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It's an accident. He shouldn't even have been there.
***
When Isaac finds Stiles, he's barely breathing. There's blood all over his upper body, his face, even his hair is gleaming with red. He managed to kill the wolf in the brawl; it lays limp next to him with the knife still sticking out of its body.
Scott can't decide what's worse: the state Stiles is in, or the fact that he's had to kill someone. Something. A living creature, at any rate.
***
They showed up two months ago, in tow of the Alpha pack. They're like the flipside of a regular werewolf; the wolf form is their default, and they only change to a human shape if it serves a purpose, if they want something that can't be achieved on all fours. Scott can't imagine that at all – to live in the woods, hunt down dear, eat raw meat, and do all that well aware of what it feels like to be human and have a different kind of life. And while the Alpha pack came and went, this pack stayed.
The pack member Stiles killed tonight had been a classmate of theirs in elementary school. Her parents got divorced two years ago, and she has a little brother, four years old, probably their last-ditch attempt at fixing a broken marriage. And... He has no idea why he's thinking about that right now. He should focus on Stiles, but it hurts so much to look at him.
In the hour since Scott bundled him up and put him in the back seat of Derek's car, he hasn't said a word. He didn't even make a sound. Now they're at Scott's place and he's called his mom and sent everyone else away. Right now, he's picking at Stiles's torn, bloody clothes halfheartedly, unable to wrap his head around why Stiles isn't doing anything about that himself. The way he sits there, does nothing but staring up at Scott like he's holding all the answers, is so wrong.
Scott doesn't know how long they sit there until he manages to talk himself into taking off Stiles's jacket at least. He knows he's got to do something, considers a shower to get rid of the blood.
All that blood.
***
Stiles follows willingly when Scott ushers him into the bathroom; no protest, but no initiative either. It's Scott's hope that Stiles will at least react to being stripped, but he mutely endures that too. He raises his arms when Scott tries to pull the shirt over his head, steps out of the puddle of his jeans and underwear when Scott taps at his ankle, braces himself on Scott's shoulder when Scott removes his shoes and socks.
While Scott kicks the ruined clothes into a corner of the bathroom and fishes for towels, Stiles stands in the middle of the room, shivering so hard his teeth clatter. Whether it's from cold or shock, Scott has no clue, but he cranks up the heating anyway before he pushes Stiles into the shower.
He also switches on the little bathroom radio in the shape of a duck that his mom used to play music with when Scott didn't want to stay in the bathtub as a kid. Might help, right?
When Scott turns on the spray, Stiles flinches at the water that starts pouring down on him, but he doesn't seem to know what he's supposed to do in there. A few moments pass with both of them staring at each other before Scott, at last, sheds shoes, socks, jeans and shirt himself and steps into the shower with Stiles. He makes quick work of washing him, gives his private parts a wide berth, and has him out of the shower within five minutes.
Scott sees the bite while he towels Stiles down. It's on his flank, in the perfect shape of a snout, clear teeth marks, deep red and swollen, the only wound that's still bleeding. And it won't stop.
***
His mom gets home half an hour later. Scott is halfway out of his mind with worry and fear and guilt by that time, and the thought of letting Stiles be taken from him, just to the other room, revolts him. He still hasn't said a word, doesn't react to any stimuli, and is disturbingly pliant. Currently, he's sitting by Scott's side, so close their knees touch, eyes flicking back and forth between her, Scott, and the window.
She cocks her head to the side just a little, smiles encouragingly, as if Scott is the one in need of comfort here. “Honey, I'm just going to check him over. I'll take him to the bathroom, there's better light and it'll give him some privacy. Won't be long.”
Scott nods, and she takes Stiles's hand and gently pulls him to a stand. It stings a little when he follows her as readily as he did Scott.
While they're in the bathroom, she leaves the door ajar enough that Scott can see a small sliver of their backs. It reminds him of a time when they were little and she'd take either of them in there to take care of a grazed knee or a bug bite. Even back then, she'd make sure they wouldn't completely lose sight of each other.
Of course Stiles would follow her. Scott closes his eyes, breathes in, doesn't open them again until he hears the bathroom door creak.
