stiles pushed the textbook back at him, an impressed smile curing his lips. "I think you've got a knack for this, dude."
"Thanks, I'll add statistics to my very short list of Things I'm Kinda Good At." Scott huffed a laugh.
He ignored the confused concern in the eyes of his friend, the falter of his grin. Maybe it was too soon for self-deprecating humor and sarcasm. They were still a work in progress.
Scott did like statistics, though. There was something intuitive about it, using what he knew to figure out what would happen. Calculus was the mathematics of change, something Scott could admit he was never really good with—though he liked to think he was getting better. Statistics was the mathematics of seeing what that change was going to be, finding the different possibilities and probabilities of trials yet to happen. Call it unrealistic optimism, but maybe, just maybe, he'd figure out how to predict what was coming.
Something new was bound to find its way into Beacon Hills, the one true constant in Scott's life. If he knew what that something was, what dangers and woes it would bring with it, maybe he could protect his friends better, and nobody would get hurt… or killed.
He needed to be better than he was. Right now, there weren't a lot of things Scott McCall was good at.
Being lacrosse captain? They hadn't made state in years.
Being a good friend? After everything with Theo and the Dread Doctors, Stiles would probably disagree.
Being an alpha? Well… he and Liam were just starting to really patch things up, so that was still a work in progress, too.
But being good at statistics, Scott would take that. No one depended on his understanding of conditional probabilities with their life. It was just for him.
"Seriously, Scott." Stiles grinned again. It was a tired look, and Scott wasn't sure if it was because of the late hour, or something else. "Maybe you should consider studying to be an actuary."
"An actuary?" Scott repeated, rolling the word around on his tongue. "What do they do?"
Stiles pursed his lips. "I don't know. I've heard they make bank, though."
They left the library when the lights automatically shut off at midnight. Stepping out into the cool spring air, Scott sighed a deep breath, tasting the sweet breeze that promised warmth and awakening in the coming days. His knees and hips ached, too long spent sitting in a hard chair hunched over his books leaving stiff joints and knotted muscles. His breath clouded around his chin, rolling his shoulders as he unclipped his helmet from his backpack. Stiles stepped after him, letting the heavy doors slam shut behind him.
"You good to ride back?" Stiles asked, jerking his thumb toward his Jeep. "I can give you a lift if you want."
"I'll make it," Scott said, swinging a leg over the saddle of his bike. "Text me when you get home, okay?"
"Yeah…" Stiles shuffled where he stood, fidgeting with the carabiner full of copied keys. "Hey, Scott?"
His helmet was halfway onto his head when he spoke. Stiles didn't wait for him to take it off before he continued.
"Are you okay?" Scott heard the nervous tick in his friend's heart, the muggy smell of chemosignals tinging his nose.
Scott didn't know what to say, setting his helmet in his lap. "Well, I guess I am kinda hungry."
"No, no, that's not what I-" Stiles cut himself off, squeezing his keys in his fist and sighing through his nose. "You don't usually make jokes like that."
Yeah, it had been too soon.
Stiles was right, though; Scott didn't make jokes at his own expense, it wasn't his style. It felt like the only way he could still say he was sorry without pounding that word into oblivion.
Theo was gone, and though Scott and Stiles had moved past their misunderstandings and faults, the sting remained. Half-burned bridges may still stand, but the foundations were weakened. Scott was sure that it had been him who had struck the match in the first place. Stiles would argue that, in this analogy, he had poured the kerosene. Rebuilding what they had wasn't so simple when neither of them thought themselves deserving of reclaiming what they had lost.
But, as fate would have it, they were stuck with each other whether they liked it or not. Kira was spirited away with the skinwalkers. Malia was mapping the road to a future outside of Beacon Hills that didn't include either of them. Lydia… well, she was still amazing, and still very much off the market. That left Scott and Stiles with only each other to pick up the pieces of themselves and fill in the cracks. That was how it had always been, and when the smoke cleared, it was all they really needed.
"Okay, sorry." Scott reached out to Stiles, pressing his hand to his shoulder. Beneath the cotton and flannel, the subtle ridges of a mandala-toothed scar ached under his fingertips. "It was just a joke, I promise. Try not to overthink it."
"Too late, already have," Stiles said. "I just—I don't like it when you say stuff like that, you know."
Scott did know, actually. Stiles didn't like it when he said things that smelled like gasoline and hissed like a blazing road flare.
"I swear I'm fine," Scott murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."
Huffing a sharp sigh, Stiles nodded. "Yeah, okay. I believe you. Cut that shit out, though, you're good at a lot of things."
"Oh yeah, like what?"
Stiles walked right into that one, but he wasn't a quitter. "Well, I never heard any complaints from Allison or Kira, so I assume your sex game is amazing."
Scott spluttered, nearly falling from his bike. Peals of laughter rang out into the empty night, and it felt good. It felt good to have a moment where they were just teenage boys who made dick jokes and lewd comments and talked about the girls they liked. Nevermind the ghosts that lingered on their shoulders, or the glinting silver aftertones that had tinted their lives.
"You assume correctly," Scott jeered. "If you'd like some lessons, just let me know."
"Oh, wow, I'm so flattered." Stiles stepped toward his Jeep. They could have kept going, but the night wasn't young anymore and Friday morning was only hours away. Stiles flipped Scott the bird anyway. "Get home safe, jackass."
Shaking his head, Scott chuckled as he fished his riding gloves out of his pocket. The roar of the Jeep's engine stuttered to life beside him, brakes squealing as it rolled out of the parking spot. Scott lifted his hand in one last goodbye as Stiles drove away. Fingering on his gloves, he heaved a sigh and looked up.
