AN: First chapter of season 2. Hope you are enjoying the story! - let me know your thoughts on it so far! x

Jamie McCall sat in the hospital bed, her left leg brought up to her chest, chin rested on her knee. She looked down at the bandage on her right thigh, her fingers running under the edge where it was wrapped tightly, flush against the skin.

What had seemed like a serious wound ended up only needing a few stitches. After a quick trip to the operating room for a washout, and some antibiotics, she was now on the mend. Her wrist was splinted, and would likely need to be for another few weeks. Her ribs were bruised, a few cracked, but they would heal.

The outer wounds were healing, but the turmoil she felt within still raged.

Werewolves were real. And her brother was one of them.

After the showdown outside the Hale house, Jamie had demanded Scott tell her everything once she had regained enough strength to form words. He reluctantly agreed, before finally clueing her in on all that had been occurring in Beacon Hills since he'd been bitten.

She learnt of the Hales, the Argents, and the fire. She learnt of Peter Hale, the alpha werewolf, and the killings he'd been committing to avenge his family.

Her memories of the Hale house from the night were fuzzy, but Scott confirmed that Peter had killed Kate, enacting his final revenge, before Derek had killed him, ending his reign of terror, and becoming at alpha himself.

The knowledge was overwhelming, but at the same time, it felt like things were starting to make sense.

Her biggest problem seemed to have been explaining herself to her mother as to why she'd ended up in the hospital again. With Scott's help to cover, they explained it away with a nasty fall down the stairs at the formal she never made it to.

The lie had fared better than she and Scott expected and was likely due to the fact that all the adults in their life seemed to have bigger problems to deal with.

Problems like Lydia.

Jamie had learned that she was brutally attacked and bitten by Peter at the formal. Now they were just waiting to see what happened, and apparently there were only two possible outcomes when it came to a bite from an alpha werewolf: become a werewolf, or die.

The soft hum of the hospital air conditioner filled the silence as Jamie stared at the muted television mounted on the wall. The bright, overly cheerful talk show host seemed like they belonged to another world—one far removed from the one she now lived in. She sighed and shifted, her bandaged leg aching dully, her splinted wrist resting in her lap.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Before she could answer, the door swung open, and Jackson stepped inside. His expression was unreadable, but his posture was tense, shoulders squared like he was bracing for something.

"Didn't expect to see you here," Jamie said flatly, her voice hoarse from exhaustion.

Jackson shut the door behind him but stayed near it, leaning against the wall. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice cool, "I figured I'd check in."

Jamie raised an eyebrow, sceptical. "How's Lydia doing?" Sensing this was the real reason for his visit to the hospital. He'd been off with her for a while, but even more so after the night of the formal.

He shrugged, his eyes scanning the room before landing on her. "Not much of a change yet." She nodded.

"Are we okay?" Jamie asked. "I feel like I've barely seen you since…"

"Since you were last in the hospital? Jacksom cut her off. She frowned, his words digging deep into her chest. Jackson let out a soft, humourless laugh. "Come on, Jamie. You've got to admit—this is kind of your thing. Getting hurt, dragging people down with you, causing chaos wherever you go."

"Is there a point to this visit?" Jamie asked, sitting up straighter despite the protest from her aching body. "Or are you just here to take shots at me while I'm down?"

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. His expression was calm, but his words were cutting. "I wanted to make it clear that I don't have time for this anymore."

Her jaw tightened, and her hands curled into fists. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, this," he said, motioning between them. "This thing where I waste my time with you, worrying about whether you're going to OD in some alleyway or embarrass yourself again in front of everyone. I've got better things coming my way now."

Jamie felt like the air had been knocked out of her. She tried to muster a response, but all she could do was stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something different about him. His tone, his posture, even the faint gleam in his eyes—it all felt off, like he wasn't entirely himself.

"What the hell, Jackson," she muttered finally, hurt evident in her eyes. A cruel smile tugged at his lips.

"I'm just finally realising I don't need dead weight dragging me down."

"Get out," she finally said, her voice low but trembling with anger, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

Jackson didn't need to be told twice. He left without another word.

Jamie sat motionless for a long moment, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she tried to steady herself. His words echoed in her mind, each one a fresh sting, like salt rubbed into an open wound.

Dead weight.

With a shaky exhale, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her injured leg protested. The steady beep of the monitor beside her felt louder, more grating than ever.

She shuffled to the small hospital bathroom, gripping the sink to steady herself. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glare that made her look paler, her features drawn and tired in the mirror.

