"Really? The flu? Are you being serious right now?"
"As a heart attack," Melissa said, her arms crossed. Her irritated gaze jumped between Stiles and Liam "Unless you boys managed to run into some Y. pestis at some point and didn't tell me?"
Stiles hesitated. It was a rhetorical question, clearly—but when he looked at Liam, and they both took a moment too long to think about it, Melissa gaped.
"Oh my god!" She threw her hands up. "Please tell me you didn't crack open an ancient crypt or something and let out the black plague."
"What? No, Jesus."
Liam watched Stiles flail, watched Melissa rub an aggravated hand down her face. He wasn't listening when Stiles launched into a tirade of secret tunnels and Nazis. All he could think about was Scott lying on his bed upstairs, passed out after he and Stiles had driven him home and dumped him on the mattress. Ms. Martin had called Melissa, Liam guessed. She'd been waiting for them in the driveway.
Liam didn't like seeing his alpha weak and vulnerable—Scott without his strength was an uncanny valley: he looked like Scott, he sounded like Scott, but it just wasn't right. Call it weakness, call it trauma or cowardice, he already knew why it made him uncomfortable, why the acidic churn in his stomach felt a little too much like guilt.
"Okay, listen to me," Melissa said, cutting Stiles off, all pretense of patience and indulgence dropped. Melissa the nurse seamlessly stepped in where Melissa the mom had just been. "He has a low-grade fever, and I know he hasn't been sleeping well. It's still influenza season. So unless you can give me a good reason to think otherwise, I'm sticking with that."
"A good reason? It's Beacon Hills! Is that a good enough reason?" Stiles spun to Liam. "Back me up here. You know what he's feeling, don't you?"
Oh yeah, there was still that, and Liam wasn't entirely sure what the deal was with that. Whatever wires had been crossed between him and Scott, it came and went without warning. The nausea and headache that chased him all day had disappeared, only a memory of discomfort to fall back on.
"Yeah, I did," Liam muttered. He began listing symptoms on his fingers. "Body aches, dizziness, general weakness."
"Did it feel like the flu?" Melissa asked, a pointed look at Stiles. "Because that sounds a lot like the flu to me."
"I don't know, I've never had the flu." Liam shrugged, pinching his lips. Stiles and Melissa stared at him, eyes narrow and disbelieving. "My step-dad's a doctor? I always get the shot."
Stiles rolled his eyes, his shoulders sagging. "Okay, thanks Liam, you're a great help as always. Look, even if it is the flu, that should be cause for concern too, right? Werewolves don't get influenza."
"Do we know that for sure?" Melissa asked, her tone careful. "Do you know why you have to get a shot every year? It's because the influenza virus doesn't have a single vaccine. It's constantly changing, there are multiple types, and science can barely keep up. Maybe this strain just got potent enough to get werewolves."
"That's a pretty big 'maybe' you're hanging onto," Stiles bit, but Liam could tell he'd run out of arguments to make. Without a relevant cause, he had nothing but baseless conjecture.
Melissa sighed, seeing his agitation for what it was; concern, a heavy worry that weighed on his chest and hung from the shadows of his jaw. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I get it, Stiles," she said. He huffed a deep sigh through his nose. "I think we would all feel better if I did some tests, right? And I will—but for right now, in my professional medical opinion, he needs rest and fluids and acetaminophen. Perhaps, for once, this is simply what it looks like."
"If you say Occam's razor, I swear-"
"I'm not a philosopher, and you know it." Melissa's hand moved from his shoulder to his cheek. Liam watched the other boy reluctantly nod under her touch. "Now go back to school, both of you. If either of you catch what he has, your dads won't let me hear the end of it."
Liam didn't want to leave. The part of him that was tied to Scott through teeth alone wanted to march upstairs and keep vigil over his alpha until he got better. The dreams about needles had gone away, but he'd been having a different kind of dream for much longer now—nightmares of super moons and bookshelves and his own blood stained claws, the soft hush of Scott's final breath.
Liam didn't want to get a text from Mason tomorrow saying that Scott was dead. Not again.
But Stiles pressed his hand into Liam's back and led him through the front door. He went without protest, climbing into the passenger seat of Stiles' jeep. Stiles sped through the neighborhood, the rumbling silence of the cab loud with bitter anxiety. He drummed his frustration into the steering wheel, keeping his thoughts to himself despite not liking the quiet.
Liam didn't like the quiet either, so he started talking. Stiles matched his jumbled words with his own.
Maybe it was wolfsbane poisoning? No, it would be obvious if it was. Scott would have known.
What if it was canine distemper again?... yeah, probably not, there wasn't exactly an epidemic going around.
Could be appendicitis? Now he's just being ridiculous.
By the time they made it back to the high school, they'd gone through and eliminated every ailment and illness they could think of. It was a very long list, and the majority of them either didn't make sense or didn't fit the bill. Regardless, Liam was reminded that outside of the supernatural phenomena, there were so many things in the natural world that could harm or even kill.
Melissa might be right, Liam thought. He hadn't been a werewolf for very long, but he was pretty sure there was no real authority on shapeshifter physiology, no matter how much Stiles and Scott claimed to have written the book on supernatural know-how. 'Werewolves don't get sick' might not have been the rock solid rule they thought it was. And even so, if there was one thing Liam was certain about, it was that there were always exceptions to the rules.
Stiles didn't return to class right away—he needed to figure out how to get Scott's bike back to his house. Short of actually riding it back himself, which would only happen over Stiles' dead body, he'd have to call a tow. He told Liam to go back to class, though, to go to practice. They had a game on Saturday and Coach would probably castrate them both if they weren't up to snuff.
It wasn't a pleasant image, and not entirely ridiculous, so Liam parted ways with Stiles—not before he made the other boy swear that he would bring him along when he went to check up on Scott.
Liam didn't make it back to class either. Hayden was waiting for him in the empty hallway, his backpack dangling from her grip. He'd left it behind in social studies, forgotten in his mad rush to the nurse's office. One look and he knew she could tell he didn't have the capacity for anymore lessons that day. So she took his hand, and led him out to the field, deserted in the early afternoon. Hayden macgyvered the lock on the sports equipment shed (she broke it) and they had been kicking a soccer ball between them for half an hour in silence.
She didn't ask anything of him, didn't try to get him to talk or distract him—she just let him breathe, let him think, let his worries wander and tumble.
It might be his fault, Liam thought, a consideration that haunted him from the moment he felt Scott faint—a swift rush in his core, weightless pressure in the space between his ears and then… nothing, a swallowing oblivion locking his heart in his ribs and for too many seconds there was no pulse in his chest. The moment his lungs activated and desperate fluttering kicked back against his sternum, Liam flung himself from his desk and ran.