Beacon Hills didn't have a lot of light pollution, letting the stars twinkle in the pitch above. The waning gibbous moon was well past its zenith, receding into the low horizon behind the trees. That rock had been such an icon in his life for over two years, a master to which he heeded every call. The stars wanted nothing from him, and where so many had forgotten them in their admiration of the moon, he appreciated their company.
A hollow sound shook him from his reverie, echoing from the short alley beside the library. Scott waited, an anxious beat passing before the sound came again. Standing from his bike, Scott rested his helmet on the seat and dropped his backpack by the wheels.
The alley was wide and well lit, empty of anything except a large green dumpster. As Scott crept down the alley, another clang rattled from the empty container, now accompanied with a muffled chattering, distinctly animal in nature.
Animal in nature meant nothing, Scott had learned. There were more forces at play than the natural order.
Carefully, Scott opened the lid of the dumpster and peered inside.
"Oh, hey little guy."
Pressed into the far corner of the empty dumpster, the wet eyes of a little raccoon gleamed up at him. Its fur was puffed in its agitation, tiny hand-like paws clenching at the bits of garbage still scattered at the bottom. Scott watched as the raccoon whirled and scrambled at the smooth walls of the dumpster, falling over after a few seconds with a heavy whump.
"It's okay," Scott said softly, one foot already braced in the bracket of the dumpster. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of there."
It was not a graceful climb into the dumpster. By the time his feet landed unsteadily against the iron, the poor raccoon had pressed itself so far into the corner, it was a small, quaking ball of gray fur. Scott knelt, reaching a gloved hand toward the little creature. It spat at him, needle-like teeth bared.
"It's alright," he said, letting go of the itch behind his eyes. A red aura ringed his vision, sharp details fading into focus. "I won't hurt you."
His sway over commonplace animals was limited, but Scott liked to think that even among the wild fauna, he had a connection. That untamable call in his blood, the instinctive harmony with the wind and trees. It was a language he knew very little of, but enough for the raccoon to close its mouth and relax just enough for Scott to approach.
"That's it, who's a good little trash panda?" Scott scooped the raccoon in his hands. The creature was confused, and still very much afraid. But it did nothing as he stood, its legs splayed at awkward angles. "Almost free."
Disney princess, Stiles had called him that the first time he'd saved a helpless animal with his alpha persuasion: a duck whose foot had gotten caught on a fishing line. That particular rescue hadn't ended as well as Scott would have liked, dusty feathers in his hair and in his mouth.
He could feel the raccoon's heart beating a frantic tattoo through his gloves, its harried breaths puffing in his palms. This close, Scott could see some old lesions on its haunch, small scars that may have been scratches or bites—remnants of some scuffle with another creature of the woods. But they still hurt, he could feel it, smell the salty ache of silent agony.
But also… something else, a sour acidic tinge that curled in his nose and sat on the back of his tongue, like rotten meat and graveyard dirt.
Scott huffed, but the strange smell remained. The raccoon's fur ruffled.
He wasn't ready when the animal burst into a flurry of movement, a writhing ball of gray fur and furious chattering.
"Woah—hey it's okay!" Scott struggled to keep his hold on the raccoon. It twisted in his hands, spittle flying from its snout and eyes wide, whites glistening from within the black band of its face. Those strange paws curled around his arm like the hands of a child. Its teeth sank into the meat of his thumb, puncturing the leather glove.
Scott gasped. He wasn't proud of what he did next.
The raccoon released its bite just as Scott chucked it out of the dumpster, landing in a rumpled heap in the alley. Scott, breathless and wincing, watched it stagger to its feet and scurry away, limping as it went.
"You're welcome!" He called after it, shaking his head.
A fair amount of cursing and a short tumble later, Scott stood in the alley and slowly meandered back to his motorbike. Tugging his glove off with his teeth, Scott rolled his eyes at the holes in the leather. He really liked this pair of gloves. His mom had given them to him, because even if she disapproved of his choice of transportation, she at least made sure he was safe.
His hand throbbed. Under the white light of the streetlamp, small gashes beaded red blood in his palm.
"Dammit," he muttered, picking up his backpack from the ground and unzipping a side pocket. He found the travel-size pack of tissues his mom had put there who knew how long ago and forgotten about.
By the time he had wiped the blood off, the throbbing had died away, only fading bruises left to tell what had happened.
"Welp, guess I'm not a Disney princess." At least the duck hadn't tried to bite him.
Scott told Stiles about the raccoon in the fleeting minutes before the first bell that morning. Stiles was not thrilled.
"You did what?!"
He stared at Scott, hanging on the door of his friend's locker. Scott shrugged, carding through his textbooks.
"I saved a raccoon from a dumpster," he repeated, as if that made everything obviously okay. "Actually, I kinda tossed it from the dumpster, like a cornhole sack."
Stiles bit his lip, reigning in his rising agitation. "Okay, but are you sure it was just a raccoon and not something else? You know, like how sometimes a coyote is actually a girl, or sometimes a dead tree is actually an ancient power conduit?"
"And sometimes," Scott cut him off, shoving a history textbook into his backpack. "A raccoon is just a raccoon."
"But do we really know that?" Stiles slammed the locker closed, forcing Scott to look at him. Scott frowned.
"I wasn't done in there," he said, reaching for the combo lock. Stiles slapped his hand away.
"Scott, this is serious." Stiles planted himself between his friend and the wall of lockers, dropping his voice low. "It's been two weeks since the Dread Doctors, and we still don't really know what else they might have done while they were here. What if that 'just a raccoon' had a little something else in it?"