“Shock, maybe,” she says after she's done checking Stiles over, walks back into the room with Stiles trailing after her like a duckling would follow its mother.
But she doesn't look like she buys that herself, forehead creased with worry and unable to hold Scott's gaze.
He's been bitten. By one of those wolves. Scott realizes he has no idea what's supposed to happen next, if Stiles will turn right away, how much time they have. He knows nothing.
His first call goes to Deacon, his second to Derek, and third to Allison. The order would have been different a few months ago, but well, things have changed. Still, he wants her here. Needs her to be. On the phone, he babbles at her about her family and hunter's knowledge and maybe she can figure out a way to help Stiles using those resources, but they both know it's just an excuse. She agrees to come over anyway.
***
The first thing Allison does when she arrives is pull Scott into a tight, wonderful, bittersweet hug. Deacon squeezes Scott's shoulder before he goes to seek out Scott's mom – they bonded quite a bit these past weeks, after Scott told him that she knows – and Derek, who arrives with all three of his betas in tow, mainly avoids looking at anyone or anything.
Scott knows what it means that they came at all, and he's grateful, even though Derek'd bite his head off if he said that out loud. They still haven't found their footing, but neither of them says no anymore when the other one calls for help.
After a night spent researching and arguing and comparing notes, they know this: those wolves are older than the kind they're used to. It's their root, the oldest form. The creatures that already put the fear of God into people centuries ago, inspired legends and fairytales. Purebloods, it says somewhere, like the difference between an actual wolf and a lap dog.
Derek huffs a little at that quote. Any other time, Scott'd have a ball with that, but not now. Not with Stiles on the line.
But apart from origin stories and tales, they find out very little. Nothing that helps them in this situation, tells them what to prepare for or expect. And all the while, Stiles sleeps, wrapped in a blanket on Scott's bed, looking to all the world like the innocent kid he’d been a few hours ago.
***
He sleeps for a full day. From sunrise to sundown, nothing can wake him. Scott shakes him, yells, douses him with cold water, but to no avail.
Halfway through, around midday, his mom insists that they call the sheriff. “Stiles is his kid,” she says, eyes watering and with a steady gaze on Scott, who has to swallow hard. “He'll want to know. He deserves to.”
That's an ongoing discussion they've been having – she can't stand the fact that she's lying to the sheriff about what the two of them are up to, but Stiles made Scott promise not to tell his dad, ever – and she barely waits for Scott's tentative nod before she picks up the phone.
***
The sheriff doesn't talk to any of them. He listens, doesn't demand proof, doesn't deny what they tell him. All he does is nod, and then he walks over to the bed, picks Stiles up into his lap and starts stroking his son's hair in silence.
And that silence is contiguous. The others either leave the room, and fast, or fall silent as well. If anyone's talking near Stiles and his father, it's hushed and under their breaths. Scott's mom brings in a cup of coffee that the sheriff doesn't touch, and when she takes it away an hour later she hovers for a moment, begins to lift her hand as if to touch his back, but lets it fall down again just moments later.
Scott wants to scream.
***
Three years ago, shortly after his mother died, Stiles stayed with the McCall's for a week. His dad had to take care of some things, and needed space to do so, they’d been told. It wasn't like any of the sleepovers they’d had before; everything was strange, muted.
This feels similar.
Stiles was so silent, at that time, before he decided that he'd make up for the loss of his mother by being even louder, funnier, and more obnoxious than before. His chatter became the background noise to Scott's life back then, and he never expected the silence without it to be so suffocating.
***
Neither of them leave. The whole house is full with people, running about with books in their hand, sleeping on couches or having hushed conversations. No one pulls a joke, no one dares to bring up what-ifs – at least not in Scott's presence.
Alison catches Scott in the kitchen around noon, sits down beside him and takes his hand. She whispers his name in protest when he pulls her closer, but doesn't resist.
***
On the evening of the second day, Stiles wakes. His head is still pillowed on his sleeping father's thigh. He stirs, only slightly, blinks and rubs the back of a hand across his eyes. When he tries to speak, what comes out at first is hardly anything more than a croak.
