So Much (for) Stardust
Isaac Lahey x Fem!Reader
Act I - The Fall
Chapter Two: So Much (for) Protection
This is gonna be the death of me.
Summary:
No matter how hard you try, you can't keep your mind off Isaac. And damned as he is, Isaac can't keep his mind off you.
Both trying your hardest to stay on separate paths, the two of you keep running into each other - colliding like trains on the same twisted track.
He's determined to protect you. And that means staying far away from you.
Right?
Isaac Lahey x Fem!Reader. Exes to Lovers. Emotional Angst, Pining, Drama. Follows the plot of Season 3A.
Word Count: 13,700
Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist
Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.
Warnings: the reader uses she/her pronouns, and is generally described as feminine (mentions of the reader wearing make-up in this chapter); there are no mention of the reader’s race, hair type, hair colour, or eye colour, and throughout the fic there is slight implications toward her being plus sized that can be easily ignored, and it’s not a main plot point of the fic; this fic DOES use the term Y/N throughout, and I would recommend using a word replacer extension on your browser to put in your actual name in order to get the full experience; mentions of Isaac being taller than the reader - though it not stated how much taller, and it’s based on the idea that Daniel Sharman is six feet tall, and he would be taller than most people; Stiles and Isaac argue a lot during this chapter - I’m sure some people would call this OOC Stiles, but this was heavily inspired by the whole ‘are you still milking that?’ scene (Stiles does get a character arc in this fic, so hold on); Stiles being generally mean and bitchy; implications of Stiles having a crush on the reader (one sided) (everyone seems to know about it but her); mentions of Scott x Allison (which will be a theme throughout the fic - they are a background ship, but pretty far in the background and not a major focus); mentions of Erica’s canon death, and mentions of Isaac’s having trauma surrounding losing Erica and how she died; descriptions of Erica’s dead body; descriptions of violence - Isaac beats up Ethan and some random side asshole (two separate incidents), which includes descriptions of blood, punching hard enough to break bones, and choking for the sake of inducing major harm, but no major injuries are inflicted (especially because one of the victims has werewolf super healing); the reader is called ‘ugly’ and ‘fat’ by some random asshole; mentions of the abuse Isaac’s father inflicted on him (which is a warning on pretty much all the chapters); Isaac having a negative internal monologue due to being abused in the past; Isaac exhibits symptoms of PTSD and symptoms of being emotionally abused by his father when interacting with other people; mentions of Scott and Stiles having different accidents and injuries over the years, including: vomitting (from high alcohol consumption - this is due to inappropriate underage drinking/binge drinking) (in context, it’s a single incident, not a pattern of binge drinking), a broken bone (with the bone sticking out of the skin), playing with a nail gun, Stiles having a rash on his penis due to poison oak; mentions of inappropriate eating habits when dealing with stress - both under eating (from Allison) and stress snacking (from the reader); mentions of Allison’s mother dying (in alignment with the canon); carried over from the prologue oneshot - mentions of the reader’s mother being dead, killed by Peter Hale/The Alpha; mentions of Isaac ‘cheating’ on the reader with Erica (again, read the prologue for context); Isaac attacks the reader during a panic attack - a flood of panic induced adrenaline causes Isaac to semi-shift and he attacks the reader with his claws (a minimal injury, small scratches, is the result); I believe that is it for this chapter.
A/N: I am incredibly proud of this whole story, and I love this chapter. Something that has continually happened to me with this story is that when writing, I will off-handedly mention something in one sentence and then go in and further flush out the idea later because I can't stop thinking about it. And the Raven painting and the Edgar Allen Poe metaphors are a huge example of that. At first, it was an off-handed mention of how Isaac and the reader met, and then it turned into this whole entire flashback - so, I hope you like it. I had a lot of fun revisiting this chapter and reinforcing the ideas and I am really proud of getting to post it now.
...
Your second period of the day was English.
It was a subject you excelled in - you loved reading in your spare time, and since elementary school, you had been someone who devoured books far beyond your years and sought to bury yourself in stories to avoid the troubles of the real world. You loved the library and the mental peace of a good book.
Miss Blake was one of your less abrasive teachers, though she seemed to have some kind of quiet vendetta against you. Whenever you raised your hand to comment on the themes of the material, she would dismiss you easily rather than continuing the discussion, and she would scold you for making your essays ‘too long’, telling you that nobody would bother to read all of what you had written, even if she hadn’t set a limit on certain assignments.
Strangely, she seemed to dislike you for being ‘too smart’. But some teachers could never be pleased. And you had no plans of dumbing yourself down to please her.
On this day, during a reading and discussion of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, your mind was still heavily fixated on Isaac. Because of course, even this reminded you of him.
…
You thought back to the final days of middle school, right before everyone had transitioned into the rocky, drama filled hell of high school. Days when you had sequestered yourself in the art room right before summer vacation.
Your art teacher had put on a ‘contest’. She wanted everyone in the departing eighth grade class to make their best art piece - no prompts, no rules. The only outline of the contest was to make a piece of art of your own choosing - to express yourself. And the best ones would be chosen to be displayed on the front bulletin board at the beginning of the next school year as inspiration to incoming sixth graders - supposedly showing them what they could achieve during their time at this school.
The assignment was entirely optional, and that meant that time spent on it was optional as well. The art teacher left her room open for students to use during lunch hours and after school, and you found that you were pretty much the only person there working hard on a piece.