Scott rolled his eyes, reaching for the combo lock once more—and once more, Stiles slapped his hand away.
"Will you stop that? I need my notebook!"
"Forget about the Dread Doctors then, what if it was a shapeshifter? Derek and Malia can turn into actual animals, maybe it was something like that." He was rambling, Stiles was aware of that. He couldn't stop himself. "Oh god, are wereraccoons a thing, now?"
"Stiles, I don't think a shapeshifter with that kind of power would have gotten trapped in a dumpster," Scott relented. "And even if it was, I helped them. Maybe this is the start of a new friendship."
How absurd. Since when did anything that crawled into the neighborhood bear anything that wasn't ill-intent.
"Dude, relax." Scott smiled, amused and placating. If anyone else had said that to Stiles, he'd start yelling. But Scott wasn't anyone else. "Occam's razor, right? Sometimes the simplest answer is the right answer."
God, Stiles hated it when Scott was logical.
"Someone's been paying attention in literature class," was his only response.
Part of Stiles wanted to throw Scott's words back at him.
Where was Occam's razor when I killed Donovan?
Where was this wiseman act when Theo had spun his web of lies?
Where were you when I needed you?
That wasn't fair, though. His friend didn't deserve that. Scott had messed up—they both had. But Scott was not a paragon of virtue, had never claimed to be and sometimes Stiles forgot that. He couldn't keep holding it over Scott's head like an executioner's ax if he wanted to make amends. Which he did. He really did.
"If it had been a shapeshifter or anything else," Scott continued, his words sincere. "I would have sensed it. I promise, it was just a raccoon."
Stiles sighed, stepping away from Scott's locker. He wasn't going to apologize for assuming the worst out of a harmless situation. Those assumptions had kept him alive more than once. He didn't always used to be so angry, though, so quick to be riled up at the slightest inconvenience. Stiles wasn't sure when it started—maybe after the sacrifice to the Nemeton, maybe after the katana that took Allison's life—but something had shifted, fractured after that dark night in the library that he could never forget no matter how hard he tried.
Scott forgave him, though. Scott, the true alpha who would rather die than take a life, even if it was warranted. He hadn't deserved or earned such leniency, and Stiles didn't have the stones to admit he might not have done the same if their roles were reversed.
It was more than that, though, because Stiles knew that Scott blamed himself. He always did. Every unfortunate twist and disastrous turn since Stiles had dragged him out to the forest to look for a dead body he took as a personal failure and carefully wrapped it beneath altruistic ideals and poignant stoicism. Only gasoline and road flares could bring out the truth.
Scott forgave him, but never himself. Stiles had to do that for him. His anger was just going to have to deal with it.
"Yeah, okay," Stiles huffed. "I swear though, one day your weakness for cute animals is going to get you in a lot of trouble."
Scott nodded. At least he could agree with that. As Scott spun his combo, Stiles looked out across the sea of students.
"Speaking of cute animals-" Stiles raised his arm, waving. "Hey Liam."
The young man stopped in his tracks before Scott, whatever he was going to blurt out forgotten.
"What?" Liam's eyes flickered to Stiles, his brow knitting with surprise. "You think I'm cute?"
"Like a fluffy bunny." Stiles winked. Liam had nothing for that.
"Hey, what's up?" Scott said, his locker swinging open. Stiles shifted to stand beside him, watching.
He didn't know what had happened between Scott and Liam, not really, nothing more than the barest detail of 'he tried to kill me'. They didn't like to talk about it, which he understood. But Stiles knew it wasn't that simple, and it had been bad. Bad enough to leave Scott with invisible wounds and for Liam to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.
"Nothing, I just… um…" Liam played with his hands, searching for the right words. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay?"
Scott paused, a beat to consider the question. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, I sort of—I woke up last night, and there was this pain in my hand." Liam looked up at Scott, holding out the offending limb. "But there was nothing there, so I thought maybe… something happened to you?"
"Huh," Scott bit his lip, thinking. "Nothing happened. A raccoon bit me, but that was it."
Stiles jerked. "It bit you?!"
"Only a little bit," Scott said to his disbelieving stare. "It's already healed. No big deal."
"Scott, I swear to God-"
"Why were you messing with a raccoon?" Liam asked.
Stiles jumped in before Scott could open his mouth. "Because he thinks he's a Disney princess and can talk to animals. This is just like the duck all over again."
Scott laughed. Stiles didn't get what was so funny, neither did Liam. But Scott's laughter was a welcome, pure sound that eased some of the tension knotted in Stiles' chest. Liam seemed to relax a little, too. If he could, Stiles would bottle up Scott's laugh and sell it as a candle.
"It was trapped in a dumpster, that's all," he said once his giggles had faded. "Got a little too careless. You really felt that?"
Liam, looking sheepish, shifted where he stood. "Yeah. I guess I feel it when you get hurt, or something like that."
Stiles watched Scott's face drop, something sharp and guilty behind his eyes. "Well, that's new. I… I'm sorry."
Nope. Stiles wasn't going to let Scott go into a self-loathing spiral first thing on a Friday morning.
"Yeah that's really weird. Hey Liam, can you feel this?" Stiles jabbed his finger sharply under Scott's ribs. He crumpled like a sand castle under a wave against the lockers, groaning and coughing. "Anything?"
Liam blinked, staring at Scott as he huffed on his knees. "Uh, no. Did you mean to do that?"
"Yeah. Trust me, he had it coming. He knows what he did."