Tears she had tried to hold back finally spilled over, streaking silently down her cheeks. She let the water run, splashing her face in a desperate attempt to wash away the heaviness in her chest. But it didn't help. The ache lingered, deep and suffocating.

She gripped the sides of the sink tighter, her knuckles whitening. What the hell was wrong with him? Why did he have to come here just to say those things? She shook her head, her frustration bubbling over.

Suddenly, she heard a faint knock and the door opening again. Her head snapped up, and anger surged through her chest. He came back.

She stormed out of the bathroom, her wet hands trembling at her sides. "Go to hell, Jackson!" she snapped, her voice cracking with both rage and hurt.

But it wasn't Jackson.

Derek Hale stood before her in his usual dark attire, arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable. His intense gaze met hers, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Jamie's breath caught, her anger faltering as her mind scrambled to shift gears. "Sorry," she said finally, her voice softer now, tinged with embarrassment. "I thought…" She trailed off, wiping her damp hands on her hospital gown.

Derek didn't move, his eyes boring into hers with that unsettling intensity he always carried. The air between them felt heavy, charged. Jamie swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.

"I thought you were someone else," she said again, more to fill the silence than anything else. Her words sounded feeble even to her own ears.

His lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk, though his eyes remained dark, calculating. He stepped forward, just enough to close some of the distance between them. Jamie tensed, instinctively taking a step back until her shoulder brushed against the wall.

"You're scared of me," Derek said simply. His voice wasn't accusing; it was a quiet observation, almost clinical.

Jamie's jaw clenched. "I'm not scared of you."

His gaze flickered down to her hand, still trembling at her side, before meeting her eyes again. "You don't need to be."

"Why are you here?" she demanded, her voice sharper now, a forced attempt to reclaim control of the situation.

His expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted, a quiet confidence settling over him. "I wanted to check on you."

"Why?"

"Because I understand," he said cryptically, his tone softer but no less intense.

"Understand what?" Jamie's heart pounded in her chest, her breath catching at the weight in his words.

Derek leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "What it feels like to have people treat you like you don't matter. Like you're a problem to be dealt with."

Jamie flinched as though he'd struck her. She opened her mouth to retort, to deny it, but the words caught in her throat. Derek's expression shifted subtly, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as he saw the impact of his words.

"That's not true," she said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze unwavering. "Isn't it?"

She hated how calm he sounded, like he already knew the answer. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, anger and frustration bubbling up inside her. "What do you want from me?"

Derek straightened slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. "I don't want anything from you," he said evenly. Jamie found that hard to believe. Derek's expression remained unreadable, but there was something almost predatory in his eyes now. She felt his eyes graze over her body, and she suddenly felt very vulnerable in her hospital gown. He glanced at the bandage on her leg, and the splint on her wrist, before his gaze settled on her eyes once again. "You don't like being the victim, do you? You don't like being weak."

"I'm not weak," Jamie shot back, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and uncertainty.

He smirked again, a dark, knowing look in his eyes. "No," he said quietly. "You're not. But people like him… people like Jackson… they want you to believe you are. Makes it easier for them to keep you in your place."

Jamie's breath quickened, her chest tightening as his words dug deep, pulling at wounds she didn't even know were there. "Why are you saying this?"

Derek shrugged. "I just thought you might be tired of feeling powerless," he said simply, stepping back toward the door. He turned the handle but paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Just something to think about."

And with that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Jamie stared after him, her mind spinning. Her hands were still trembling, but this time it wasn't just from fear. It was something else—something darker, more complicated. She hated that he'd gotten under her skin, but she couldn't shake the feeling that, in some twisted way, he wasn't entirely wrong.

Jamie sat on the edge of her hospital bed, tying the laces of her sneakers with one hand while her splinted wrist rested awkwardly in her lap. Her leg still ached, but the stitches were holding, and the doctors said she was well enough to recover at home.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, expecting her mom to walk through the door any minute. Instead, a familiar voice broke the quiet.

"Ready to blow this joint?"

Jamie looked up, startled, to see Stiles Stilinski standing in the doorway. He was leaning casually against the frame, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

"Stiles?" she said, blinking. "What are you doing here?"

He stepped inside, glancing around the sterile hospital room. "Scott texted me to say your mom is stuck here for the rest of the evening." He shrugged. "Asked if I could give you a ride."

Jamie gave a small smile, unsure of what to say. She and Stiles hadn't really spoken much since her overdose, and not really at all since all the chaos with Peter Hale, the Argents, and the revelation of the werewolves. The weight of everything that had happened hung between them, unspoken but heavy.

"Uh, thanks," she said finally.