The only person aside from a lanky, curly-haired boy that you didn’t quite know. Someone you would come to know as Isaac Lahey. You had seen him around, and sure, you knew his name somewhere distantly in the back of your mind - but you hadn’t spoken to him before. You had never shared a class together and you had never interacted before during your three years at the school. Others would have known him as shy, or even a bully at times - if he snapped and his anger got the best of him.
But at the time, to you - he was a nobody.
For those first two days in the art room, you knew him as someone who came in, sat down quietly, and worked hunched over a notebook without saying a word. He was a silent presence in the otherwise empty room, and he almost always left shortly before you did, timing himself out the door as you cleaned up your supplies, never over-staying his welcome. Occasionally, he would glance over at you, and then whip his head back down if you dared to look over at him - as though being caught looking at you were some kind of crime.
Finally, on the third day - he spoke to you.
You were fussing over a large canvas - one you had bought with your own money, wanting to put your all into a project that had no true guidelines, no limits. You were curious when Isaac moved from his usual spot across the room toward you, gently coming up behind you, clearly with the intention to peek at your artwork where it was sitting on the easel. After a moment of silently looking over your shoulder as you painted some calm brushstrokes, he finally spoke up.
“What - what are you working on?” He stuttered out, his voice nervous for some reason.
“The Raven.” You told him. You backed off slightly, stepping to the side so that he could get a better look at the picture - it was a large, highly detailed portrait of the aforementioned bird, sketched out and half filled in so far.
At first he had mistaken it for a crow, and he didn’t quite understand the difference, or the significance.
“A raven?” He mirrored back, his voice quiet and gently curious.
“No, The Raven.” You corrected. “It’s inspired by the Edgar Allan Poe poem.”
Isaac was glad that somehow, this didn’t feel like scolding - just a natural sharing of knowledge. It felt like you offered him a hand up, trying to make him better by giving him a bit of your brain, instead of tearing him down because he didn’t already know.
You turned to look at him over your shoulder, giving him an encouraging smile.
Isaac was shorter back then - you had been to, but he had rocketed up far past you in height while you hadn’t grown much. You had changed in your looks, but he had far outgrown you. His hair had been longer at the time, hanging in his eyes as something for him to hide behind in shyness - and Coach had demanded that he cut it when he started playing First Line because he couldn’t properly see.
“Never heard of it.” He shrugged.
Little did you know, the next time he was in the library, he looked it up just because he had been thinking about you. He found the poem droning and slightly confusing to read. But he soon found a clip on youtube of a segment from The Simpsons which depicted the poem, and he found it easier to understand when visualized as a cartoon. He didn’t quite understand why you wanted to paint a picture of a bird that tormented someone, but your version did turn out to be beautiful.
“It’s about a man who mourns for his lost love.” You explained. “But it could also be interpreted as someone who battles with the inherent dichotomy of darkness and light in life - the most basic contemplation of evil and hope. Or it could be someone grappling with his own morality.” You mumbled quietly, thinking aloud. “Either way, I like what The Raven represents.”
“What does it represent?” Isaac asked, naturally wondering this. He liked listening to you speak, and he couldn’t help but to prompt more of the conversation.
“It represents balance. The necessary darkness life needs in order for hope and light to thrive.” You told him.
As you spoke, you began painting a few more gentle strokes of the bird’s feathers, and you were too busy concentrating to notice Isaac - to notice the way he was looking at you. Intrigue and gentle affection flowing so easily through his expression.
He had never truly noticed you before, but now that he was speaking to you, he couldn’t help but to love every single word that came out of your mouth. You were intelligent, and so passionate. You were better than reading any book, and he had a feeling that he could listen to you talk about any subject and never be bored.
“I also think they’re beautiful creatures.” You added on. “A lot of people see them as evil, but that’s not true. In actuality, they’re incredibly intelligent - they’re some of the most intelligent animals, even among birds, who have some of the highest trainability and best memories. Sadly, they just have a reputation as being a symbol of darkness or evil due to their dark appearance - that plays into their symbolism in literature a lot. It’s sad… too many people only know that reputation and don’t know the beautiful, gentle creature they are.”
Isaac gave a small smile.
“That’s really cool.” He said, nodding.
He felt a tingling in his stomach because in the back of his mind, even if he knew it wasn’t true, it felt like you were talking about him. He liked to think that if you could see a dark evil bird as ‘beautiful’ and ‘gentle’, then maybe you could be the one person in the world who could see the good in him. Maybe you could look past his sour reputation and see something more.
“What are you working on?” You asked, using your hand that was holding the paint brush to gesture toward the notebook he had left open on one of the desks.
“Oh, uh -” He let out a nervous chuckle, swaying on his feet as he looked down at the ground, as though he had been caught doing something wrong. “Nothing.” He admitted, and paused, waiting for you to scold him or tell him that he was breaking some kind of rule. “Nothing - not really. I just kinda like hanging out in here. It’s quiet.”
His instincts recoiled with shock when you let out a gentle laugh, rather than threatening to tell on him.
“I get it.” You said, giving him what you hoped was a reassuring smile in return. “I hope I’m not the only one submitting a project. That would be so awkward. I hope other people are working on theirs at home, or something.”
“Probably.” He nodded, wanting to give you reassurance in return.
There was an awkward pause, and then you let out a huff. He thought that you might tell him to leave so that you could have the room to yourself and enjoy the quiet alone, and he was surprised by what happened next.
“Well, if you’re not busy, you can help me.” You said brightly. “Pass me that container of paint, please?” You pointed to one high on a shelf, one that he would be able to reach that was just out of range for you.