Springtime in central California was a funny thing. Late nights and early mornings, Stiles would walk outside to frost on his Jeep's windshield and clutch his coat a little tighter around him. By the time lunch rolled around, he'd shed his coat and the jacket beneath that, sitting outside with the pack as the sun beat warmth and energy down from on high.
It was annoying. Stiles never knew how to dress for the day.
"Has anyone seen Lydia today?"
"She has a dentist appointment." Stiles said, his mouth full with a BLT sandwich, extra B. "Why?"
Malia rolled her eyes, her loose fists landing heavy on her pile of books. "I wanted to ask for her help with history. Figured she could explain this whole caste system nonsense to me."
"She should be back for the afternoon classes," Scott said, rattling a protein shake in a blender bottle. "Can you wait till then?"
"Not really. I'm pretty sure Mr. Kragel is gonna pop quiz us on it." Malia bit her lip, then her face lit up with an idea. "Oh, what about Liam's friend?"
Stiles swallowed. "You mean Mason."
"Yeah!" She nodded, enthusiastic and hopeful. "He's really into this kind of stuff right? I can get him to help me. Do you know where he is?"
Stiles looked over and met Scott's gaze. He saw the same hesitation that he felt in his friend's eyes. Malia watched the silent exchange. If she realized why, she didn't say anything.
"Mason's out sick today." Scott stood and moved to the other side of the table, sitting beside Malia. "Here, let me see. Maybe I can help."
Stiles sighed, dropping his half eaten sandwich. He wasn't hungry anymore.
Mason hadn't been in school for two weeks. Liam, the loyal friend he was, went to his house everyday to deliver school work and help however he could. There was only so much he could do, though, from distracting video games to silent camaraderie while reading books. Liam just wanted Mason to know he wasn't alone, that they were still friends—but he could never understand what Mason had gone through.
Stiles was probably the only one who could. He was uniquely qualified, in fact. He knew what it was like to have someone, something, hijack his body and take it for a murderous joyride. Dark foxes sowing discord and chaos, or ancient beasts pushing revenge and destruction, it didn't matter; to be thrown into a forgotten corner of his own mind and come back screaming with blood on his hands was not something Stiles would ever really get over. Neither would Mason. Stiles could help him, tell him all the things he'd wished someone had told him to understand the confusion left by lingering traces of someone else's soul.
But, if his counterpart of the younger reflection was anything like Stiles, he'd find his own way to be okay again. And if Mason ever asked for his counsel, he would give it.
"Does that make sense?" Scott asked Malia. Stiles hadn't been paying attention, so he had no idea if anything Scott had explained to her was correct.
"Yeah, kinda." Malia, bandwidth running low, slammed her book closed and leaned her chin in her hand. "No, actually no. Not really."
"Hey, if all else fails just do what I do," Stiles said, reaching out his hand to squeeze her elbow. "Speed-read the wikipedia article right before class."
"Stiles."
"What, Scott?" He threw his hands in the air. "When in her life is she ever going to use this information again? It's only important for passing a test."
"I like his way better," Malia mumbled. It was a comfort, if only a little, that even after their falling out she still had faith in him.
Nobody lingered on the field for long after practice. It was a Friday evening, still warm from the highnoon heat and with the sun setting a little later each day, no one wanted to spend the prolonged, fleeting light running laps or hitting drills. While most of the other players on the various sports teams had beelined for the lockers, mopping sweat from their brows and chatting over weekend plans, Liam dumped a bucket of dirty lacrosse balls onto the turf.
Stiles scooped a ball into the net of his long stick as Liam trotted to Scott's side. Shielding his eyes from the afterglow, he looked out to the three silhouettes against the horizon.
"You ready?"
All at once, Scott, Liam, and Malia dropped low. The borrowed lacrosse stick in Malia's grip creaked.
"Hey—Malia!" Stiles lowered the long stick, shoving a finger in her direction. "You break it, you buy it."
She snarled at him, though her eyes were locked on the ball in the catch. "I'm not gonna break your stupid stick! Now throw the ball!"
"Jeez, okay." Stiles was already tired from practice, the telltale ache of future soreness knotting his muscles. But this, this little cooldown they did sometimes, was hilarious and totally worth the extra effort as payment for the amusement he got out of it.
It was a good distraction, too, from the itching worry that Lydia hadn't returned to school that afternoon, hadn't responded to his texts. He couldn't freak out every time she went AWOL, not everything Lydia did was a premonition of death. Maybe she just wanted to take the afternoon to play hooky, relax and disconnect. He still didn't like it.
All three of them flinched as Stiles arched the long stick up and over his head. Strength moved through his core, coursing from his flanks up to his shoulders, coiling in his arms. The ball whooshed from the net, and they were gone, tufts of grass kicked up in their wake and sticks bobbing in the air. There was no aim or technique in the throw, just power. It didn't matter, the point was to get it far. Leaning on the long stick, Stiles watched his friends shrink into the distance. Liam, always the fastest, got to the ball first. He scooped it without breaking his run, leaned sharp into a turn and burst into a sprint back down the field.
He had the ball for all of two seconds until Malia body checked him off of his feet. The ball popped from Liam's net. He disappeared in a cloud of dust and grass blades just as Scott recovered the ball and took off, Malia hot at his heels.
Stiles winced, but hey, Liam knew that Malia was cut throat. He'd let his guard down.
"What are you guys doing?"
Hayden dropped her soccer bag on the ground beside Stiles, resting her hands on her hips to watch Malia jump on Scott's back mid run.