He hadn't known at the time what really happened, didn't know that Scott was, for all intents and purposes, okay. He knew, just knew with solid certainty, that he had just felt his alpha die.
That scared him more than needles or berserkers ever could.
Scott's wounds from that night may be long healed, but Liam remembered how weak he had been in the days that followed. There had been extenuating circumstances, sure—but he was the one who had pushed Scott over the edge. Perhaps Scott was still suffering from the lingering effects of that stormy night in the library, still enduring the consequences of Liam's betrayal.
Maybe this connection they now shared was actually Liam's punishment, his penance for the sin of turning his fangs and claws on his own pack, his own alpha. He couldn't find it in himself to admit that it wasn't deserved.
Liam may not have killed Scott with his own hands, but he had thrown him under the claws of the wolf who had.
He wondered, not for the first time, why his eyes were still gold.
It was Lydia who suggested that Scott's illness may have been psychosomatic. Mason, for some reason, agreed.
"You mean somatoformic," Stiles said. They'd had this conversation before, he and Lydia, on opposite sides as they watched Scott bleed out in a disgusting roadside pit stop bathroom.
"No, I mean psychosomatic," Lydia rolled her eyes.
"Physical illness came after the mental issues," Mason added.
Stiles didn't know why Mason had suddenly latched onto Lydia. He'd seen the kid following her around, helping her out with school and errands. Maybe it had something to do with her voice calling him back. She'd saved his life. Perhaps Mason was just grateful, showing it in one of the ways he knew how. Lydia didn't seem to mind, and Stiles definitely didn't feel threatened.
"So, what, you think Scott's sick because he's bummed out?" Malia asked, leaning over the hood of the jeep. "Sounds a little far-fetched."
"It's a very well documented fact that depression can compromise the immune system," Lydia stated. Her head rolled, eyes tracking from her idly fidgeting hands to Stiles' face. "Can you honestly tell me that Scott's self-esteem has been riding high lately?"
He didn't answer her. That was an answer in itself. His experience, and hers, told them what came next: a wet parking lot, a blaring red flame, woes whispered into the dark.
"Melissa's running some tests," he said instead. "Just a spit swab and antibody count for now, which could take a couple days."
Stiles strummed his thumb up the edge of a small stack of papers on the hood, clamped together with a binder clip; assignments Scott had missed for the day. He hadn't entirely given up on the idea that this was something much bigger than they knew, a demonic curse (unlikely) or arcane malady (yeah, real specific) or something that couldn't be explained by sending spit to a lab. But if Scott was going to get worse—there was always worse—it would have happened by now. Three days of fever and bed rest wasn't the terrifying affliction Stiles expected.
"Great," Malia said, not the least bit interested in what someone else was doing in a laboratory far away. "So in the meantime, how do we help Scott?"
"That should be easy, right?" Mason said, his hands flourished. "We cheer him up!"
"This is not exactly what I meant by 'cheer him up'."
"What 'exactly' did you mean, then?"
"I don't know, like maybe we'd get to the psychological root of the problem and then find some cool mystical way to fix it."
"So… you wanted us to supernaturally talk about our feelings."
"Uh… yeah, I guess when you put it like that…"
"Okay well, you didn't say that, so this is what we're working with."
"Yeah, alright, fine—but why is it pink… and why does it say, 'It's a Girl!'?"
"There weren't a lot of options at the bakery on such short notice, okay?"
Tip-toe: we got the cake
You: Cool what flavor did you get?
Padawan: It's pink.
You: ?
Padawan: The flavor is pink. Malia liked the color.
Tip-toe: their werent a lot of options!
You: Roger that, tip-toe.
Catnip: I'm sure it's fine. It's the thought that counts.
Bunny: anything else we need to grab from the store?
You: Circus Animal cookies. Scott loves those.
Catnip: Frosted or unfrosted?
You: Frosted? Nobody likes the unfrosted ones.
Padawan: I like the unfrosted ones!
You: Then I'm very disappointed.
Fields Medal: Seriously? What are you 8?
Fields Medal: Also who the hell is 'tip-toe'?
Tip-toe: me
Tip-toe: he has codenames for us in his phon
Bunny: srsly?
Tip-toe: sais its to protect our identities
Fields Medal: Stiles.
Fields Medal: If I am anything but Lydia M in your contacts-
Fields Medal: I will have your dad impound your Jeep.
You: I would never
Lydia M: That's what I thought.
Padawan: I think we've got everything.
Padawan: Have we decided on what to watch?
Catnip: Oh how about Call of the Wild?
You: Hes read the book. Books always better.
Tip-toe: i really like the little mermaid
Lydia M: Hard pass.
Padawan: How about an action movie?
Padawan: Like the Expendables!
Bunny: Mason, we all know y u rly like that movie
Bunny: and its not bc of the action
Padawan: DUDE
Bunny: what about the fox and the hound?
Catnip: OMG
Bunny: what? its a good movie!
You: Jesus Christ Liam anything but THE FOX AND THE HOUND.
You: We'll let Scott choose
Tip-toe: so wht if this doesnt work?
You: It will. It has to.
Future Madam President: It'll work.
You: See? If Lydia says so, its basically the law.
Future Madam President: What's that supposed to mean?
You: Nothin
This all seemed like a great idea, until Stiles walked into Scott's bedroom. He'd taken the stairs two steps at a time, the loud rush of his excited breaths out of place in the still quiet of Scott's dark room. That smell hung in the air: old breath, dried fever sweat, unwashed sheets—the odor of the sick and bed bound that Stiles had the misfortune of knowing. Scott's silhouette was sat upright in bed, papers and textbooks scattered across the covers. A pencil hung loosely from the fingers of one hand, a worksheet bent limply in his other.
Scatter plots dotted the worksheet, all of them marked up with complete linear regression analysis except for one—the shotgun blast. Beneath it, Scott had written one word: heteroscedasticity.
"Scott?" Stiles stepped lightly across the room. On Scott's nightstand, a cold bowl of chicken noodle soup sat untouched. "It's just me, buddy."
He didn't reply. Stiles hated how the pit dropped from his stomach, a dreadful ache filling in where anticipating excitement had just been. He reached through the twilight, feeling for the lamp—a practiced habit honed after so many years of mapping Scott's bedroom as intimately as his own. The lightbulb cracked on, light spilling across the room and chasing away the shadows. Huffing a relieved breath, Stiles lowered himself on the edge of the bed.
Wearing his largest, comfiest school hoodie, Scott slumped against his own shoulder, snoring softly. His brow was damp, a shiny trail of drool traced down the corner of his mouth. Even his hair was mussed and spiked from his pillow. It was odd, Stiles thought, that he couldn't readily remember the last time Scott was truly sick like this, not just as a victim to a madman's science experiment. It must have been when he was still human, when they were younger and smaller and so blissfully unaware of the deeper darkness around them.