He let out a soft laugh and grabbed it for you, setting it down on the desk next to your easel. He then sat down in a nearby chair, not returning back to whatever he had been doing in his notebook. He watched you work for the rest of the afternoon, the two of you exchanging gentle conversation about a range of topics, slowly getting to know each other more over the coming days.
Those days in the art room had been so precious to you. Isaac had smiled at you sweetly, the first rays of your crush forming - something that would turn into the devastating love you would come to have for him. But like an egg in a raven’s nest - it was small and so new back then.
…
“I don’t get it - it’s so stupid. If he killed the guy, how the hell is his heart still beating? That means he didn’t kill him, right?”
You were drawn out of your lovely memories by the annoying, nagging voice of Greenberg. Without thinking, and without putting your hand up to ask permission to speak, you couldn’t help but to charge against his idiocy.
“It’s a metaphor, you mouthbreather.” You hissed at him. “Hearing someone’s heartbeat becoming increasingly louder after you have killed them and buried them under the floorboards is a symbol of guilt, not a sign of their ongoing life. Especially because it states in the story that the police clearly can’t hear the sound of the heartbeat - because it’s not literal, it’s a hallucination that the protagonist hears because he’s experiencing intense guilt due to taking someone’s life.”
Without stopping to take a breath, you continued.
“And nobody has one literal single blue eye - it’s likely a symbol for surveillance. The idea that an omnipresent being is constantly watching us, and the protagonist has a desire to stamp out that surveillance and be free, but he feels guilty when he does. It’s about personality morality and grappling with one’s conscience - about doubting the literal existence of God.”
By the time you had finished your rant, everyone in the classroom was staring at you, some of them snickering quietly under their breath, some of them mouth agape. You even caught one person taking notes, as though what you had said would be on a test.
“What the fuck?” Greenberg replied, curling a brow at you, confused.
“You are so hopeless.” You mumbled quietly.
“Language.” Miss Blake said, putting up a warning hand toward Greenberg. “But yes - Miss L/N is correct. It is all metaphorical. That’s why we’re studying it. Though please, next time, don’t speak out of turn.” She said this sharply toward you, scolding you for making a very intelligent point.
You raised your hand, asking permission to speak this time, and she sighed before she nodded at you, giving you that permission.
“Can I have the bathroom pass, please?”
You needed to escape. Maybe it was because you hated all the eyes on you, or because you couldn’t stop thinking about how Isaac would have commended what you said, even if he didn’t fully understand it. He was the only person who always let you speak your mind freely. And you felt far too smothered - you felt lost without him.
“Yes.” Miss Blake huffed out, clearly annoyed.
You stood up as she handed over the pass, and you whisked out of the classroom without a second thought.
…
For their second period of the day, Scott, Isaac, and Stiles had PE, and of course, Coach basically just used it as an excuse to squeeze more cross-country practice in.
As they changed in the locker room, Isaac was only subjected to more nagging chatter about how he was handling the situation with you poorly. It was bad enough that he had his own guilt brewing inside of him, but now he had to listen to Scott and Stiles go on and on.
“You know, you can’t avoid her forever,” Scott sighed, taking off his shirt.
“Really? Because I think it’s a splendid idea. Just stay away from her. Stay away from Y/N, because she doesn’t need a dumb dog like you nipping at her heels.” Stiles whined, giving Isaac a glare. “If she wants to adopt, I’m sure there’s a nice shelter mutt somewhere-”
“Stiles.” Scott sighed, a scolding warning toward his best friend, along with a glare.
Stiles sighed and kissed the inside of his teeth, whipping off his own shirt with a fierce annoyance in every single movement.
“I’m sure you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Isaac glared Stiles down intensely, his eyes flashing golden for just a moment, resisting the urge to grind his teeth as Stiles agitated him. “I’m pretty sure if I died tomorrow, you still wouldn’t have the balls to make a move on her. You had plenty of time before I came along, but you’re just a damn coward. She’s too good for you anyway, you pathetic-”
“Okay, woah. Stop.” Scott hissed, raising a hand in Isaac’s direction as a warning. “Both of you - stop it.”
“Why do I have to-?” Stiles whined, and was quickly cut off.
“Stop!” Scott jabbed out.
Stiles rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything more. He was slightly flushed pink, clearly slightly embarrassed at having been called out so blatantly. He obviously believed that his ‘secret’ crush on you was a lot more secret, and a lot less obvious. Little did he know, pretty everyone but you had picked up on how he felt about you - how he had felt about you since sixth grade.
“It’s not like you’re one to give advice, anyway.” Stiles huffed at Scott, picking a new target for his annoyance since he wasn’t allowed to combat Isaac anymore. “How are things going with you and Allison?”
Isaac wanted to add on, but he remained silent as he pulled up his jogging pants and knotting them stiffly, his whole body tense. He didn’t want to be caught agreeing with Stiles - at least not out loud.
Scott’s eyes flickered to the floor, and he shrugged as he pulled on his athletic top.
“Allison and I are friends.” He replied, his voice full of a strange kind of guilt that solidified the fact that this was definitely not true.
Stiles let out a snort of laughter at this.
“Friends?” He replied, sarcasm ripe in his voice. “So that’s why when I called you the other night, she picked up?”
Scott didn’t reply to this particularly incriminating thread of conversation, and instead continued on:
“We are trying to be friends.” He amended. “But that’s a whole lot different than me pretending she doesn’t exist.”
He finished by staring at Isaac, who was focusing very hard on tying up his sweats, rather than daring to look in Scott’s direction.