"Burning energy," Stiles said idly. Liam had caught up with them, latching onto Scott's leg. They all hit the dirt. "Catch the ball and see who can bring it back the fastest. Otherwise they'll be howling all night long."
Hayden thought for a beat. The ball was free, bouncing randomly down the field. Malia was the first to rise, racing after it—until Scott wrapped his hand around her ankle. Hayden tore her gaze from the scuffle, looking at Stiles as realization hit her.
"So… you're playing fetch?"
Stiles grinned. "We call them 'hail mary relays'. Only rule is no broken bones. You wanna have a go?"
Scott was limping after the ball, dragging Liam behind him. Hayden cringed.
"I think I'm good," she said, letting her hair loose from its ponytail.
Probably not in her nature, Stiles figured. Cats didn't really play fetch. They watched the three canine-inclined scrap at the other end of the field. Malia was sitting on top of a pile of Liam and Scott, trying to figure out what to do next as they huffed and struggled beneath her. Her eyes flickered between the boys under her butt and the ball resting feet in front of them all, a frustrated sneer worked into her face.
Stiles laughed. From leagues down the field, he thought he could hear Scott and Liam laughing, too.
Liam surged, launching Malia off and the scrap resumed. Hayden smiled, giggled, and for all the harrowing trials she had endured, Stiles couldn't help but think she was adjusting well to her new lot in life. Liam was a big part of that, Scott too. It didn't change the fact that she'd come into the supernatural world under the blade of a scalpel, needles in her neck and choking on black blood. Nevermind that she'd already undergone one invasive surgery to save her life, or that her own body had been turned against her in spite of that.
It was a horrific practice of Murphy's Law rolled together with a tragedy of errors—then she died.
Stiles couldn't imagine anything worse.
Scott's bite may have saved her, but he didn't really consider Hayden his beta. She had already been more than she was before he came along, mismatched pieces haphazardly frankensteined together. Scott's bite had just… put her back together the right way. She didn't just survive, though—she was thriving. It was nice to know that Beacon Hills still had a penchant for rewarding the worthy. That didn't happen a whole lot.
Something thumped against Stiles' shoe. The dirty lacrosse ball, and collapsing onto the turf: Scott, his face streaked with dirt and a large rip up the side of his shorts. He leaned heavily on his knees, carefully drawing lungfuls of air into his chest. Liam and Malia dropped on either side of him a moment later, panting and covered in grass stains.
"Looks like we got a winner! Way to go, Scotty." Stiles leaned over his friend. "You good, man?"
Scott didn't respond, but he did give a thumbs up, and that was good enough.
"Again," Liam rasped, trembling as he gathered his feet underneath him, supporting his weight on his lacrosse stick.
""Uh, no, I don't think so," Stiles said, palming off his lacrosse gloves. "I'm tired, it's Friday night, and I'm pretty sure one of you isn't gonna come back fully clothed next time."
Scott straightened, fingering the tear in his shorts. "Yeah, I agree. I don't think my wardrobe can take another beating."
Liam huffed, hanging his head. Hayden stepped to his side, a comforting hand on his back.
"I'm sure you'll have other chances to show off for your alpha," she teased, throwing a wink and a smile to Scott. "If you want, we can do some more… hail mary relays later."
Malia scoffed. "I don't think it's Scott he wants to show off for."
"It's not like that," Liam said, suddenly shy. "I'm just… having fun."
Scott chuckled, scooping up lacrosse balls and lobbing them back into the bucket. "Well, the fun doesn't have to end. It's movie night, after all. You guys are welcome to join."
Stiles didn't miss the way that Liam stiffened, a quiet surprise hanging from his jaw. "Seriously?"
He saw it then, an overlay of Scott's image on Liam's face, when he was younger and awkward and still trying to figure out how the world worked. Poor kid wore his faults on his chin, his mistakes on his sleeves. The two couldn't be more alike. It made Stiles wonder, though, if Scott had had an alpha like himself, would things have been different? If he'd had the pack bond he should have, would Scott have less worry lines creasing his face? Would his smile still be so reluctant?
Maybe it didn't matter. Scott and Liam were two versions of the same story. In three years time, Liam would be older and wiser and covered in tattoos. Of that, Stiles had no doubt.
"Of course," Scott said, offering his hand. Liam took it, huffing as he was pulled to his feet. "Unless you have other plans…?"
"No, no I… um…" His gaze turned to Hayden. She just grinned, gentle and encouraging, and nodded. "I think that sounds great. What are we watching?"
"A classic." Stiles stooped, helping Malia up and grabbing his gear. "The 1969 movie Rascal, teaches a really valuable life lesson."
"What life lesson is that?" Malia asked, falling into step with him toward the locker rooms.
"To leave raccoons alone."
Scott groaned. "Dude, let it go."
They didn't get to have movie night.
Mason was in the parking lot, waiting. He wore a high-necked hoodie that had clearly been through many consecutive days and nights of use, frumpy and wrinkled. Scott saw it for what it was; a security blanket. It made sense. Monstrous needles pumping viscous poison into the gaps of his vertebrae—he'd be protective of his neck, too.
But Mason wasn't there for himself, to take the next steps in regaining his shaky definition of normalcy. Scott could smell it; bitter, carcinogenic anxiety that always reminded him of the stench of burnt toast. Liam could, too, his initial glee at seeing his friend out and about forgotten under spiking worry.
"Mason?" he said, lingering on the polite boundary of Mason's personal space. "What-?"
"I need your help," he said quickly. After a nervous beat, he continued. "I think we missed something."