Scott's heart misses a beat.
Stiles looks around, seems to realize that he's curled up in his father's lap like a small child, sits up with a frown. He clears his throat, and this time his voice comes out hoarse but clear. “What happened?”
There are other people in the room, Allison and Isaac and Derek, but all eyes fall to Scott. His best friend, his job to break the news. “You got bitten. Two days ago, by one of those other wolves.”
“Those scary things?” Stiles eyes widen. “I don't feel different.”
“Yet,” says Derek.
Stiles's head whips around, his eyes narrowing. “I feel fine. No sudden urge to run off, eat raw Bambi and howl at the moon, nothing.”
All Derek does at that is shrug, and Stiles turns his attention back to Scott. He looks confused, small, and unbearably young, not at all like they're the same age and spent the last year holding their own against werewolves, lizard monsters and crazy hunters.
Scott wants to say something to comfort him, calm him down, take away the fear. But he can't lie to Stiles, not now, not even for his own sake. “I saw the bite. Up close. There's no way you haven't been turned.”
“Lydia wasn't,” Stiles argues, face now settling into a stubborn, downright petulant expression. “She's immune.”
“Yeah, and I can't even tell you how rare that is.” Derek again, and Scott only just manages to restrain himself and not slap him upside the head.
Stiles doesn't deign him a glance. “Where is it? The bite. I wanna see it.”
“Left side, below your ribcage.”
Standing up in front of the bed, Stiles rolls up his shirt, pats himself down, bends this way and that so he can have a look.
But the bite is gone. Healed. All that's left in its place are two thin lines of faded, barely visible teeth marks.
***
Stiles got bitten on a Friday night. The sheriff takes him home on Sunday despite Scott's veto, and on Monday morning, they both show up at Scott's place.
While Stiles insists on going to school as if nothing’s happened, the sheriff eyes Scott warily. He doesn't say much by way of approval or disagreement, and shrugs his shoulders when Scott looks his way for assistance.
“I'm fine. All systems normal. Maybe the thing that bit me was shooting blanks,” says Stiles, grinning at his own joke and patting his chest. “Nothing wolf-y going on in here. All me. I swear.”
There's nothing Scott can really say to that, and anyway, he feels uncomfortable making decisions over Stiles when his father, the one who's first and foremost supposed to do that, is right here in the room and saying nothing. “Whatever you say, man. Just, stay close, okay? So I can help if anything happens.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Sure thing.” He shoulders his backpack and walks out the door.
When Scott sets out to follow him, the sheriff holds him back by his arm. His eyes glint with hostility when he says, “You better keep an eye on him.”
Scott swallows hard. “That's what I was planning to do.”
***
By midday Scott's ready to shoot reason to the wind and believe Stiles. Everything's normal. Stiles behaves like, well... like Stiles. If he experiences anything like heightened senses or wolf-induced anger issues, he hides it very well. Better than Scott thinks he'd be able to, actually.
Maybe he really is immune. Maybe it's got something to do with this town, maybe they're secretly related, through some long-forgotten shared relative from way back when. Small towns, right? Totally possible.
***
On their way home, they're watched. Scott smells the other pack, the wild one, more than he sees them.
He doesn't mention it to Stiles.
***
Stiles's demeanor starts to crack later that day. They're doing homework together up in his room when he stops, puts his pen down, and cocks his head at Scott. “We should look into the others. How it happened with them. I think Katie – “ he pauses, swallows; she's the one who bit him, the one he killed “ – just took off one night and hasn't been seen since, but I have no idea how long before that she got bitten. Couldn't be long, forty-eight hours or so?”
There's fear in his voice, uncertainty, and Scott rakes his brain for something to say that's going to make it disappear. “The effects of, uh, our bites are pretty immediate.”
“Yeah, and why'd it take much longer for them? I mean, sure, they transform fully, but they're also more dependent on their pack. There wouldn't always be time to wait around for ages to collect your latest pack member, right?”
Scott nods his agreement. “Makes no sense.”