“Yeah, and the last time you and Allison tried to be ‘friends’, she ended up nearly being choked to death by a giant lizard.” Isaac reminded him, pulling his own athletic top over his head.
“Which was because of her totally insane grandfather, not because of Scott,” Stiles said, all too quick to defend Scott.
“Yeah, and last time I checked, Y/N doesn’t have any insane relatives,” Scott said, half joking, trying his best to be light-hearted, a grin on his lips.
Isaac frowned, tying his shoes too tightly, every muscle in his body still too tense.
“Exactly my point.” He replied, standing up to his full height and folding his arms tightly over his chest. “I’m the only one in her life who could get her hurt. And she’ll be fine as long as I stay far away from her.”
“Thank you.” Stiles sighed, nodding.
Before either of them could argue, Isaac swiftly left the locker room, happy to have some mindless time to run on the trail and hopefully not be stuck thinking about all of this. He hoped that he could run hard enough to get a good sting in his legs and his lungs and finally empty his mind.
Isaac took off hard and heavy, ignoring Coach’s voice behind him telling him to ‘wait up for everyone else’. He didn’t entirely care. He needed the ground hard underneath his feet, he needed the morning air in his lungs. He passed most of the class in a few moments, entirely uncaring that he sped past everyone.
In the back of his mind, he could hear Erica’s voice chuckling, telling him that he looked like a try-hard asshole for running so fast.
Erica.
A vision flashed in his mind - her eyes wet with tears, crying out for help while she was trapped in the bank vault. Her crying out his name, reaching a hand out to him desperately, begging to be rescued.
He hadn’t gotten there in time.
She had been so cold when he had picked her up to hoist her into the make-shift grave that Derek had dug. Her skin grey and half-rotted. The Alpha Pack had stowed her away in a closet somewhere like she meant nothing. Tossed her next to some old files and dusty shelves like she was just some thing. They had used her up and thrown her away like she wasn’t even a person - like she didn’t belong to someone, like she didn’t have a fucking family.
Isaac forcibly shook his head, trying to force the memories out. He had to get her out of his head. He had to forget about the way she smiled at him when she called him a dork. She had to forget about her bright laugh. He had to forget about the chunk of her blonde hair that he had found attached to his coat after the burial, fallen off her, still attached to a piece of her withered scalp -
He tripped over a tree root and went tumbling across the ground, the air knocked from his lungs as his body collided harshly with the dirt. It didn’t hurt, not with how radically his body healed and how strong the werewolfism made him. Not much could hurt him anymore. Not his body, at least.
When he settled, he turned to sit upright, and he found himself sagging against the dirt. There was no air in his lungs, and all his muscles - for all their supernatural strength - felt as limp as wet paper, sogging pitifully against his bones. He couldn’t get up. He was stuck.
He wanted to blame you for ruining him. He wanted to blame you for switching something inside of him, for forcing him to feel again. You had forced that box open that he had been stowing everything away in, shoving it all down deep and locking it up.
And now it was all spilling out - the grief he hadn’t felt for Erica, the way he had missed Boyd but felt like he couldn’t tell him, the fact that he was constantly seeking approval from Derek that he knew he wasn’t going to get. The way he yearned for Scott’s attention, for guidance but felt like he could never just ask for help.
For a small time, he had a pack, a family. And now he was more damn alone in the world than he had ever been.
“And you aren’t alone. You’ll never be alone as long as I’m around.”
Those words echoing through his skull again. A haunting - a curse.
You were likely the only family he had left in the world, but he could never let himself be weak enough to go back to you again. If he did - he would only be hurting you.
Isaac gripped the dirt under his palms, shaking furiously as he resisted the urge to cry.
“Fuck!” He screamed, his voice echoing off the trees as he kicked out his legs, utterly frustrated, unable to do anything but throw a tantrum.
“Aww, did the baby fall down?”
Isaac was rocketed out of his self pity by a horribly familiar voice.
When he looked up, the twins were circling. He didn’t know which was Ethan and which one was Aiden, and he didn’t care - all he knew was that they were grinning at him, clearly satisfied that he was visibly upset.
“Fuck off.” Isaac huffed out, finally able to push himself up off the ground, glaring at both of them harshly. “I’m not in the fucking mood, okay?”
He moved to take off again, wanting to literally run away from his problems - but one of them stepped directly in his path. It was a stupidly childish move to make - blocking his way. And it only served to further annoy him.
“I don’t know if this occurred to you,” The twin standing behind him said. “But we don’t care.”
“You’ll care when I break your fucking jaw.” Isaac snarled, his annoyance and anger overtaking him in a horrible way.
Truthfully, he didn’t want to fight them. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to go through the rest of his day without any major conflicts. He already had enough problems in his life without adding them to the mix.
He was tired.
Both of the twins laughed, and Isaac’s annoyance only grew, filling his stomach like a terrible sickness that made him feel too heavy. He had been here before, and he knew that he was liable to snap if they didn’t leave him alone soon.
“Screw this.” Isaac breathed out, going to dodge around them once again, once again flaring with rage when they blocked his path.
They were daring him to strike first - daring him to be the one to start the fight. He wasn’t even sure why. He had no clue what the hell they wanted from him. Maybe they wanted him to tackle one of them so they could blame it on him, get him in trouble. Maybe they wanted him to appear crazy in front of everyone else. He wasn’t even sure if he cared about deciphering the reasoning behind their game, because he just wanted them to stop.
“You know, if you don’t wanna play with us, I’m sure we could go find someone else.” One of the twins said, that terrible grin still painted on his face.