"Yeah, no problem," he replied quickly, rocking on his heels. He gestured to her half-packed bag on the bed. "Need a hand?"

"I've got it," she said, sliding the strap over her shoulder. She stood, wincing slightly as her leg protested, but managed to stay steady.

Just as she was about to leave, a nurse entered the room carrying a small white paper bag.

"Jamie, these are your discharge meds," the nurse said kindly, handing her the bag. "Your doctor prescribed these for the pain. Be sure to follow the dosage instructions, okay?"

Jamie nodded, taking the bag and peeking inside. A prescription bottle of oxycodone stared back at her. She felt a sudden wave of unease, her fingers tightening around the bag.

"Great, thanks," she murmured.

The nurse smiled and left the room, leaving Jamie and Stiles alone again.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Jamie could feel Stiles' eyes on her, and when she glanced at him, his expression wasn't the usual sarcastic or light-hearted one she'd come to expect. It was serious. Concerned.

"That's…" Stiles started, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "That's a lot of firepower for a sprained wrist."

Jamie stiffened. She could feel her cheeks flush as she clutched the bag closer to her chest. "It's not just my wrist."

"I know," Stiles said quickly. "I just mean…" He trailed off, his gaze flicking from her face to the bag in her hands.

"You don't think I should have them," she said bluntly, her tone defensive.

Stiles raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, Jamie, it's none of my business. I just… I know you've had a rough time lately, and I—."

"Stop," she interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. "I get it. I made a mistake, but I'm not—" She stopped herself, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach.

"I didn't say you were," Stiles said gently, his tone softer now. "I'm just saying, if you ever need someone to talk to or… I don't know, to hide those pills in the woods so you're not tempted, I'm here."

Jamie stared at him, unsure whether to be annoyed or touched. She hated feeling scrutinized, but there was something disarming about Stiles' earnestness.

"I'll be fine," she said finally, her voice quieter.

Stiles nodded, though the crease in his brow didn't fade. "Okay. Let's get out of here."

She followed him out of the room, the bag of medication still clutched tightly in her hand. As they walked down the hospital corridor, and despite her frustration, she considered if Stiles' concern wasn't entirely misplaced.

The car ride was suffocating in its quiet. Jamie stared out the passenger window, watching the rain streak against the glass as the world blurred by. Stiles drove with both hands on the wheel, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead.

The tension hung between them like a third passenger. Stiles wasn't one for silence—it was unnatural for him. But here they were, driving in complete awkwardness, the only sounds coming from the rain and the soft hum of the car's engine.

Jamie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His grip on the wheel looked a little too tight, his knuckles pale. She didn't want to make this harder than it already was, but the quiet was starting to claw at her nerves.

Finally, she broke it. "So… werewolves," she said, her voice casual but tinged with forced levity.

Stiles blinked, startled by her words. He glanced at her, his mouth twitching in what might've been a nervous grin. "Yeah," he said after a beat. "Werewolves."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "That's it? You've got nothing else to add?" she said. "Come on Stiles, I'm new to this. Give me something."

Stiles exhaled a laugh, the tension in his posture easing slightly. "What do you want me to say? 'Welcome to the supernatural side of Beacon Hills, where nothing makes sense, and everything wants to kill you'?"

Jamie smirked despite herself. "A little dramatic, don't you think?"

"Not really," Stiles shot back, his tone dry but carrying a hint of warmth. "You've seen how bad it can get."

Her smirk faded as she thought about it. The chaos at the Hale house, Kate torturing Derek, Peter's snarling face, the blood. The reality of it all still felt surreal. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I've seen it."

Stiles glanced at her again, his expression softening. "It's a lot to deal with. Trust me, I get it."

Jamie shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. Scott being a werewolf is one thing, but everything else? The hunters, Peter, Derek—it's like some kind of horror movie."

"Pretty much," Stiles said, a wry edge to his voice. "Except it's our lives, and there's no end credits."

Jamie looked at him, studying his face. "How do you deal with it?"

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. "Honestly? I don't know. I guess I just… keep going. Scott needs me, and I can't exactly sit this stuff out." He paused, glancing at her. "It's not like we have much of a choice, you know?"

Jamie nodded, her gaze dropping to her lap. "Yeah," she murmured. "No choice."

The silence returned, but this time it didn't feel quite as heavy. Jamie found herself relaxing a little, her body sinking into the seat as the rain continued its steady rhythm against the car.

Stiles cleared his throat, breaking the quiet again. "For what it's worth," he said, his voice softer now, "You handled all of this pretty well. Most people would've freaked out and run for the hills."