“That's what I'm thinking,” says Stiles. He throws a quick glance out of the window, and then resumes the scribblings in his algebra textbook.
***
Wednesday morning answers the question of whether or not the bite took. There's a brawl in the schoolyard during the first break, caused by a couple of bullies who seem to have decided to pass the time by cornering a geeky seventh-grader and making his day hell. The kid isn't having it, though, shoves back, escalating things, and in the end the teachers have to separate them. He pays for his bravery with a black eye and a split lip, and god knows whatever else that can't be seen through his clothes.
Scott is too taken with the ruckus the fight caused, only realizes Stiles has left his side when he sees him help the kid up. And that's not all he does; the flicker of power in the darkened blood vessels of Stiles's right arm, the one he touches the seventh-grader with, is unmistakable, and the boy's startled expression only confirms it. He rubs at his side, where Stiles touched him, blinks, and leans further into the touch until the school nurse arrives to herd him inside.
Stiles remains where he is, staring after them, for another minute before he shakes his head and joins Scott again as if nothing happened.
***
After the next period, Scott runs into Isaac. He's already on the way to their math classroom while Stiles hangs back, captivated by the sight of Lydia and Jackson at the other end of the hallway.
“How is he?” Isaac nods towards Stiles. “I heard about what happened during the break.”
Scott's first instinct is to lie, and maybe he'd do exactly that if Derek, Boyd or Erica had asked, but it's not the same with Isaac. He's more unaligned and drifting than really under Derek's thumb now, and Scott can relate. “Not sure he even remembers he did it, but yep. We have a wolf on our hands.”
Isaac's brows furrow, and he looks away. “Sorry man. Let me know if I can help, hey?”
That's when Stiles appears to be done torturing himself and walks over, eying them both suspiciously. “You weren't talking about me, were you?”
“As if we don't have topics other than your sorry ass,” Scott says and herds him towards calculus.
***
The rest of the week goes by without any incidents. Scott notices the old-school pack's presence sometimes, but they don't do anything other than watch.
Saturday evening, Stiles is gone.
***
The sheriff calls Scott a little past 11 PM. Scott and Stiles spent most of the day together, a lacrosse practice first and then a school project, but around eight, Stiles had proclaimed he wasn't feeling that well, a little dizzy and nauseous, and wanted to go home and sleep it off.
“Okay,” Scott had said. “Do you want me to go with you? Just, you know. To be sure.”
And Stiles had become indignant, defensive. He'd scowled, cocked his head to the side in disbelief. “Oh, I'm still able to walk back home on my own. In case it escaped you, I'm a big boy and I've been doing that for years. Thanks, Scott, but no thanks.”
And Scott let him go. He'd nodded and lingered at the door until after Stiles had been out of sight.
Stiles never arrived at home.
Scott knows Stiles isn't technically his responsibility, that he's right and that he can look after himself, but it feels like Scott failed him. There's the old-school pack and the bite and about a hundred other things that could've happened to him in this godforsaken town; Beacon Hill, also known as Critter Central. Scott grimaces, tries to stomp down on the panic that started rising in him with the words Is he still with you? He's not home yet and keeps surging higher.
“You find him,” the sheriff's growl comes through the line now. “He's my son and this is all your fault. You dragged him into this, and werewolf or not, if you don't find him and bring him back to me in one piece I'm going kick your ass so far into next year you won't know which way's up anymore, do you understand me?”
So much for what the sheriff thinks about the whole werewolf business. But it's striking a chord within Scott, gives voice to allegations he has made against himself all week. It is his fault. He was selfish, dragged Stiles into this mess and relied on him, and now... Sheriff Stilinski being so cold and angry with him makes it so much worse, because over time they all adopted each other, the Stilinskis and the McCalls, and he's the closest thing Scott has had to a dad since his real father left. Scott's never been on the receiving end of his anger, not like this, as if he's an outsider threatening the sheriff's family. He used to be a part of that family, for Christ’s sake.
Scott has to clear his throat before he can answer, swallow that train of thought down because this isn't the time for him to wallow in self pity. “Yes, I will. I swear, I'll find him.”
He says the last few words of that to the static of a dead line.