Isaac knew that they were playing at something bigger, but he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
“Please do.” He grunted out, his voice barely able to escape his throat, bitterly weighed down by anger.
When he moved again, he was finally able to get around them, surprised when they didn’t move to block his path, didn’t move to grab him or stop him in some way. But of course, he only made it a few steps away, and then - he heard the fatal words that finally drew him into their game, finally got the reaction that they had been wanting out of him.
“We should go find Y/N.” One of them said, a light, airy chuckle in his voice.
Isaac froze. All of his muscles tensed. Your name was too sweet, too sacred to be allowed on their cursed lips.
“We should. She’s a pretty girl. So cute and innocent. I’m sure it would be so much fun to make her scream-”
Isaac didn’t have time to even begin to decipher if the nature of the threat was violent, or god forbid - sexual, because he had become absolutely blinded by rage. He whipped back around and grabbed the first body he saw, tackling the twin to the ground. Without a second thought, or even a first one, he began wailing punches across the guy’s face, filled with nothing but the intent to maim.
Of course, the other twin tried to pull him off. Now that they saw the unruly beast that they had unleashed, they weren’t pleased by it. There was an arm attempting to lock around his neck, trying to pull him in the opposite direction. But a swift, deep bite with his fangs extended, digging into the guy’s forearm caused him to yelp and recoil, ridding Isaac of that problem for now.
And with blinders on, only seeing the target in front of him, he continued on, throwing punch after punch down toward the skull under his fist. He felt quickly healing bones crack and mash and race to shift back into place under his powerful fist as he tirelessly pounded down onto the guy’s face.
Voices fluttered in. He knew other people from the class were catching up, but as the twin stared up at him, completely fearless, mocking him with a bloody grin, he only felt more angered.
They had dared to threaten you.
He wrapped both his hands around the guy’s neck and began to squeeze, fighting to press both his thumbs against that windpipe - you were too good, too good to be touched, too good to be looked at by these monsters - he saw the face turning redder and redder and he channeled more of his divine anger into that brutal hold, uncaring if he killed the guy underneath him -
“Isaac!”
His attention was only snapped away when Scott called his name, and very suddenly, all the energy fuelling his rage left his body, like some sort of switch had been flipped. Like Scott had pushed some sort of nerve that shifted all of his instincts. When his head snapped up and his eyes met Scott’s, he saw nothing but intense disappointment lingering there.
Maybe he was a monster too.
“Lahey? What the hell?!” Coach Finstock pushed his way through the crowd, led by the other twin.
He was clutching his bleeding arm - or rather, hiding the bloody spot on his sleeve where the bite Isaac had delivered was now completely healed over.
The boy underneath Isaac was still very red faced and sputtering for air, but if anybody looked too closely past the blood lingering on the surface, they would have noticed that his broken nose and damaged eye sockets were shifting back into place far too quickly. Luckily for him, all of them were too busy staring at Isaac with horror on their faces.
Isaac stumbled to his feet, and he soon determined which twin was which when Danny rushed to attend to the one he had left bloody on the ground.
“Principal’s office! Now!” Coach Finstock yelled, sounding very angry as he pointed a hand back toward the school, directing Isaac.
Isaac remained frozen on the spot, slightly shocked with himself that he had let his rage overtake him, still hating the way that Scott (and pretty much everyone else) was looking at him - with intense horror in their eyes, like he was someone to be feared. And they were probably right about that. Coach closed the gap and crept into his personal space, lowering his voice to whisper his next words.
“You’re lucky I don’t call the cops, Lahey.” He said, looking Isaac in the eyes very intentionally. “Now - I like you. And you’re one of my best defenders on the field. So I’m gonna assume that he had it coming, and if need be, I’m gonna ask the Principal to take it easy on you, okay?” Isaac nodded. “But if you ever get violent off the field again in my presence, I will rain down a unique kind of hell on you.”
Isaac nodded again. His throat was so damn dry. He wasn’t going to bother trying to defend himself. He knew how it looked.
“Now go!” Coach yelled. Isaac was finally sparked into action, and regretfully, Coach Finstock added on: “Stilinski, make sure he gets there!”
“Ugh, why me? Okay - fine.”
Of course, Stiles couldn’t do anything without whining. As he slowly sulked off back toward the school, Isaac felt the looming presence of a skinny idiot trailing behind him.
“You don’t have to come with me.” Isaac huffed, not even bothering to turn his head to look at Stiles. “I am man enough to go and accept my punishment without you babysitting me.”
“Oh, that’s what you call manly?” Stiles replied, his usual sarcastic tone coming through loud and clear. “You wanna know what I call it?”
“No.” Isaac easily answered, knowing that it was likely a rhetorical question. Of course, unlike he hoped, Stiles did not take it as a hint to shut up.
“Well, I’m gonna tell you anyway.” Stiles hummed dutifully in return. Isaac rolled his eyes sharply, still facing away from Stiles so that he couldn’t see. “I would call it: insanity. Being a complete and total psychopath. Grossly uncontrolled violence, among-”
As they walked into the school, Isaac dropped the door on Stiles, and he gave a small smile when he heard him let out a small ‘ow’ as he unexpectedly ran into the metal. Stiles huffed and pushed past it, racing to catch up with Isaac’s long strides. Isaac growled in annoyance when Stiles stepped in front of him, blocking his path in the middle of the empty hallway, seeming determined to be the next person to harass him today.
Isaac crossed his arms sharply over his chest and glared at Stiles.
“Seriously, man, what the hell is wrong with you?” Stiles posed. Clearly another rhetorical question.