He looked like that now; a younger Scott, more boyish. Thin, dark peach-fuzz dusted his cheeks and above his lip. In his fragile peace, he had shed the years forced upon him by circumstance and the people around him. Right now, he didn't look like the alpha of Beacon Hills, didn't wear the face of a man who gave and gave and didn't ask for thanks or reward. No, he looked like a boy who had just turned eighteen last September, who still liked frosted circus animal cookies and read Moon Knight comics and was pretty good at statistics.
Part of Stiles wanted to call the whole thing off, because how could all of this possibly be psychosomatic? Scott didn't need 'cheering up', he needed rest and he needed medicine. He needed Stiles to figure out what was wrong and how to make it better.
But giving Scott a night to laugh and relax could do anything but hurt, for all of them—and they bought a cake. He would not let it go to waste.
"Hey," he muttered, gently shaking Scott's shoulder. Through the thick cotton of the hoodie, muffled heat pressed into his palm. "Scott."
A soft inhale. Scott blinked himself awake, lifting his head from his shoulder. Bleary eyes squinted through the light, tracking across the room. Even when his gaze landed on Stiles, he didn't seem to truly see him, until a tired smile flowed across his face.
"Hey." Scott's voice croaked in his throat. "How was school?"
"It was great, grandma, I learned about the solar system and shit."
"That's nice, sweety," Scott laughed, a small sound that burgeoned into a groan as he straightened in bed. "Ugh, my neck."
Stiles watched Scott rub his face, wipe away the drool on his chin. Papers and books shifted as his legs moved beneath the covers. "How are you feeling?"
"Spectacular," Scott huffed, scratching idly at his hand. "Thanks for dropping off my school work."
Stiles had left the binder clip of papers downstairs, forgotten the moment it left his hand when he walked into the house.
"Yeah, no problem." Stiles stood. He circled the bed and opened the window. Cool spring air trickled into the room, fresh and crisp. Scott twisted on the bed, his limbs shaky. "I need you to make yourself presentable and come downstairs."
Scott swung his legs over the edge of the bed, confusion creasing between his brows. "What do you-" Scott tilted his head, a moment to listen. "How many people are here?"
"Take a shower, and make it quick," Stiles said, rapping his fingers on Scott's bedroom door. "We're all waiting for you."
He did what Stiles asked. The shower was quick and cold, even if Scott thought the hot water was turned up as high as it would go. But it washed away the lingering sickness on his skin, in his hair. The dank smells of musty clothes and frowsty skin scrubbed down the drain and covered up with Old Spice. It felt good to be clean, even if he didn't particularly like being wet, even if his pounding head and aching limbs diminished the feeling.
Scott stepped back into his room, a towel wrapped around his waist, and scurried to his dresser. Stiles had left the window open and stripped the sheets from his bed, a cool breeze whispering through the curtains. Goosebumps prickled his skin as he dug for a pair of sweatpants and boxers. A wool sweater, perfumed with his mom's laundry detergent, snatched off the floor of his closet and pulled over his head as he stumbled out of his room and down the stairs.
"Okay Stiles," Scott called, trying to rub warmth back into his arms. His feet shuffled in his house slippers, carrying him through the hall toward the living room. The walls didn't twist around him this time—small victories. "I don't know what you're up to, but it better not be more weird flu remedies. That garlic tea you made me drink was gross as f-"
Scott halted in the cased opening. He blinked, then blinked again, then rubbed his eyes with the weathered cuffs of his sweater.
Falling lights, delicate and small, hung from the ceiling, across the curtains, around the fan. They twinkled and shimmered, shifting gently through every cool color of the spectrum. Like stars, Scott thought, his head craning back to stare as he drifted to the middle of the living room. It was like stepping into the northern lights, auroras and daybreaks dancing along the walls.
He didn't realize the furniture had been rearranged until his shin found the coffee table, moved two feet from where it normally was. Scott swore and stumbled, abruptly shaken from his awe. From the kitchen, a harsh shout echoed him.
"Scott?"
The sofa and armchairs had been set up in a half circle in front of the TV. At the crest, his dad's old La-Z-Boy chair sat like a throne, draped with blankets and piled with pillows.
"Hey!" Scott turned. Hayden smiled at him, hanging out of the doorframe to the kitchen. She beckoned him closer. "You like the fairy lights? That was my idea. Come on, we have a surprise for you."
'We' turned out to be the whole pack, and 'a surprise' was actually a veritable feast of snacks and treats. At the center of it all, a fluorescent pink cake. The first layer of frosting on top of the cake had been clumsily wiped off, messy handwriting inscribed "Get wELL SoON" in green piped letters. Malia sucked on her fingers, traces of pink at the edge of her lips. Liam met him with a pained smile, crumpled on the kitchen floor, rubbing his shin.
After a beat, his eyes adjusted to the sight.
"Wow," he croaked, huffing a laugh through a cough. "Guys, this is great. Really, this… what is this, actually?"
"It's a Get Better party," Malia said, wiping her mouth.
"I can see that. Except, that's not a thing." Scott snatched up the bag of circus animal cookies, his stomach roared. "So what's really going on?"
The sophomores and Malia looked at him like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Only Stiles and Lydia shared a knowing look, a sad smile.
"Psychosomatic," was all Lydia said. It was all she needed to say.
Scott's fingers tightened around the bag of cookies, plastic crackling in the silence that stretched between them. Mason, bless his heart, mistook Scott's quiet for confusion.
"It basically means-"
"He knows," Stiles said quickly, not as a bite or a snide—just a simple statement of fact. "Trust me, he knows."
Maybe the newer crowd picked up on the small misery behind his words, maybe they felt the older ache implied with the curt nod Scott gave Stiles. Scott set the bag of cookies down on the table, heaving a sigh. His fevered body was starting to pearl sweat on his brow once again even as cold shivers trembled in his gut.
Was it all just in his head? Had he made himself get sick?
… yeah, that tracked, Scott thought. Alpha claws slashed through his bones or opportunistic viruses stealing his strength, it made no difference. When Scott McCall didn't believe he should be okay, he always found a way to not be. Add that to the List, too.
That list was getting longer in all the wrong ways, he realized—and perhaps that was entirely the problem. Maybe he needed to start a new list.
"Okay," Scott said, crossing his arms. "So what's the plan?"
Stiles pinched his lips through a smile, holding up his hand. A shiny silver pie server flashed in his fingers.
"I say we cut this cake already before someone pounces on it with her bare hands," he said, slapping away Malia's finger creeping closer. "And you need to decide what we're gonna watch."
He picked Pirates of the Caribbean, and it was actually kind of perfect. A silly, fantastical movie with a great soundtrack and whimsical characters and ridiculous problems that none of them could relate to. It was the escapism they all needed.