***
Scott goes to look for him on his own. If Stiles did follow some creepy siren call of his new pack, that's probably a very bad idea, but he doesn't want anyone else around. He can't control them. There's no telling what they might do.
It doesn't take too long. He picks the scent up in front of his house, follows the fresh trail into the woods, and finds him in a clearing half a mile west of the Hale property.
Stiles has found the other pack. But it wasn't to join them. Three dead wolves lie scattered around him, and he's clutching a fourth one to his naked, bloodied chest. His mouth is bloody too, trails of it still dripping down into the messy, dark fur of the dead creature.
Scott's no genius, but even he can do the math on what happened here. What he doesn't get is why. Did they attack him? Did Stiles seek them out himself? What led him here?
But answers will have to wait. Scott slowly reaches a hand out, and Stiles looks at it, then at him, confused and wary. “Scott?”
“Yeah. It's okay. I'm here to get you home.”
Stiles blinks at him a few more times before he releases the corpse. It glides out of his grasp slowly, its neck leaving another, fresh trail of blood on Stiles body, and he steps over it once it's fallen to the ground, looking back at it like he has no idea how it got into his hands in the first place.
***
During the walk home, Stiles doesn't say a single word. He shivers, wearing nothing but his bloody, wet jeans in the chilly night air, but doesn't react when Scott offers him his jacket. Scott takes him home with him, doesn't want to unleash the sheriff's guaranteed freak out on Stiles while he's still in shock.
He'll call him later. Derek and the rest of the gang, too, because one thing is clear by now; he can't take care of this alone. He needs help. Stiles does.
Once they're in Scott's room, Stiles seems to come back to himself. He goes into the bathroom of his own volition, to wash off the blood, and asks Scott for fresh clothes when he's done. Scott hands him track pants and a t-shirt. Stiles eyes them skeptically, but doesn't refuse, listens in silence while Scott calls his father and – after getting yelled at good and proper – convinces him to let Stiles stay with him for the night. Scott doesn't mention the killings, but he does tell him Stiles had turned out there. That's when the sheriff goes silent and gives in.
Stiles listens to the conversation without a word or much of a reaction. The yelling is loud enough that he must've caught some of it and normally Stiles can't stand it when his dad gets loud, but now he just plays with the hem of his t-shirt, rolls it around his finger and back down, nods absently when Scott tells him he's not going home tonight.
He's in shock, Scott tells himself. It'll pass.
After that, Scott considers calling Derek, but he decides the others can wait. In the morning, he'll call them, get them all here, and then they'll get to the bottom of this. But not tonight.
He stays awake while Stiles falls asleep on his bed, watches his every move like a hawk, double checks that the window's closed and locked when he goes to take a leak or downstairs for a glass of water.
***
Sometime around sunup Scott does drift off, sitting up straight in front of his desk. When he wakes to a bright, sunny morning a few hours later Stiles is standing by the window, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't react until Scott clears his throat.
“Huh?” He turns around, uncrosses his arms and balls his fists once.
Scott stretches on the desk chair, yawns. “What are you seeing out there?”
“Nothing,” Stiles says. The beginning of a smirk appears on his face and Scott expects a bad joke, but Stiles sobers up momentarily. Like it's too much effort to keep up the facade. “I don't know.”
“Do you remember last night?”
“I... I'm not sure. There's something, but it's like a weird dream.” He returns to the window, stares out into the vague direction of the woods. “What did I do? I know I did something.”
The idea of downplaying it, of lying, occurs to Scott, but Stiles would be all over his case if he found out. And, let's face it. It's Stiles. He would find out, one way or another. “The old-school pack. You killed them. Well, some of them, anyway. I have no idea how many there were.”
Stiles swallows hard, the movement of his Adam’s apple clearly visible. “How many did I... How many are dead?”
“Four.”
“Oh god.” He lifts his hands up, stares at them and turns them upside down as if he expects to still see the blood of the other wolves staining his skin.
Scott knows he's supposed to reply with something uplifting, make things better somehow, like Stiles did for him so often since he got bitten.
But he doesn't know what to say.