Even if it wasn’t Isaac would have no clue how to go about answering it. Even he had no clue where to begin. His mother’s death, his brother’s death, his father’s abuse and subsequent death that he somehow mourned. Breaking off his perfectly great relationship with you, throwing away likely the only good thing in his life because he was allergic to good things after all the crap that had been piled on him.
And that didn’t even come close to touching the werewolf stuff, and the parade of crap that had followed after he had been turned.
“Your guess is as good as any.” Isaac said, his voice quiet, lulling his head in shame.
“Yeah, well - I don’t want you around Y/N.” Stiles announced, his nostrils flaring with annoyance. “I don’t care what Scott says. You’re dangerous. And you’re too much of an insane psycho to be allowed around my best friend.”
Isaac clenched his jaw. Despite knowing that Stiles likely just wanted you to be single so that he could make a move himself, or that Stiles wanted you to date anybody but Isaac because of his underlying dislike toward Isaac - the words still hurt. Something deep inside of Isaac took it and filed it away as true. His knuckles were still sore and covered in someone’s blood, and he didn’t think those tainted hands should ever get to touch you again.
“So you’re gonna protect her when Ethan and Aiden go after her?” Isaac posed, his voice dull, his throat carrying the weight of what he was feeling that he tried his best to push down.
“Scott will. She’ll be fine.” Stiles brushed it off, even though they both knew that Scott had a lot on his plate already, and it would be hard to add worrying about protecting you too. “You can stop worrying about Y/N - just forget about her. And in the meantime - go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, okay? I’m actually starting to think that your dad kept you locked in the basement for a reason.”
The words were entirely thoughtless. Words launched at Isaac out of anger and frustration, fear at the idea of you potentially being in danger. Stiles was worried about you, still stressing about the increasing body count piling up around them, thinking about the childhood friend that he had just lost and wondering if somehow you were next. And unintentionally, he said one of the most horrible things that he ever could have.
“Stiles.”
Both boys were harshly ripped from the conversation by your voice.
Isaac whipped around and found you standing there, your eyes bright and shining with tears that were threatening to smudge make-up that you definitely hadn’t been wearing earlier that morning. (Somehow, you were so beautiful no matter what - when your hair was messy and your eyes were circled dark from lack of sleep, or when you were made-up purposefully with glossy lips and dark eyeliner and cute blush. You were just so fucking perfect. Too perfect for him.)
“Okay, that was completely out of context. You have no clue what even happened-” Stiles began rambling, trying to explain himself, but you refused to listen.
“Shut up.” You growled through your teeth, and Stiles shamefully looked down at the floor, already feeling guilt lapping at him harshly.
Your eyes flickered from glaring at Stiles to Isaac, your gaze easily softening on him, giving him that same look at you always did: staring him down like he was a scared animal, liable to run at a moment’s notice.
Isaac hated that he could feel tears forming in his eyes - such blatant weakness spelled out in front of you. And in front of Stiles, of all people. There was a huge knot in his throat, and once again, his muscles felt far too weak, almost unable to move him.
“Isaac, baby-”
You reached out toward him, taking a step forward to try and catch his hand, and he practically jumped away, taking a large step back. Instantly, this caused a sharp jab through your chest. You used to be the one he would come to for comfort, and now he was acting as though you were some terrible poison to him.
You knew this look too well. The glossy eyes, the quivering jaw, the dirt on his clothing, the bloody knuckles. Something terrible had happened. You wanted nothing more than to trap him in a hug and never let him go. The way he recoiled from your touch hurt more than any smack to the face ever could have.
“Don’t.” Isaac choked out, refusing to look at you. “I - I have to go.”
And just like that, like the startled animal that he was, he took off at top speed, practically running down the hallway to get away from you.
“Y/N-”
Stiles reached out toward you, ironically, him trying to comfort you in the same way you had tried with Isaac. And you did the same to him - you whipped out of his touch, a tear running down your face now, creating a large streak through the beautiful, neat make-up that Lydia had done on you.
“Don’t touch me.” You told him, your voice quivering and weak as sobs threatened up in your chest. “Stiles - I can’t believe you would say something like that. I can’t believe you would even think it.”
“Look, you don’t know what happened-”
“I don’t care.” You replied. “You have no idea what his life was like.”
“Why the hell do you always need to defend the guy?” Stiles asked, frustrated and clearly looking for an answer.
‘Because if I don’t, then no one else will.’
You refused to justify the words with breath. If Stiles didn’t get it now, then he never would.
Instead, you simply shook your head and fled yourself, walking off in the opposite direction. Stiles considered following you, until he saw that you retreated into the girl’s bathroom. It was what you had originally left class for - though your intentions hadn’t been to end up crying loudly in one of the stalls. When the door locked behind you, you couldn’t help it.
It was just too much - Isaac rejecting you yet again, Stiles saying something so cruel.
You felt so pathetic as you balanced on the edge of the toilet seat, wiping your messy black eyeliner tears with some toilet paper. You knew how much Lydia would pester you later for ‘ruining her work’ - she often said that one of the biggest reasons in life not to cry was because good cosmetics were too expensive. You weren’t even too focused on that.
No - your mind was still on Isaac. You couldn’t help but to think about the last time you had seen Isaac like that. Downtrodden, knuckles bruised. The last time you had seen him snap due to overwhelming rage and then regret it.
…
You thought back to a lacrosse game from over a year ago, back before you knew about the presence of anything strange in Beacon Hills. Back when Isaac’s power on the field was only driven by his personal anger, not by anything more unexplainable. When he had been driven by his father’s voice in the back of his head telling him that he wasn’t good enough, telling him that he wasn’t a ‘real man’ unless he took the other players down and made them cry.