Scott settled into the La-Z-Boy with a slice of cake balanced on his lap and his own personal bag of circus animal cookies tucked between his leg and the armrest. Wrapped in so many blankets, it was very tempting to fade right back into the welcome sleep he'd been woken from.
And for all the doubts Stiles or Lydia or even Mason may have had, they all went away when Jack Sparrow swaggered on screen and Hayden casually commented that Scott could definitely pull off guy-liner like that.
The credits rolled two hours later. Liam and Malia took umbrellas from the basket by the front door, clacking them against each other in a mock sword fight as Hayden, Mason, and Corey belted out the melody to He's a Pirate. Stiles leaned over to Lydia, mischief pulling at his lips, and gallantly declared that if she were ever taken by pirates, he would be the Will Turner for her Elizabeth Swan. Lydia puckered her lips and thought about that for a while... a long while—long enough for Stiles to drop the joking grin and alight of something akin to hope in his eyes.
Then Lydia shook her head and bluntly reminded Stiles that he was not, and never would be Orlando Bloom.
Scott stretched over the arm of the chair and reached across the couch, patting Stiles' shoulder. Any consolation he tried to channel was probably lost beneath his barely restrained giggles. Stiles gawked at him, a betrayed look that only went skin deep. Scott didn't notice how the others went quiet, listening to him laugh.
Then they remembered that there were, like, three more movies.
Stiles asked Liam later in the night if he was picking up on anything from his alpha, anything at all. They had both retreated to the kitchen for water and treats. The sudden shift caught Liam off-guard, and he remembered that there was a reason they were doing all this in the first place.
Liam had been practicing, a shaky use of the word. Practicing what, he couldn't really say: pulling on threads, opening doors, widening the channels that would strengthen the connection between him and Scott. Mason had suggested meditation, Hayden had suggested hypnosis… Stiles told him he should try an ice bath? Said it would work wonders if he didn't mind being half-dead for a few minutes.
Something worked. It wasn't perfect, and the fluctuant nature of their bond was a constant—but sometimes, when he closed his eyes, when he let go of everything except the hum of blood in his ears, he could feel the wisps of Scott's affections, reach out and try to snatch them like cobwebs on the wind.
He tried this now… but there was nothing. Liam looked at Stiles and shook his head.
It was nearly two in the morning when mostly everyone left, too tired to put on another movie despite the sugar and endorphins and good vibes they were riding on. Stiles and Lydia lingered, cleaning up the plates and crumbs and pushing the couches and coffee tables back into place. They didn't move the armchair, though—Scott slept soundly on its cushions, blankets tucked around his feet and under his chin. He looked so comfortable, an image of a wolf curled up in a den.
Stiles gently wrested the bag of cookies from Scott's sleepy grip, and picked up the plate of cake he'd set to the side. Scott stirred for only a moment, small noises in his throat, and settled once more.
The two of them stayed at Scott's house, biding time and waiting for Melissa to return from her night shift. Stiles moved Scott's bedsheets from the washer into the dryer. Lydia rinsed the dishes they had used. Together, they took down the fairy lights and put away all the food. The house was dark now, and quiet as a grave. Outside, the world was still and empty, a deceptively peaceful mask shining from the thin crescent moon in the sky. Only the stars, ever vigilant, burned true and whole.
Stiles and Lydia sat at the kitchen table after cleaning up, a dim under cabinet light casting deep shadows across their faces. A bag of cookies sat between them, lightly picked on as the early hours wandered by.
"Do you think it worked?" Stiles whispered, his voice as thin as the starlight falling through the window.
Lydia plucked a cookie from the bag and held it up in her manicured nails. White frosting and rainbow sprinkles melted against her fingertips.
"I think it's too soon to tell," she said, an answer that wasn't really an answer. Stiles watched her put the cookie in her mouth and chew tiredly. A beat later, she swallowed. "Do you think it worked?"
Huffing a sigh through his nose, Stiles shrugged. A lull of quiet settled over them, seconds passing into eternity that seemed to belong to a different time. It felt like one of those liminal moments where nothing and everything existed at once, a moment that layered into all the other moments so similar to this that they blended together. They would be here a year from now, and when they were in their 30's, and two years ago when they were just scared kids who didn't know how to deal with monsters prowling through the school halls.
"I'm really worried," he said, tracing the wooden whorls of the kitchen table with his thumb, his gaze lost in grim possibilities. She said nothing, waiting for him to collect his thoughts.
She'd be the one, he knew, who would always be sitting across the table from him late at night in one form or another.
"You remember Prada?" He asked.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. "Do I remember my sweet precious dog? Of course I do."
"You remember when he got sick?" Stiles continued.
"Pancreatitis," she clarified.
"How did you know when he was ready to die?"
Lydia hesitated, and Stiles knew she understood where he was going with this when she frowned and squeezed her hands together.
"When he stopped eating."
Scott had barely eaten more than two bites of cake. The bag of cookies he'd absconded with was never opened all night. Stiles already knew that when Melissa came home, when he'd ask her about the bowls of soup, that she'd tell him how he hadn't touched a single drop.
Stiles was more than worried—he was terrified.
Saturday night lights burst into the late evening twilight, shining over the lacrosse field at Beacon Hills High. As the student populace and athlete parents filled the bleachers, a buzz of excitement spiced the air. In the parking lot, a greyhound bus pulled in—the away team, blue and gold and hailing from a much larger and more well-funded district than Beacon county. But hey, at least the Cyclones would have the home field advantage.
Coach Finstock was really banking on that.
"Okay, listen up!" Coach's sharp words cut through the din of the locker room, over the crowd of boys tugging on gear and jerseys. "Just because your captain has decided to put more importance on his own physical health than our victory does not give any of you an excuse to slack off tonight. I expect every single one of you to give your all to this game—except you, Greenberg. I've learned to keep my expectations low when it comes to you. Saves me from constant disappointment."
Liam was on autopilot, his hands going through the motions of putting on his pads, lacing up his cleats. He'd spent the better part of the day catching up on sleep, or at least trying to. Dark dreams, the same dream on repeat actually, fragmented and hazy, haunted him in the realm between asleep and awake. But these were different from the distorted replays in the library—different, and very very strange.
He was adrift in an endless ocean, treading rough waves beneath a darkening amber sky. The water tossed in rolling foothills around him, luminous jade crests heaving him high one moment and plummeting him down the next. Salt burned in his nose and in his eyes, scraping down his throat into his lungs. Each gasp of air stank of brine and rot, a harsh acidic sourness that clogged his senses.
And in the distance, losing to his own struggles to stay afloat; Scott, calling to Liam, crying over the waves, begging for his help. Sea foam clotted around his mouth, his bloodshot eyes pleading for salvation.