***
The sheriff and Scott's mom have a long phone call that afternoon. She shoos them out of the house before she picks up the phone so they can't listen in much, but the few snippets of the conversation Scott can hear when she raises her voice are about werewolves and how the best person to protect a wolf is another one. Even though it hurts in a weird way to have her talk about that, it serves its purpose: at the end of it she sets up a camp bed in Scott's room and the three of them drive over to his house so Stiles can pack a bag.
While they're there, the sheriff looks around with a grave expression that screams of how much he'd like to bite someone's head off.
Scott is pretty sure his would be high on the list.
***
Having Stiles there feels all wrong. It's not fun, they don't laugh, don't stay up way past their ordered bedtime, don't eat chips on the bed.
Stiles does make some valid efforts at joking around, like normal, but the way he trails off and keeps staring out of that damn window renders them moot. More than once, Scott asks what he's thinking about, but he refuses to talk about it. Not like Scott expected him to; they barely ever talked about his mom, either.
***
On Tuesday, during the lunch break at school, the kid that got beaten up the week before walks up to the table where his bullies sit. Scott isn't around – he and Stiles had to clean up one of the classrooms for Stiles getting quippy with teacher, and Scott could've screamed with relief when he did. They're late for lunch, but Isaac tells them what happened while the teachers drag the kid away and one of the others is led away to the nurse's office with a bloody nose and a broken jaw.
“He just marched up there. Picked one of them and pulled them out of his seat by the collar of his jacket, backed him up against the wall and started raining punches on him. He's a few years younger and half a head shorter. He's asthmatic.” Isaac shakes his head, stares after the kid, who is still screaming and kicking and trying to shake off the teacher who’s pushing him in the direction of the principal's office.
“Good on him. When they used him as a punching bag last week I thought it's about time he'd fight back,” Stiles says. He's looking in the same direction, similarly baffled, and Scott is glad that means he can't see the way Isaac sucks in a breath, glances from him to the kid and then meets Scott's eyes.
It could be a coincidence. It must be a coincidence.
***
The first full moon after Stiles's bite comes way too soon. They still have no clue what happened to him, and how he's going to react to the influence of the moon when it rolls around. Stiles himself is terrified; he goes almost completely mute the days leading up to it, and he tries to make Scott promise to stop him in any possible way before he lets him hurt anyone else.
Ever since he was a new wolf himself, Scott hasn't dreaded a full moon that much.
It's a Thursday. They spend the evening at home, playing computer games. Scott's mom is off working the night shift. Derek and Isaac have promised to keep close tonight, just in case. Scott tried to prepare himself for every possible outcome. He has the house bolted and barred, windows included, in case Stiles tries to make a run for it.
He didn't have to.
The transition itself doesn't take long and appears to be relatively painless. Around 10 PM, Stiles starts to breathe heavily, scratches himself everywhere. He excuses himself to the bathroom around 10:30 and asks Scott not to follow.
Ten minutes later, a huge, light-brown wolf with glowing yellow eyes emerges. He nudges the door open with his snout and stands there, in the doorway, calm and level gaze directed at Scott. He doesn't try to run. He doesn't rage. He just stares.
Scott feels a shiver run up and down his spine, immediately overwhelmed by the urge to turn himself. It's like a call, directed to something deep inside of him, and it costs him all his will and concentration to resist.
The wolf – Scott refuses to think of it as Stiles, and yes, sure, he knows how hypocritical that is – cocks its head to the side. It opens its mouth slightly, whining low, and it's like Scott's in a trance. He feels the words more than he hears them, safe and be calm and won't hurt you.
With a tremor in his hands, Scott makes a step forward. He extends his hand, touches the wolf's flanks, and it holds completely still while Scott strokes it up and down its fur. The contact makes his fingertips tingle, like a low electric current, and he draws his hands back quickly.
The whine comes again, and this time the message is clearer. Still friends?
Scott nods.
***
For the next forty-eight hours, Stiles doesn't change back. Scott doesn't leave the room other than to pee or get food and drink for both of them, although the presence of the wolf makes him nervous. It’s got his skin humming with the desire to change even worse than normally during the full moon.