Of course, Beacon Hills had won the game.
They had a reputation to uphold, and even if the players on the team only did so well due to a mountain of personal issues - Jackson leading the charge due to his overwhelming perfectionism - they got the job done. They were consistent in their perfection, leaving other teams very little room to beat them.
You had been in the stands, cheering Isaac on the entire time, and naturally, you flooded onto the field to celebrate along with everyone else.
Luckily, Isaac’s father was nowhere to be seen. It was an early season game, and he didn’t come out for anything less than quarter-finals - he always told Isaac that he didn’t associate with losers, and Isaac better not be one. Even if the Beacon Hills lacrosse team hadn’t lost a game since its inception - he often told Isaac that he feared Isaac’s tendency to ‘fuck things up’ would scar the team’s perfect record. So far, in the dozens of games that Isaac had played, that was not true.
You were glad that Isaac’s father wasn’t around, because it meant that you could have a nice night with Isaac - a take-out dinner in celebration of his win, spending some quality time alone with the guy you loved. It was certainly preferable over listening to his father run down every single ‘wrong’ move he had made on the field as he dragged him away.
Isaac pulled you into a tight hug as soon as he saw you, sweaty and slightly dirty from being on the field, and you squeezed him incredibly tight, even though you weren’t a huge fan of the smell.
“That was so amazing!” You easily praised him. “You were totally great out there! You-”
“Oh come on, I was totally slacking during the final quarter.” He sighed, moving back over to the bench to lay down his helmet and grab his water bottle. He chugged a healthy amount of it before he continued. “I left Danny wide open and I totally let them get in that last point-”
“Yeah, and it was twenty-two to five.” You chuckled. You hated that even without his father there, he seemed to be doing the work of dragging himself down - likely unconsciously, that negativity worked into his mind like a habit, like a tense muscle that he couldn’t ignore now. You hated that you were the only one trying to combat it. “Let those sad little babies have one point to make themselves feel better. It probably raised their self esteem a bit, I’m sure.”
Isaac gave a subtle grin at this, and chugged more of his water. He opened his mouth to say something else, but a strange voice entered the conversation.
“Yeah, well at least we know how to play by the fucking rules.”
You turned your head to the source of the voice and realized that it was a player from the other team - they wore black and yellow uniforms (their team was The Hornets, you believed). It was a shorter brunet guy with a snide facial expression flanked by a couple of his lackeys.
“Do you even care that you broke our best scorer’s wrist, or are you that much of an asshole?” He spat out, glaring at Isaac.
You had seen Isaac make a particularly hard tackle - something that wasn’t unusual for him. And the player ended up limping off to the medical tent on the sidelines. But that wasn’t something entirely unusual for a game like this.
Isaac’s features flashed with guilt at this - the news that he had broken someone’s bone. He could get very into the game in the moment and definitely not realize how rough he was being, but he tried not to feel too bad about it because in the end, everyone had signed up to participate.
“That’s just how the game goes, man.” Isaac shrugged, capping his water bottle and picking his helmet back up.
“Oh, that’s a real convenient excuse for you, isn’t it?” The guy hissed, getting even more worked up. “If we had known you guys were gonna pull that bullshit, we would have brought our wrestling team along to fuck up you ‘roided up assholes.”
“Might’ve helped.” Isaac mumbled, sarcasm lulling in his voice, not really engaging in the passionate fight that the guy so obviously wanted. He turned his attention back to you as he stood up from the bench. He leaned down and kissed you lightly on the cheek. “Meet me out in the parking lot in fifteen? I’m gonna go shower and change, and then-”
“Oh my god, this is your girlfriend?” The guy shouted, cutting Isaac off. He let out a sarcastic chuckle, pointing at you with a purposefully rude, harshly extended hand. “It makes sense now. You need those big dumb idiot muscles to lug around this ugly fat bitch.”
Isaac glared at him, and from the visible grinding of his jaw, anger flowing so tensely through him - you knew that this asshole was finally getting the reaction he wanted out of Isaac. He had found the perfect button to push - messing with you. The exact wrong button that would set Isaac off every single time.
“Isaac,” You tried getting his attention, reaching for his wrist, which he abruptly snatched away from you, his eyes still laser focused on the poor, ignorant asshole who was winding him up.
“You guys may win a few games - by cheating your way through - but then you have to celebrate with that? Geez, I’d be angry too.”
His lackeys laughed along with him, fake and theatrical, clearly trying to annoy Isaac more. Without another word, Isaac tossed down his helmet and whipped off his gloves. You saw it coming before anybody else did. Isaac was deadly silent, the veins in his neck popping - you had only seen it once before.
“Do you put a bag over her head when you’re doin’ it - or do you just close your eyes?”
“Isaac, he’s trying to piss you off-!”
Your words were lost to the air when Isaac tackled the guy, someone who was easily a head shorter than him, and shoved him down to the muddy ground with ease. In a blink, he began wailing punch after punch into what was only a second ago, a very smug face.
You gasped in horror as Isaac’s firm fist broke the guy’s nose - but he didn’t stop there. He cracked teeth, bruised an eye. It wasn’t long before everyone in the celebratory crowd had craned their necks to stare - some people making horrified sounds, others cheering. It was only when Coach Finstock managed to pull him off by force that it stopped. It was ironic that he had come over complaining about his friend’s broken wrist, and he ended up in the medical tent much worse off.