No matter how hard he swam, kicking and rowing through the thrashing ocean, he never made it to Scott before he slipped beneath the surface. Even when Liam dove after him, plunging into the swallowing depths of the abyss, Scott was already(impossibly) fathoms below. Something massive filled the void under him, something furious and despotic, pulling Scott down into a maw of great black fangs.
Liam reached after him, desperation and terror chasing Scott into the heavy deep. Scott reached back for him, a writhing stream of bubbles bursting from his lips in a scream-
Then Liam would wake up, gasping for air. Light headed and weary, it was only a matter of seconds before he slipped under again, falling back into that devouring ocean. Sometimes the pack would all be there, all of them trying to save Scott, all of them too slow to pull him back from that horrible end.
He blamed the pirate movies.
It was better than the alternative, better than the suspicion that Scott was having these same dreams from his own perspective—drowning in the briny depths over and over again.
Across the locker room, Stiles didn't seem to be faring any better than him. Next to where he sat on the bench, a cold empty space and an unopened locker as obvious as a scar. Liam didn't realize he had wandered over to Stiles until he looked up at him and said his name.
"What's wrong?" Stiles asked, one arm half-looped through his shoulder pads. "Is it Scott?"
"No, I just…" Liam sighed, his stick and helmet hung loosely in his gloved fingers. "Can I sit?"
The worry lines on Stiles' face smoothed, a breath of understanding huffing from his nose as he shifted on the bench. Liam took the spot, leaning back against Scott's sports locker. Stiles squeezed his shoulder through his jersey, his own way of showing solidarity—he didn't need to say anything, didn't need to tell Liam that everything would be okay. It was a thin truth, anyway. He barely noticed when Corey sat down beside him, seeking and providing his own form of solace.
Liam sat in silence between them while they geared up. There was a comfort, if only a small one, in Stiles' presence. Perhaps it was because he and Scott were such a package deal, always had been ever since Liam had squared off against them at tryouts a year ago. They carried pieces of each other, pieces picked up after years of breaking together.
Stiles hadn't bitten him, but he had helped Liam get through the rough aftermath. In a way, Stiles was almost like another alpha… a co-alpha? Vice-alpha?
Whatever.
It wasn't really the same, though—Scott and Stiles were not the same.
All of them stood and hustled with the rest of the team from the locker room and out to the field. The stands full of their peers burst into cheers, signs waving in the air. It was easy to pick out his friends; Malia's and Lydia's nonchalant cheering, Mason's pumping fists, Hayden's bright smile. Holding his gaze, she stood and proudly brandished her maroon shirt, his jersey number drawn largely on the front in silver puff-paint.
God. She was amazing. She was incomparable. She was unconquerable. She was everything.
"Dumbar!"
Coach snapped his fingers in his face. Liam jumped, helmet fumbling in his hands. "Sorry Coach!"
"Get it together, kid. Since McCall's not here, I'm moving you back to midfield. You think you can handle that?" Coach didn't wait for him to respond, jabbing his whistle at Stiles and Corey. "Bryant, I'm moving you up to first line. Stilinski, you're on defense."
"What?" Corey squeaked.
Stiles balked at the same time. "What? Coach, I've never played defense."
"Well maybe you'll get lucky and the offense will actually do their jobs, and all you'll have to do is stand in front of a quiet goal for forty-five minutes." Coach flashed a fake smile, gone in an instant. "Seriously. All our plays are based on McCall, and because he's MIA, I've been forced to improvise. Everybody's getting shuffled around, so you can thank him for the inconvenience."
Any protest they would have raised was lost under the shrill sound of a whistle signaling the start of the game. Coach spun away, shouting passive-aggressive encouragement to the team. As players took to the field, Liam's helmet creaked in his grip. Corrosive anger arching through his fingers, dripping down his teeth—Stiles snatched his helmet away, carefully concealed surprise and the same frustrated ire Liam felt mirrored on the older boy's face.
Scott was not MIA. He was not an inconvenience. He was sick, and they were playing a stupid game rather than helping him. They could just as well walk away, a powerful urge growing stronger by the second. But Stiles shook his head, huffed a sigh through his nose, and offered his helmet back. Liam allowed himself a small, rumbling growl before he took it and crammed it on his head. Shoving on his own helmet, Stiles picked up a long stick and jogged toward the goal.
"Liam." Corey's voice was low and tight. The smallest whiff and Liam smelled musty herbs—surprise, and unease. Thick gloves curled around his arm, holding him fast from the field.
"You'll do fine," Liam said, tucking his crosse under his armpit, tightening his gloves. "Just throw the ball to me."
"No, Liam—look."
He turned to Corey, but the chameleon's eyes were farther in the distance. Liam followed his gaze, past the bleachers and throng of spectators.
Scott jogged along the sideline, his sport's duffel bouncing against his side. In the few short seconds for him to trot to the bench, Liam took in everything; the tread of his gait, the sureness in his shoulders, the undertones of his skin. There was a lightness in his steps, a sway to his path that told of either gaiety or drunkenness. But then Scott spotted Liam, and a smile lit up his face—a smile Liam felt he hadn't seen in a long time.
Scott looked… better, actually.
"Thank god, I made it!" Scott huffed, skidding to a halt before Liam and Corey. Quickly, he dropped his duffel to the ground and unzipped it, pulling out pads and gear. "Did I miss the first period?"
"Scott, what-"
"McCall!"
Corey pulled Liam to the side, out of Coach's charging path straight for the alpha. Scott's head popped out of the neck of his jersey, emerging under the withering glare of Coach's rage.
"What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be sick!" Before Scott could answer, Coach grabbed him by the chest guard of his shoulder pads and pulled him close, his voice low in barely concealed secrecy. "I can't have another kid die on the field, you understand me?"
"I'm fine, Coach," Scott said, gently prying the man's hands from his chest. "I promise."
"That's my boy." Coach beamed, not so gently smacking Scott's cheek. "I knew you would make me proud. Greenberg, get off the field! McCall's here!"
Liam caught his wrist, barring him from his duffel bag. "Scott—what happened?"
"I woke up and I felt good." Scott shrugged, laughing. "I guess the Get Better party worked."
Liam stood dumbfounded, watching Scott slap his gear on in record time. He tried to clear his head, tried to force open that floodgate between them and feel something, anything for his alpha—he couldn't, not with the roaring stands and buzzing floodlights.
"Are you sure you've recovered enough to be here?" Corey said lowly. "You probably need more rest. I mean, you had a fever-"
"And I'm coming down from it, I can tell." Scott snatched his helmet from his bag. "I've been in bed for four days already, I've gotten plenty of rest."