They talk, sort of. Scott speaks, and the wolf responds with growls and whines that somehow translate to words in Scott's head. At first it's how-are-yous, to make sure Stiles isn't in pain or any kind of discomfort, but then curiosity wins Scott over and he asks the questions the real Stiles can't answer.
“Did you kill the other pack?”
Yes.
“Why? What happened?”
Not safe. Danger.
“To whom? Were they attacking you?”
The growl in response to that sounds almost offended. Not me. You.
“So you killed them? Just like that?”
No answer this time; the wolf inclines its head – as if it doesn't understand the question – and then declares the interrogation over by laying down and settling its head on its paws, faced away from Scott.
***
On Saturday morning, Scott finds Stiles curled into a fetal position in front of the bed. He's stark naked, snoring loudly, and Scott would take bets the lucky bastard changed in his sleep.
***
Things almost go back to normal after that. It's like when Scott got bitten; at some point, the mind adjusts to the new situation, and while it's still odd and unknown it stops being terrifying.
Scott should've known that'd be the point where the situation turns around and something comes back to bite them in the ass. Again. It always happens.
They're at a school fair, all of them conveniently in one place, and that's both a curse and a blessing. It means that Stiles isn't alone when a leftover member of the old-school pack decides it's time for payback, which is a good thing. But they can't raise too much attention, have to let it go when it makes a break for it after realizing the odds aren't in its favor today.
Later, when the other students have gone home, they meet in the chemistry room.
Boyd is the one to say what they're all thinking. “Well, I guess the problem with the old-schools wasn't solved as permanently as we thought.”
He sends a glance to Stiles, who raises his hands and shakes his head. “Don't look at me. I have no idea what the thing I turn into is up to, and I don't remember its shenanigans either.”
“The question is, are we dealing with a sole survivor? Or with a group?” Isaac asks, and Scott appreciates the attempt at directing the conversation away from Stiles and his kills.
“If there were more left, I think they'd have attacked together,” Derek says. “They're pack animals, much more so than we are. I doubt one would've gone up against us alone if there was another one to back it up.”
There's silence, and Scott suspects the others are shutting up for the same reason he does. They agree, and that means the next thing to consider is how they're going to proceed. If they're going to have to, well. Get rid of it.
And so it's Derek who picks that thread back up. “We'll have to make sure it doesn't attack again.”
***
They don't arrive at a game plan that evening, and after half an hour of fruitless arguments the meeting fizzles out. Stiles doesn't participate much, keeps out of it unless he's asked something or addressed directly. He's still quiet and withdrawn while they walk home, chewing on his lower lip the whole time, and Scott can't stand watching him like that for long.
He holds Stiles up by his arm about a quarter mile from the school. “Okay, tell me. What is it?”
Stiles squirms to get his arm free, rubs it and glares at Scott accusingly. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“No. I won't. I can hear you thinking from here. Tell me.”
“Ah, fuck,” Stiles says, eyes downcast and grimacing, like it hurts to grind the words out. “This is my fault. It came after me because I killed the rest of its pack. And it showed up at school. Imagine what it could've done!”
“But it didn't. Nothing happened, no one got hurt.”
“Yeah, this time.”
And Scott doesn't like the direction this is going. He narrows his eyes at Stiles, who's still not looking at him. “You're going to do something stupid.”
“I don't want anyone else to get hurt.”
“We'll come up with something.”
Stiles shuffles his feet, finally looks up. “Yeah. Guess we will.”
He starts walking again, and Scott follows him with the sneaking suspicion that he failed to make his point.
***
Later that night, Scott wakes up to an empty cot at the other side of the room. No Stiles in sight, and a quick sniff tells Scott that he's not anywhere in the vicinity of the house either.
Scott curses, jumps out of bed and gets dressed, and two minutes later he's on his way to the woods to follow Stiles's trail. But this time, at least, he catches up with him before anything happens.
“What the hell are you up to?”
Stiles flinches, turns. “Go home, Scott.”
“The fuck I will.”
“Look, I started this. I'll fix it, okay?”