That was how they found themselves back in the tunnels, back in the dark decay none of them had ever wanted to return to. But Mason needed to know.
Scott wandered through the dimness. From somewhere and nowhere at all, the soft babble of dripping water echoed off rusted metal pipes and wet concrete. He was not claustrophobic, but there was something unsettling about the long corridors and winding turns that put Scott on edge. Something could be hiding around every corner, in each dark alcove, in all the places where the shadows hung thick.
Mason trudged ahead, leading all of them silently past fried electrical boxes and steel doors long sealed shut. Liam and Hayden stuck close by his side, guardians at his shoulders, but Scott knew they preferred to be anywhere else but down in this dungeon again, walking back into the chamber of horrors they had bled in.
"It's this way," Mason mumbled, taking a left.
He shambled toward a set of double-doors, each step hesitant and unsure, ready to turn and run. Scott looked over his shoulder, to Stiles and Malia. They both looked pale in the faint light of flickering fluorescent bulbs, willing to follow his lead and fear every step along the way. They didn't need to say it—it was too soon, far too soon to be diving back into the swallowing abyss.
When they all walked through the clattering doors shrieking on their hinges, Scott secretly hoped that Mason made a mistake, that he'd forgotten where it was, that they'd have to call off the search for the operating theater and come back later. It wasn't too late, they could still have movie night. Scott will watch whatever Stiles wants him to if it means they can leave.
Unfortunately, Mason had a spotless track record for being right, and that didn't change.
All of the machines and equipment the Dread Doctors left behind were silent, like dusty skeletons in a tomb. Scott's eyes strayed to the steel-topped surgical table, tarnished and stained with all matter of substances that he didn't want to think about. The different tubs and vats that lingered in the corners were dark and still, no longer bubbling and churning.
The only thing out of place was the person standing along the wall, staring at an array of blood stained tools laid out on a rusty tray. He recognized them before anyone else, through the aroma of expensive perfume and minty fresh dentist offices.
"Lydia?"
She turned. He saw the moment she came out of whatever trance or calling had brought her here, and she sighed.
"Oh. Hey." Lydia crossed her arms, cocking her hip. "Come here often?"
Her words didn't have their usual edge. She was nervous, it's clear to see even without chemosignals.
"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked, walking to her side. Lydia shook her head, because how many times has he asked her that question by now? She never truly knew why she ended up in certain places, but Scott had a feeling her reason was the same as theirs.
"You came to see it, too." It wasn't a question when Mason said it. "To check."
"Check on what?" Lydia whispered.
Scott swallowed, taking the first tentative steps into the next room. "Der Soldat."
It's dark, but he could still see the shy glint of metal struts—the tank, also dark and also still. Mason pulled out his phone, stepping past Scott. The light of the phone's camera burned through the shadows, dancing for a moment across the floor before drifting up.
"Shit," Malia spat, and Scott agreed.
The light shone harshly on the broken glass, wicked edges gleaming like teeth. The shards were scattered on the floor, Scott noticed, not within the small remaining puddle of green liquid stinking at the bottom of the tank. Mason's phone light inched along the ground. Dried slime led away from the broken tank in a trail and pattern that could only be footprints.
Scott didn't know how he felt. But he knew this was his fault.
They searched the tunnels for a whole week, becoming more familiar with the Beacon Hills underbelly than they wanted to. The trail of footprints faded out far too soon, leaving them with hardly a sense of where to look and an impending conflict waiting to avalanche.
Liam expected something to happen first. Very rarely were they able to stop the storm before it arrived, too often they had to play catch up while the bodies piled high around them. It felt like it was only a matter of time before another hiker's body was found in the woods, or a mob of birds plummeted from the sky. It was sad to say, but it was becoming routine.
There was nothing, though. Lydia and Parrish showed no signs of lurking misfortune creeping closer, aside from a general unease of their own making. For once, Beacon Hills remained at peace, and Liam started to wonder if maybe they overreacted. He never said it, though, and went back into the tunnels with Hayden when it was their turn. He did it for Mason, Liam told himself. He needed to see the end of this for his own peace of mind. The more nothing they found, the more Liam started to relax. He knew he shouldn't.
He'd started having dreams, though—waking up with the pain of needles in his arms, in his eyes.
It wasn't a horrific murder or uncanny event that broke through their cold search. It was just an overlooked error on their part, a section of the tunnels they had all somehow missed over and over again. They only found it because Hayden had started charting her own map after she realized the city schematics were unreliable. A single turn none of them had taken before led to a new kind of tunnel, long and straight and much older than the waterways.
Scott knew these tunnels, where they would lead. So he wasn't entirely surprised when the tunnel branched and dead-ended to an old wooden staircase and trapdoor. They didn't need to climb up to see what was above. There was nothing up there anymore, but once, there had been a beautiful, secluded house full of werewolves.
Scott, Stiles, and Liam continued past the escape entrance. It didn't take long to find the light at the end, blocked by a heavy iron gate shut with thick chains. Fresh air from outside moaned along the tunnel walls around them, carrying the scents of old blood and decomposition.
That's where they found the body—that's where they found both bodies, slumped against the walls of the tunnel, so close to freedom.
One was hardly recognizable as a human, let alone a man. Skin sloughed off of his frame in pale sheets, veiny blue nascent flesh shining wetly underneath. His face was a mess of tattered meat and puss. Fangs, serrated and sharp, caged his agape mouth. Werewolf healing could do amazing things. But it had limits, especially after 70 years of autocannibalistic stagnation.