Scott palmed his helmet. Taking a deep breath, he met Liam's uncertain gaze. His eyes were clear, now, clearer than they had been since even before he got sick. Liam wasn't ready when Scott grabbed his shoulder, pulled him close, and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing the breath from his lungs.
Even through the layers of pads and jerseys, he could feel Scott's heartbeat: a sure and steady rhythm ticking against his own. He smelled like motorcycle exhaust and minty toothpaste and the cheap laundry detergent that Melissa used, but beneath that-
Tired relief, overpowering—like seeing the sun rising in the east after fighting through the night, like the quiet hush of a cool breeze on a hot day, like coming home.
"Thank you," Scott mumbled in his ear, words Liam heard in his head and in his core. He let go so quickly, then. Liam tilted after him without meaning to, chasing the soft consolation they didn't have time for. "Now let's go kick some ass."
Liam watched Scott sprint onto the field, his jersey number flashing under the stadium lights. The crowd cheered after him, recognizing their captain, their leader, their star. Turning back to the stands, the eyes of the pack watched him. They weren't cheering. He could only shrug to their uncertain curiosity and unheard questions.
As he and Corey trotted onto the pitch, he saw Scott and Stiles near the goal. They exchanged quick words, Scott slapped Stiles on the shoulder, bumped his gloved fist on his helmet, then turned and jogged away to take the standoff. Stiles stared after him, his mouth agape, an unconscious step wanting to follow—then he threw his hands in the air, a frustrated "what the hell" carrying over the din of the game.
Liam's breath puffed through the cage of his helmet, hot worry in each exhale into the cool, late evening. Scott knelt on the turf, crosse planted firmly on the ground. A hulking brute of a teenager squatted before him, blue and gold and muscles. A sweeping quiet fell over the field, anticipation fragile as fractured glass.
The whistle shrieked.
A single blink, and the teenager was on his back. Scott was already far down the field, rushing the goal. Liam sprang after him, practice and instinct telling him where to go, who to cover, how to anticipate the next play. He didn't listen. Scott shrank down the field, and Liam waited for—he didn't know, really. For Scott to tumble to the ground gasping for breath, for his strength to fade or his vitality to vanish, something that would confirm the nagging worry that this was too good to be true.
But Scott kept going, whirling past opposing players and dodging sticks. Liam saw the knots of his muscles, the air gusting behind his feet and his mind flashed to late nights in the woods, just the two of them running with the wind and stars. Late nights when both of them could let go and give in to the howling call. When they could become shadows in the night, become the claws and fangs of nature's left hand.
When they could hunt.
Scott coiled, power and control flowing from his flanks to his shoulders, a heaving motion flexing through his chest into his arms-
-the ball shot from the catch of his stick-
-the net of the goal folded around the ball, and the whistle shrieked once again.
The stands burst into noise, uproarious cheers breaking into the darkening twilight. Scott whooped his exhilaration to the sky, a sound that was almost a howl, as he was swallowed up by a crowd of rushing team mates. Liam watched them smack his helmet and back, energized confidence and camaraderie. Coach yelled from the sidelines, determined ferocity shaping the words at his lips.
They had no idea that less than twelve hours ago, their captain had been too weak to run, let alone to stand.
Liam looked over his shoulder. Stiles had moved upfield, his stick nervously spinning in his hands. He had been waiting, too.
"Liam!"
Scott jogged to him, skidding to his side where he stood dumbly in leftfield and knocked his stick against Liam's own. "You okay?"
Liam would have laughed if the concern in Scott's voice hadn't been so genuine.
"Yeah," he coughed. "I'm good."
"Great," Scott breathed, a hand pressing against his back, leading him back towards the starting center. "You're taking the standoff, then."
Liam nodded and stumbled away, uncertain what else he should do other than what he was told. As he stood in the center circle, waiting for the ref to collect the ball, a cool, algid wave rose from the space behind his heart.
He closed his eyes, seizing the sensation and letting the energy take him, feeling the eb and flow of a bond he didn't fully understand sweep him away. Ethereal currents settled under his skin, jumped between his fingers and for an instant he could feel-
Racing blood in his veins, harried in his heart and in his stomach. A heightened clarity, like someone had peeled the plastic film off of his brain and now he could think-
Vigor and glee, excitement and bliss. Scott was… happy. He was having fun.
Liam's eyes snapped open. Scott stood crouched outside the starting circle, ready. He nodded once at Liam, his smile flashing within his helmet, and the nagging worry went away.
Another player, another teenager, dropped with Liam in the standoff. This one was different, but just as brutish as the first. Seriously, where did they find these kids?
It didn't matter. Within moments of the whistle's piercing shrill, he was gone, the ball cradled in his crosse. And it felt good, so good to let the power of his body and the trust of his mind carry him under the lights. To know that Scott was there beside him on that field rather than sick in bed, rather than lying cold on a steel slab in the morgue.
Scott was okay.
Weightless, pushing the boundaries between earth and sky, chasing after unhindered freedom, Liam felt like he was on the brink of ascension on that lacrosse field—like maybe, if he could just reach the horizon, he could fall into the stars.
Maybe, if they just ran fast enough, they could even-
Someone, blue and gold, shoulder checked him, knocking his equilibrium out of whack. It was fast enough and hard enough for his feet to leave him, not hard enough for Liam to twist and fling the ball. Scott scooped it from the air just as Liam hit the ground.
Moments later, the stands erupted again. Scott appeared over him, panting and grinning. He reached down to Liam, grasping his hand and hauling him to his feet.
"That was a hell of a pass," Scott said.
"That was a hell of a catch," Liam snarked back, headbutting his alpha. Scott bared his teeth, huffing an amused laugh.
Another teammate slapped Liam's shoulder, barking encouragement as the field was reset once again. Scott turned and spun his stick in dizzying circles—a move he had learned from Kira and her sword.
"Come on," he said, crosse snapping into his fist. "Let's win this thing."
The other team had realized by now that this was not going to be an easy win. Their defense tightened, offense striking quicker. Despite Coach's hopes, Stiles did not stand idly in front of the goal. Liam wasn't worried, not really—but he definitely felt it when he cross-checked another player, flipping them across his back, dropping the poor kid in a crumpled heap on the turf.
Fluid like oil, Stiles scooped the ball and passed it to Corey. He didn't miss the pained grimace that painted Stiles' face when he thought no one was looking, biting his lip and rolling his shoulder, a small croaked "ow".
The small lead they had obtained disappeared and the game took a heart-stopping turn, tension spiking as the teams traded goals back and forth.
And then, it was half-time. The score was up 5-4 for Beacon Hills. Stiles pulled Scott away from the huddle, tugging on his jersey, dragging him down the side-line toward the empty space at the end of the bleachers. Liam followed.