And no. No, it's not okay, and he didn't, and why Scott chose someone so damn stubborn to be his best friend, he'll never know. “You didn't start it. Neither of us did. It happened to us.”
The long-suffering sigh Stiles huffs in response is as familiar as it is infuriating, but he doesn't get to accompany it with a reply. They both hear and smell the other wolf at the same time, heads whipping in its direction simultaneously.
It doesn't even seem to notice Scott. Its eyes are trained on Stiles, burning with pure hate, and it's snarling, flews pulled back to reveal its teeth.
There's a low whirring sound in Scott's ears – or, more accurately, his head – similar to when Stiles's wolf form first tried to communicate with him, but he can't make out any words. He steps in front of Stiles but Stiles holds him back, gently shoves at his chest to get him to fall behind him.
“It's not here for you,” he says. “It's here for me, and it'll wait.”
Scott wants to protest, but the mere presence of the creature makes him lightheaded and dizzy with the need to change, fight, maul. At the same time, he's nauseous, feels as if his own wolf is trapped inside him when all it wants is to break to the surface. The effect is so much worse than up in his room with Stiles, and Scott has to admit that he's no good like this.
He lets himself be shoved, takes a step back, two, until he's out of their way. Stiles's transformation is too hard to watch; he doesn't seem to be in a lot of pain, but even so, Scott has to avoid his eyes when he sees how the bones underneath Stiles skin begin to morph and shift.
The other wolf is still snarling and growling, emanating a horrible buzzing that makes Scott grit his teeth, but it waits patiently until Stiles isn't Stiles anymore.
The last thing Stiles does before he's fully changed is to send Scott sprawling with a surprisingly well aimed hit to the head.
***
When Scott comes to, it's all over. The other wolf lays a few feet away, motionless and bleeding, and Stiles sits kneeling beside him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I knew you wouldn't stay at the sidelines unless I put your lights out, and the wolf, huh. It's more practical than I am.”
Scott nods towards the body. “Is it dead?”
“Yeah. I rid the world of another furry beast.” Stiles gives a weak smile, but his tone is sarcastic and weary.
There are few things Scott wouldn't give to eradicate the knowledge of what it feels like to take a life from Stiles's mind, but yet again, he doesn't even know what to say, can't find the right words. He sets himself upright, and Stiles rises to a stand with him.
“You got a mean right hook if you really want to,” Scott says once they're both vertical, puts on a grin to see if it'll catch.
And it takes a few moments, but Stiles grins back. “Hah. Doesn't take much to knock you out, apparently. Never knew you're such a lightweight.”
He shoves at Scott, and Scott shoves back. They keep it up all the way home, both of them almost stumbling more than once, and Scott narrowly avoids landing face down in the dirt when Stiles changes gears and tries to trip him.
***
“Are you sure you want to go alone?” Scott asks that same question every month, and he always gets the same answer.
True to form, Stiles rolls his eyes. “As sure as I've been the last three times you asked me that.” More serious he adds, “You'll never stop asking, though, will you?”
“No. I won't.” The truth is, Scott doesn't get it. Stiles hates solitude. He loathes it. His world tends to fall in on itself when he's alone, with nothing and no one to distract him.
But the wolf is not Stiles. Not really. They're growing more similar with time, each adopting traits of the other, but they're still separate entities. Maybe that thought should make it easier for Scott to let him go off on his own for those two days every full moon – Stiles won't be around either way – but it makes it harder.
Someone should be looking after him. Make sure the wolf doesn't do anything that Stiles wouldn't want. But this isn't up to Scott. They're reasonably sure by now that the wolf isn't going to harm anyone, which makes it Stiles's decision.
Stiles hefts the bag with fresh clothes over his shoulder – there's an abandoned deer stand deep in the woods where he deposits it for after he changes back – and they both glance at the darkening sky. It's almost time, nightfall maybe an hour away.
“I should go,” Stiles says. There's a longing in his voice that doesn't belong there, isn't his, and that's a better and more accurate indicator for where they stand in the lunar cycle than any clock or calendar could be.
Scott nods reluctantly. “See you in two days.”