Jamie snorted. "Who says I didn't freak out?"

He grinned at her, a real, genuine grin this time. "Fair point. But you didn't run. That's gotta count for something."

Jamie couldn't help but smile back, a faint but genuine curve of her lips. "Thanks for driving me home, Stiles."

He nodded, turning his attention back to the road. "Anytime."

For the first time that day, Jamie felt a little lighter, like maybe things didn't have to be so complicated all the time. The quiet in the car wasn't gone completely, but it wasn't suffocating anymore. It was somewhat manageable.

The parking lot of Beacon Hills High School buzzed with the usual morning chaos—students gathering in groups, chatting, and laughing. It was so normal, so routine, that it felt almost surreal. But things weren't normal. Werewolves were real, and now Lydia was missing from the hospital. Scott and Stiles had been trying their best to track her down, but so far they'd had no luck.

She adjusted the strap of her backpack, her splinted wrist awkwardly pinned against her side. Her leg still twinged with every step, but she kept her stride steady, refusing to let it show.

As she walked toward the front doors, her gaze darted around the crowd, scanning faces. It wasn't intentional, not exactly, but her thoughts from the night at the Hale House lingered, and now every shadowed corner, every too-quiet whisper, set her on edge.

Who else here isn't what they seem?

The thought made her stomach twist. It wasn't just Scott or Derek or Peter anymore—it was the possibility of anyone. The world had cracked open, revealing monsters lurking just beneath the surface. And now, every glance that lingered on her felt loaded, every laugh like it was hiding something darker.

She pushed through the double doors and into the bustling hallway, the noise hitting her like a wave. Lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked on tile, voices overlapped in a chaotic symphony. Jamie ducked her head and kept moving, her eyes focused on the floor as she made her way to her locker.

As she reached it, she heard a snatch of conversation nearby.

"I heard she was in the hospital again."

Jamie froze, her hand hovering over her locker's combination dial.

"Yeah," another voice said, quieter but no less cutting. "Probably another attempt to kill herself?"

"Shh!"

The sudden hush was almost worse than the words themselves. Jamie clenched her jaw, forcing herself to twist the dial on her locker as if she hadn't heard anything. The metallic click of the lock opening felt deafening in her ears.

She grabbed her books with trembling hands, her heart pounding in her chest. Her breathing felt tight, the walls of the hallway closing in around her.

Don't react. Don't let them see it bothers you.

But it did bother her.

Jamie closed her locker with more force than necessary, the sound echoing down the hallway. The murmurs behind her faded into silence as she walked away, her shoulders tense, her pulse racing.

By the time she reached her first class, she felt like she was going to crawl out of her own skin. She slid into her seat near the back, keeping her head down as other students filed in around her.

When the teacher began lecturing, Jamie tried to focus, tried to let the droning voice drown out her own thoughts. But it didn't work. Her mind kept spinning, replaying the whispers, the sideways glances she was sure she'd seen.

She scribbled in the margins of her notebook, drawing meaningless lines and shapes, anything to keep her hands busy.

"Jamie."

Her head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. Mr Harris was staring at her, waiting.

"Uh, sorry," she stammered. "What was the question?"

He sighed but repeated it, and Jamie managed to mumble a half-decent answer. When the attention shifted away from her, she exhaled slowly, her cheeks burning.

The rest of the class passed in a blur. By the time the bell rang, Jamie was out of her seat and halfway to the door before anyone else had even packed up.

She stepped into the hallway, the noise washing over her again. She kept moving, her thoughts a swirling mess. She wasn't sure if it was the whispers, the werewolves, or her own doubts that felt heavier, but the weight felt suffocating.

Her stomach churned as she turned a corner, nearly colliding with someone.

"Jamie, hey!"

She looked up, startled, to see Scott standing there, his usual easy smile faltering as he noticed the look on her face. "You okay?"

Jamie forced a nod. "Yeah. Just… first day back. You know how it is."

Scott's eyes narrowed slightly, his werewolf senses no doubt picking up on her anxiety. "If something's wrong, you can tell me."

"I'm fine," she said quickly, her voice sharper than she intended. She softened her tone, trying to smile. "Really, Scott. I'm okay."

He didn't look convinced, but he nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks," Jamie murmured, brushing past him. She stopped, suddenly turning back around to face her brother. He was still there, watching her nervously. "Hey, do you think I could come with you after school?" Scott raised a brow. "To find Lydia."

He blinked, taken aback by her offer. "I don't know, Jamie," he started. "It could be dangerous if she's turning."