Stile practically threw Scott once they were out of earshot, ripping his own helmet off at the same time.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm pretty sure it's called 'lacrosse'," Scott said, his feet stumbling under him. "Unless I came to the wrong game."
"Eight hours ago, you were practically in a coma," Stiles said, his words fast and cutting. "You honestly expect me to believe that everything is all hunky-dory now?"
Scott huffed a breath, fog curling from his lips. "I don't think anyone has said 'hunky-dory' unironically since 1983."
"Scott!"
"He's fine, Stiles."
Both of them turned to Liam, surprise shaping their faces.
"I felt it," he said, thumping a gloved fist against his chest. "No headache, no nausea—fever's gone. He's okay."
Stiles blinked at Liam. His shoulders rose and fell, deep breaths forced against a racing heart.
"Have you eaten something? Anything?" he muttered, eyes falling to the grass. For a beat, heavy silence curtained the space between them.
Scott took off his helmet. "Stiles-"
Stiles' hand lashed out, catching his friend's shoulder. "Scott, did you eat?"
Beneath the scent of bitter frustration, heady and spiced, a note of subtle sweetness—a smell Liam knew all too well; fragile desperation, careful hope.
"Yes," Scott said softly, his hand over Stiles'. "I had a protein bar before I came. I can dig the wrapper out of the trash if you want."
A stuttered breath burst through Stiles' teeth. He shook his head, sighing through his nose as he threw his arms around Scott. He faltered for only a moment, grunting into Stiles' shoulder.
"Don't you ever do that to me again," Stiles bit, fake annoyance hiding sweet relief. "You understand me? Never again."
"I'll try my best," Scott croaked, patting his back. "You still got me."
Liam had heard those words before—you still got me. Scott and Stiles said those words to each other occasionally, muttered quietly in their own space of sanctuary, in the aftermath of close calls and final battles. Those words carried a weight Liam didn't fully comprehend. He didn't have to, he still appreciated the promise within them.
"Good, 'cause if anything happened to you-" Stiles cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut. Stiles ended the embrace, his thumb rubbing sheepishly at his cheeks. "It's good to have you back."
"It's good to be back. Now come on, we have a game to win." Scott slung his arm around Stiles' shoulder, thumping him on the chest. "Liam, you coming?"
His feet wanted to follow, to run with Scott and Stiles. "Yeah, I'll be right there."
They walked away, passing in front of the stands back toward the team. Liam turned and darted behind the bleachers, sneaking past the wall of sneakers soles and legs.
It didn't make sense.
"Corey!"
The other boy spun in his seat on the bench, eyes darting over the stands until he found Liam leaned out from a metal strut. Corey stood, uncertainty weighing between his brows. Liam stepped back from the bleachers, taking his helmet off and nibbling the tip of his lacrosse glove. Cleats scuffing through gravel scratched closer.
"What's up? Is Scott okay?"
Liam heaved a deep breath, an ineffective attempt to slow his heart. "I don't really know. I think so? But… we need to be ready."
Corey swallowed. "Okay, ready for what?"
Why…
"I don't know, just… be ready. Please?"
After a beat, Corey nodded and trotted back to the bench. Liam closed his eyes, forcing another deep breath of air, expanding in his chest and lungs. It did nothing to loosen the knot of discontent in his gut.
It had happened in the smallest space between words, a gap in his heartbeat when Scott explained the protein bar.
Why did he lie?
The whistle tweeted over the bleachers. Liam opened his eyes. The second half was about to begin.
The score was up 7-7.
Only two minutes left in the game.
Lacrosse was not like football. Coaches couldn't just call timeouts to run out the clock. It was a fast-pace sport that required longevity and stamina, not the explosive bursts of speed and power for a few seconds in a big play for a touchdown. Maintaining energy and strength at high levels for forty-five minutes mandated a strong constitution and an iron-clad will.
Stiles was almost starting to regret not hitting the weight room more often… or, at all, actually. A steady burn had settled in his muscles, a growing ache that promised future soreness. Being in a defensive position was not all it was cracked up to be—he was expected to hit and get hit. Broken bones posed a much greater threat when supernatural healing wasn't a factor.
He didn't care.
Forty-three seconds.
Something weird happens when a game reaches the final moments of a break-neck tie. There's a tightness in the air, high-strung fervor that pushes aside any fatigue and exhaustion and it's like the lacrosse field had become a battle ground, all the players had become soldiers fighting for their very lives to get ahead. To win.
Stiles felt it when he threw himself at the attackman on the other team, driving his hip and shoulder into a blue and gold wall of muscular teenager. It felt like hitting concrete. But he heard the breath whoosh from the other player's lungs and he crumpled under the pressure. The ball was loose. Stiles, ignoring the cramping pain in his ribs, bent low and scooped it from the ground.
There were too many of them, though, too many guys surrounding him, sticks held like spears, crouched and ready to pounce. His teammates were out of reach, either blocked from passing or too far down field.
Thirty-one seconds.
Movement on his left. Stiles spun, holding his long stick close. The smallest tug on his jersey as the player skimmed his back. He could break up the field, try for a goal—if he somehow made it through the gauntlet of the other team first. Not a chance. Stiles spun, circling behind his own goal, trying to buy time for someone to get open for a pass. Pounding cleats chased after him, a small stampede of focused determination.
Liam darted around the kid covering him, who mimicked him like a shadow. Scott was covered by two players, following him like remoras stuck to a shark.
A flash of metal in the corner of his eye. Stiles dug his heels, twisting away from the arching lacrosse stick in time for it to bounce off of his shoulder pad. It still hurt, a burgeoning groan bubbling in his throat. His ankles screeched from the sudden change in direction, his wrists crying from clutching his stick so tight.
Nineteen seconds.
Stiles broke through the line of pursuers, surging past his goal and streaking down the sideline. He didn't make it very far, slashing metal cutting across his path. Stiles slowed, each breath burning down his throat, his heart pounding a painful tattoo against his sternum. He had run out of moves.
"Stiles!"
Scott's roaring voice cracked over the field.
Eleven seconds.
"Hail Mary!"
Liam burst away, shrinking into the distance. His eyes flashed gold from the shadows of his helmet.
Stiles arched his long stick behind his head. His core tightened. A ragged shout tore from his lips.
The ball sailed through the air, over the heads of the players on the field. Liam looked over his shoulder, eyes bright and tracking the ball—he didn't see his shadow hot on his tail, lunging steps inching closer-
Scott appeared out of nowhere, barreling into the kid. They both hit the dirt, tumbling down in a tangle of limbs and dust. Even from down the field, Stiles still heard the harrowing, sickening crack of skulls smashing together.
Liam didn't stop. His crosse snagged the ball from the sky. The stands of spectators were on their feet, cloaking quiet and for a small moment, the world seemed focused on this one play.