The other body was obscured under a thick leather coat and vest, face hidden behind a mask of cured hide and respirator piping. One of the Dread Doctors, the Pathologist, if Scott remembered the details from the book correctly. La Bête had mauled them to death almost a month prior. The Soldier must have dragged them this whole way and tossed them aside. Scott couldn't begin to guess why.
Stiles whispered a quiet warning when Scott knelt beside the dead alpha. The stench of sickness almost made him gag. Sour and rank, something familiar but he couldn't remember from where. They didn't know how long he had been down here, and chances were that this was truly the end of their search. Scott wasn't taking chances, he needed to be sure.
Just because he couldn't hear a heartbeat didn't mean there wasn't one. Scott was just going to check for a pulse, fingers ghosting over his wrist when-
"Hilf mir."
Scott scurried back to his feet, Stiles and Liam pulling him back. The soldier's eyes opened, wrinkled eyelids revealing blazing red fury. His head rolled, those terrible eyes falling squarely on Scott. He couldn't help it, his own control slipping just the slightest. Scott met the Soldier's glare with his own crimson fire.
"Ich w-will nicht… s-s… s-sterben." The sounds rasped from his ruined mouth, a crumpled hand weakly reaching out. "B-Bitte… bitte."
"Any idea what he's saying?" Liam mumbled, his eyes glued to the Soldier. His hand dropped limply back to the ground, shattered breaths rattling through his chest.
Scott didn't understand the words, but he understood the weight behind them, the desperation. "He doesn't want to die."
"Sucks for him, I guess," Stiles sneered. "Anybody know how to say 'too bad, so sad' in German?"
Scott said nothing. The Soldier turned his head toward the gate, looking out into the forest. The first blush of sunrise was falling through the trees, lavender and periwinkle subtleties in the pitch. Scott suspected he would not live to see its peak.
They didn't have to wait long. It all ended with a soft, final exhale. His eyes dimmed, red fading to natural hazel.
"He's gone." Scott whispered.
They stood in silence for a long, unsure beat. It was Liam who asked the question they were all thinking: "What do we do with him now?"
They couldn't just leave the bodies here. Forgotten tunnels or not, they couldn't risk someone finding this. Scott huffed a deep sigh through his nose.
"We'll take them to Eichen House," he decided. "They know how to… dispose of these kinds of things. I'll stop at the hospital and get some body bags. We should take them back to the operating theater for now."
"Gross," Stiles said, and yet he rolled up his sleeves and squatted across from Liam, grabbing the Soldier's legs.
Scott turned to the Pathologist. They were small in stature, and he wondered if maybe they had been a woman of science before turning to a twisted half-life of supernatural worship. He knelt before the cold body, and for a small second, he was tempted to remove the mask. It passed quickly, though—he'd already seen the Surgeon's true face. Hers was probably no different. What a shame, to be so gifted-
He stopped that line of thought immediately. Her missed potentials and possibilities were her own doing, not his.
Analysis-s-s-
Scott froze. Stiles and Liam dropped the Soldier's body between them, snapping their heads toward him. The Pathologist hadn't moved, stiff and lifeless, no rise and fall of breath. Scott focused his hearing. No heartbeat, not even a murmur. The dark, empty holes in the masks where eyes should have been held nothing but black oblivion—Scott still felt like he was being watched, observed, examined.
C-Condition… Corru-u-upted
"What's going on?" Liam said, his voice pitched with panic. It was like the words were being broadcast directly into Scott's mind, hollow and disjointed and echoing as if from the depths of a deep, dark cave.
Prog-g-Prog-gnosis… Fatal-l-l
That word burned like a brand on Scott's brain. They left the bodies in the tunnel and ran.
Mason got the closure he needed. Scott, Liam, and Corey walked with him through the preserve and led him to the mouth of the escape tunnel. Mason took one good look at the emaciated body on the other side of the gate, spun on his heel, and vomited into the scrub. Liam and Corey stayed with him while he wept, both a silent presence of comfort and sanctuary.
They didn't try to move the bodies again. Parrish burned them together right there in the tunnel. It turned out that Hellhound flame was just as good as any incinerator. Only black scorch and pale ash was left behind.
Mason was back in school the next week, wearing a low-collared shirt. His return signaled the return to normalcy, the final piece they had all been missing to get back to their lives. The days became warmer, brighter, and a revitalization was beginning to blossom in the youth of Beacon Hills.
Scott didn't springback as quickly as everyone else did. If Stiles noticed the sag of his shoulders, if Malia saw the tight cords of his jaw from clenching his teeth, neither of them said anything. The problem was taken care of, they'd tell Scott instead, crisis averted. Everything was okay.
He would sigh, he would nod his head and smile, and he'd go home after school or practice or work every evening and go straight to bed. Every night he'd curl under the covers until his own heated body became too much, then he would wake up at two o'clock in the morning and take a cold shower. The sun would come up to find Scott sitting on the edge of his bed, his statistics textbook opened to a page he had already read twice before.
Statistics couldn't tell him what the odds were, but Scott knew that they had narrowly avoided catastrophe… because he had forgotten to follow through and tie up loose ends.
There weren't a lot of things Scott McCall was good at… actually, hardly anything at all.
"You don't look so good, Scott."
Scott took a deep breath and looked up into Lydia's green eyes. "Yep. Haven't been sleeping well lately. Guess it finally caught up with me."
"No, dude, she's right." Stiles said, his voice firm. "You look like shit, and it's not because you're sleep deprived. I would know, I've got a lot of experience."
Scott sniffed, taking a small sip from his protein shake. When he swallowed, it was like trying to swallow sand. "I'm just a little rundown is all. It's not a big deal."