"I want to help," she replied, not wanting to back down. Scott sensed her anxiety. It was clear she just wanted to feel like she was part of the group now that she knew the big secret. He was only just beginning to realise how lonely she must've felt being kept in the dark.

"Okay," Scott said finally. "Meet us after class."

The forest was darker than Jamie expected, even with the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees. She pulled her father's denim jacket tighter around her shoulders. The fabric was worn, softened from years of use, and it hung a little loose on her, but she didn't mind. The cool air carried a faint dampness, and every snap of a twig underfoot made her heart jump. She trudged alongside Stiles and Scott, trying to ignore the persistent ache in her leg.

Scott was a few paces ahead, his head tilted slightly as he sniffed the air, his body tense like he was ready to pounce at any moment.

"Anything?" Stiles asked softly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Scott shook his head, his expression tight. "She's been here, but the scent's old. Maybe a couple of hours."

Jamie felt her stomach twist. Lydia had been missing for almost 48 hours now, and the thought of what might have happened to her gnawed at Jamie's nerves.

"We'll find her," Stiles said, trying to sound reassuring. "She's probably just—"

He was cut off by a flashlight beam hitting them squarely in the faces.

"Stiles!"

Jamie winced at the sound of Sheriff Stilinski's sharp voice. He appeared from behind a cluster of trees, his expression a mix of anger and exasperation. Scott, up ahead, ducked behind a tree, out of sight of the Sheriff.

"Dad!" Stiles groaned, throwing his hands up. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" the Sheriff shot back, his eyes darting between Stiles and Jamie. "And you dragged Jamie into this too? What were you thinking?"

Jamie flushed, feeling like she was shrinking under his glare.

"We're trying to help," Stiles said quickly, stepping in front of Jamie slightly. "Lydia's missing, and we—"

"I know Lydia's missing," the Sheriff interrupted, his tone sharp. "And you two wandering around in the woods at night isn't helping anyone. Get in the car. Now."

Stiles muttered something under his breath but obeyed, trudging toward the car. Jamie followed, the ache in her leg now a sharp, stabbing pain with every step. She was grateful to slide into the back seat, even if it was under less-than-ideal circumstances.

The space inside the cruiser felt stifling, the air thick and heavy. Jamie shifted uncomfortably, her splinted wrist resting awkwardly in her lap. Her fingers brushed against the small pill bottle in her pocket, and she hesitated. The pain in her leg was almost unbearable, but the thought of taking a pill in front of Stiles, of him watching her, made her chest tighten.

"You okay?" Stiles asked, noticing her fidgeting.

"Fine," Jamie mumbled, shoving the bottle back into her pocket. The confined space of the car felt stifling, the air thick and heavy. She shifted uncomfortably, her splinted wrist brushing against the door.

After what felt like hours sitting there, she couldn't take it anymore. "I need some air," she said abruptly, pushing the door open and stepping out.

"Jamie, wait!" Stiles followed her, catching up as she leaned against the hood of the car, breathing deeply. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, though her voice wavered. The truth was, her leg was killing her, her wrist ached, and the weight of everything—the whispers at school, Lydia's disappearance, the werewolves—was pressing down on her.

Before Stiles could respond, the Sheriff's voice rang out behind them. "What are you two doing? Get back in the car!"

Stiles turned to protest, but his words died in his throat as he caught sight of something moving in the trees.

"Wait," he said, his eyes narrowing.

Jamie followed his gaze, her breath catching as a figure emerged from the woods.

It was Lydia, her pale skin illuminated by the faint glow of the moon. She was completely naked, her hair matted, her expression blank and distant as she shivered in the cold.

"Oh my God," Jamie whispered.

The Sheriff hurried forward, quickly shrugging off his coat and draping it over Lydia's shoulders. "Lydia, are you okay? Where have you been?"

Lydia didn't respond, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She swayed slightly, and Jamie rushed to her side, steadying her with gentle hands.

"Hey, it's okay," Jamie said softly, her voice soothing. "We've got you."

Lydia blinked slowly, as if she were coming out of a trance, and for a moment her gaze locked with Jamie's. There was something in her eyes—fear, confusion, and something darker that Jamie couldn't quite place.

The Sheriff guided Lydia toward the car, his movements careful and protective. "Let's get her in the car to warm up."

Jamie stayed close to Lydia, murmuring reassurances even as her own thoughts raced. Whatever Lydia had been through, it wasn't over yet. Jamie could feel it in the pit of her stomach.

As they climbed back into the car, Lydia wrapped in the Sheriff's coat, Jamie exchanged a glance with Stiles. His expression was grim, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found.

Whatever was happening in Beacon Hills, it was far from over.