Five seconds.
Liam surged. A burst of speed, a back-handed shot—the ref blasted their whistle to end the game moments after the ball blasted into the goal.
A hundred voices cried out at once, a shotgun blast to the heavens. The last of his strength and adrenalin left him and Stiles fell to his knees. Distantly beneath the thumping of his heart in his ears, muffled shouts and pounding footsteps as the spectators rushed the field. Weakly, Stiles shoved his helmet off, carefully drawing in breaths. It felt like there wasn't enough air in the world to fill his lungs.
"Stiles."
Not now. His gloves came off next, tossed aside. Clasping his hands behind his head, Stiles sat back and closed his eyes, expanding his unhindered chest.
"Stiles!"
"I'm okay." He opened his eyes. Liam knelt before him, helmet gone and those ridiculously precious blue eyes brimming with concern as they searched his face. "Nice play, kid. I guess all that fetch really paid off."
"I—thanks, I guess—but no, I—something happened, I don't know—I should have told you before—"
Liam flailed as he spoke, urgency moving through his limbs and Stiles realized the concern he'd seen wasn't for him.
"What happened?" Stiles grabbed the younger boy's shoulders, squaring him on his knees. "What's wrong?"
Liam's breaths puffed fast and shattered under his hands, hyperventilating. When he spoke, his voice was pitched with panic.
"Scott's gone."
The kid Scott tackled was too out of it for the hard interrogation Stiles unleashed on him, hanging limply between his team mates as they dragged him from the field. He did, in the midst of his delirium, raise his hand and point his finger out into the darkness beyond the stadium lights.
They found Scott's crosse on the far sideline, bent and warped. A few yards away, they found one glove, and then the other not far after that. At the edge of school grounds, where the manicured turf morphed into the untamed woods, his helmet laid in the mud like a hermit crab's abandoned shell. The trail of breadcrumbs ended with his cleats, kicked off in whatever mad rush Scott had thrown himself into—but the alpha was nowhere to be found.
They found Corey, though, bent over and leaning against the trunk of a tree, wheezing breaths whistling past his teeth. It had happened so quickly, he said, and he tried, he really tried to keep up with Scott but he was just so goddamn fast-
He didn't think it was possible to run that fast, even for an alpha.
They searched deep into the night, tracking him by scent and footprints and anything else that would lead them to their friend, anything that would let them know he was okay. But his scent was all over the place, his tracks erratic and muddled. Hayden, rosettes painting her skin, took to the treetops hoping to get a bird's-eye view of the woods. Liam howled and howled until his voice left him and his throat was raw.
There was no answering call, no trace or trail or shadow—Scott had simply vanished.
Lydia knew what everyone else knew, but was too scared to say; he wasn't here. If he was still in the preserve, they would have found him by now.
They had to split up. Liam and Hayden went to check the school. Corey and Mason drove to the clinic. Malia, far braver and sturdier than all of them, offered to keep searching the woods just in case. It was her territory after all, she knew the secret places where a coyote would hide, maybe Scott had squeezed himself into one and got stuck. It was shaky reasoning and a brittle hope, but who were they to argue.
And even though her own exhaustion was rising like the sun on the horizon, Lydia crawled into the passenger seat of Stiles' jeep and rode with him to Scott's house.
Tight, uneasy silence rode with them. His fingers twitched against his steering wheel. He'd ripped off his jersey and pads before starting the car, all muddied and stained from the game and a night in the woods. She didn't like it when Stiles was quiet. There was nothing she could say, though, nothing that would help convince him that everything would be okay when it was clear that wasn't true. So she stared out the window into the brightening night, her hands idly tugging on the weathered cuffs of her cardigan.
"I'm almost too afraid to ask," Stiles started, his voice low and raspy, murmuring above the rumbling of the jeep. "But are you… feeling anything?"
Lydia took a deep breath through her nose, shutting her eyes. She had been waiting for him to ask, dreading it. Not for the first time that night, Lydia allowed herself to drift back into the numb darkness outside her mind, back into the whispering echo chamber she'd drowned in time and time again.
Except now… silence.
"No," Lydia said. She could feel his eyes glancing off of her, but she couldn't tell if his shaky breath was from relief or terror.
They arrived at Scott's house moments before dawn. Melissa's car was in the driveway. A new kind of dread, heavy with guilt, dropped in Lydia's stomach. In their frantic search for Scott, no one had thought to tell his mom.
The house was dim and silent. Melissa sat at the small table in the dining room, envelopes and papers scattered across the weathered wood. Her head rested against her clasped hands, an image of a woman deep in prayer. Nascent light leaking through the window glinted sharply in thin trails across her cheeks. She'd been crying.
"Melissa?" Stiles said quietly, pausing at the threshold of her space.
Melissa forced a deep breath, scrubbing her face. Small tears sparkled shyly in her eyes as she looked up at them, something knowing and fearful in the depths of her gaze, in the creases of her frown.
"Something happened, didn't it?" She whispered, tired sobs shaking through her voice. Dark shadows hung beneath her eyes, from the line of her jaw.
"Yeah." Stiles stepped closer, wringing his hands. "Melissa I don't—he was fine, I swear, but then—I'm sorry, I don't know what's happening to him."
Melissa nodded, reaching for a sheet of wrinkled paper, crushed and smoothed back out again. "That's okay. I do."
She held the paper out to him, shaking in her trembling fingers. Lydia stepped to his side as he took it, turning it so the Beacon Hills Laboratories & Testing letterhead was upright.
"The results of his tests came back," Melissa said. Her face tightened, any other words choking in her throat.
The letter was mostly medical jargon. Lydia scanned it quickly, her eyes jumping over technical details straight to the diagnosis-
Shock, hot like a burning coal in her chest, cold like ice in her veins, and Lydia horribly understood why Melissa was so upset.
"Lyssavirus?" Stiles read, confused. "What is that?"
"It's a genus of RNA viruses," Lydia answered. She spoke automatically and even, like she was reading it from a book. She met the dark uncertainty of his gaze. "In the family Rhabdoviridae."
Stiles blinked at her. For all the harrowing trials and shattering heartbreaks Lydia had cut her soul against in her life, she desperately wished she didn't have to be the one to tell him. She couldn't be the catalyst that broke him.
Only now did her own grief fall around her, stinging tears in her eyes and barbed wire tightening around her ribs. His warm hand on her shoulder, alarm bright in his stare.
"Lydia?"
Melissa squeezed her eyes shut, lips pinched tight on her sorrow. Her shoulders trembled with silent misery. It was more cruel, Lydia decided, to make a mother declare the loss of her son.
"Rabies," Lydia said, cutting herself once more on the sharp edge of his pain. "Scott has rabies."
To be continued...