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Scott fished it out and tilted it away from the glare of the sun. He didn't see the worried look shared between Stiles and Lydia.
Liam D: is this headache me or u?
Scott frowned. It was a bit random what Liam could pick up on from him. They still hadn't figured out how it happened, or if it worked both ways.
Scott M: Prolly me sorry i'll drink some water.
Clearing his throat, Scott pulled his water bottle from his backpack as Liam returned him with a thumbs up emoji. Sipping carefully, he thumbed through the collection of gifs in his library's repertoire—Liam thought they were lame, and that was exactly why he sent them. Any chance to make Liam roll his eyes was another small step back to that comfortable, easy rhythm they used to have. Scott really missed that. He got the sense that Liam did, too. Problem was that neither of them were very good at carrying a beat.
The muscles in his neck spasmed. Scott gagged, sputtering around the straw and bursting into a fit of coughs.
"Woah, Scott, you okay?" Stiles thumped his hand lightly on his back.
"Yeah, all good," Scott groaned, his voice tight in his throat. "Just went down the wrong pipe."
"Seriously," Lydia pressed. "You look sick. Too sick to be at school."
Scott flicked his hand, dismissing her worry. "Nah, I'm fine. I don't actually get sick anymore, remember?"
"That's not entirely true," Stiles said, dropping his voice low. "Remember the Chemist? You got pretty damn sick then."
"That was a genetically altered strain of canine-distemper," Scott muttered back. "Everyone was sick. It takes a lot more than the common cold to knock me out."
"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of," Stiles breathed. Scott didn't hear him over the ringing of the lunch bell.
He and Stiles had statistics right after lunch. They had just started learning about the Binomial and Poisson distributions. Scott had already read the chapters and done the exercises, but it was fascinating to see the distributions in practice—or, it would have been, if the board would stop spinning. Everything was spinning, actually, vertigo blooming in his stomach.
Scott may have been an idiot, but he wasn't stupid. Maybe Stiles and Lydia were right. His phone buzzed again, loud against the hard wooden desk he'd set it on.
Liam D: DUDE. GO HOME.
"Mr. McCall, no phones in class," Mr. Yates called from the front of the room.
"Sorry," he mumbled, sweeping his phone back into his pocket.
Glancing over to Stiles, his friend was checking his own phone much more discreetly, incoming texts rolling one after the other from a contact labeled Bunny—Liam. Whatever he was saying, it was putting Stiles on edge.
"Perhaps you'd like to be the first volunteer to come up and try to solve one of the problems," Mr. Yates said with a satisfied but encouraging smile. Scott stood, carrying his calculator with him to the front of the classroom. "Do I have any other volunteers?"
Stiles shot from his seat, following close behind Scott. Together they stood before the blackboard, chalk in hand. Scott blinked at the simple equation, and started to scribble.
P(X=r) = (λre^-λ)/r! - P(X=50) = ((2.9*15)50 e^-(2.9*15))/50! - P(X=
That was as far as he got before his shoulder hit the floor, the chalk in his hand hissing a thick line down the blackboard. The calculator clattered from his fingers. Dull pressure exploded in his brain—his toes were tingling, a wave of cold shivered through his gut. Cool hands wrapped around his arms, gripping into his jacket that was somehow too hot at the same time. Stiles appeared over him, his face fuzzy and haloed with light. He was saying something, but his voice was too far away.
The world started rushing around Scott, yanked off of the floor and bursting out into the hallway. The walls of lockers, the ceiling, the floor, all spiraling and fractaling, a kaleidoscope of metal and tiles and fluorescent lights. Gravity left him, pushing sideways against his spine. His shoes squeaked across the floor, only the strong grip around his chest kept him upright.
Scott groaned as saliva welled under his tongue and willed himself not to throw up on his best friend. Eventually, the pressure in his head subsided. The tight grip loosened. Scott slumped down on a stiff blue resting couch. Closing his eyes, he counted measured breaths through his nose till up was up again and the tingling faded away.
"Woah," he said, huffing a laugh and looking up at Stiles. "Head rush."
But Stiles wasn't laughing. His hand gripped Scott's shoulder a touch too hard, eyes bright with fear. Now was not the time for light-hearted banter.
"Scott, buddy, you fainted," Stiles said, his words slow and soft. "You're in the nurse's office, okay?"
"Okay," Scott mumbled, reaching to take Stiles' hand. "I think… I think I should go home."
"I agree." Natalie Martin, high heels clacking into the room, walked over to the cabinets and opened a drawer. Moments behind her, Liam burst through the door, out of breath and panicked.
He hesitated for only a moment, then rushed to Scott's side, dropping next to his thigh. The boy's temples were damp with sickly sweat, his hands clammy on Scott's knee.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay, just a little light-headed," Scott said, squeezing his beta's shoulder. The touch was warm, unnaturally so, and Scott didn't know if the heat came from Liam or himself. "How are you? Did you…?"
Liam shook his head. "No, I just felt it. Scott, I think something is seriously wrong-"
"Boys, please, give him some room." Natalie shooed them away, a thermometer clutched in her other hand. "I'm going to take your temperature, alright?"
Scott nodded, letting her pop the stick into his mouth. Plastic and metal jabbed into the soft palate under his tongue. The moments that followed seemed to last forever, Stiles and Liam lingering at Scott's back. The beep of the thermometer broke the tension like a gunshot.
"Well," Natalie hummed, her gaze flickering between the tiny screen on the stick and Scott's waiting stare. "You have a fever, Mr. McCall."
To be continued...