Isaac got two months detention for it, and every day before and after practice, Coach made him run suicides to ‘think about what he had done’.
Isaac thought you would hate him for it. And while you didn’t exactly like his violent side… you could understand it. The next time you saw him, you took his bruised knuckles in hand, running your fingertips gently over his hand - and you had a quiet understanding. He had done it for you.
He had done it to protect you. And strangely - you admired that. You admired that protecting you always seemed to be his one goal. You hated that now his singular goal in life seemed to be keeping the two of you apart.
(You didn’t know that for him - now, those two things were distinctly the same.)
…
You were distracted all morning. You hated it, but you couldn’t focus during any of your classes because you kept thinking about Isaac.
In between classes, you spotted Scott, and you wanted to ask him what the hell had happened - had Isaac gotten into another fight? Would he be suspended? Would he be expelled? What had caused the fight?
“Scott!”
You called his name, desperately weaving through students to try and get to him, and of course, the second that he realized you were headed toward him, he began walking in the other direction. He moved swiftly, clearly trying to escape you. You let out a growl of frustration - but with all your tense annoyance and general upset about the day, you weren’t going to let him get away that easily.
“Scott! Scott, come on!”
He continued to high-tail away from you, but eventually you caught up and got a hold of his backpack, grabbing onto it tightly and taking a stiff stance, causing him to freeze on the spot as he was unexpectedly yanked backward. You weren’t strong enough to overpower him, but you had startled him into stopping dead in his tracks.
“Look, Scott, you can stay and talk to me, or-”
You scrambled to come up with a good threat on the spot, not actually having much room for violence in your heart. But - you did have a lot of room for blackmail. A smirk formed across your face as you thought of the wicked idea.
“Or I can call your mom and tell her about that time during freshman year that you got drunk off UV Blue and puked blue dye all over her brand new white rug, and I rushed to clean it up before she got home.”
You let go of his backpack, and he rushed to face you, a look of insulted shock painted across his features.
He barely remembered that night - it was the first time he had ever gotten truly drunk (and, according to his werewolf status, apparently one of the few times he would ever be drunk). But he remembered feeling intense shame and panic at the gross blue vomit getting all over the rug. And then feeling safe and assured that you would clean it up and cover for him so that his mom would never find out about his drunkenness.
So that night, he went to bed and crashed, and when he woke up, his mom made a laughing comment about how Stiles had fallen asleep on the couch, and how he had parked his Jeep so awkwardly that she couldn’t fit her car into the driveway. And she had made a comment that you were ‘the only good one’ - because of course, as always, you had left the place clean and tidy.
You always had Scott’s back.
He knew that it was an empty threat.
“You wouldn’t.” Scott hissed, attempting to call your bluff.
“Oh really?” You posed, purposefully being large and over-dramatic as you reached into your back pocket and pulled out your cell phone. You didn’t unlock the screen or start dialing, but you looked Scott in the eyes as you said: “Is she still at 551-023-2024?”
“Why do you have it memorized?” Scott asked, entirely flabbergasted that you knew his mom’s cell number off by heart. (He wasn’t even entirely confident that he knew it off the top of his head.)
You rolled your eyes. “Do you have any idea how often I’ve had to call her?”
Scott looked confused by this, which surprised you.
“The time you crashed your bike in front of my house and broke your arm, and part of the bone was sticking out,” You explained, taking a breath as you began what would be an exhaustive list. Scott cringed at this memory. If it hadn’t been for your first aid skills, he probably would have been a lot worse off. “The time you and Stiles were playing Chicken with his dad’s nail gun and you nearly took his eye out,”
Scott laughed as he remembered this, and you glared at him.
“The time that Stiles called me panicking because he thought that he somehow got herpes even though he’s never had sex before, but he neglected to tell me that the two of you took a trip out into the woods to shoot cans with a BB gun and he took a piss and ended up wiping his junk with poison oak.”
Scott let out an even brighter laugh as he remembered this.
Stiles, at the time, had theorized that he had gotten an STD from the ‘sketchy looking’ urinal in the gas station bathroom that they stopped at. Which meant a far too detailed conversation about his bathroom habits when Scott jokingly asked if he had humped the urinal in order to get said STD.
“Oh, and let’s not forget-”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” Scott sighed.
He knew that he couldn’t avoid helping you. With this… thing going on between you and Isaac, being a good friend meant not picking sides. Especially because, hearing all these stories only reminded him what a good friend that you had been to him over the years. And he had to pay it back now.
“What do you need?” He asked.
You grinned at him, glad that he had finally wised up and given in. On the surface, it might seem like he was giving in because you had threatened to tattle to his mom, and because you had so much blackmail to hold over his head. But in truth, he just needed a reminder that you had been there for him so many times before, and now, he just needed to be there for you.
“Well - I need to talk to Isaac.” You insisted. “I-” You sighed, thinking for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t even know if I’m gonna get back together with him. I’m not gonna force a relationship on him if it’s not really what he wants.” You said, forcing yourself to face the truth. “But I’m not just gonna leave it all up in the air without even talking to him first.”
Scott nodded, very understanding of this. It was something he had needed with Allison too - something everyone needs at the end of a relationship.
Closure.
“Okay.” Scott said. “I’ll talk to him. And I’ll get him to make some time for you.”
You couldn’t help it, you stepped forward and embraced Scott in a tight hug, which he easily returned.
“Thank you.” You said as you pulled away, glowing a relieved smile at him.
“No problem.” He nodded.
“You know - you’re really warm.” You noted, putting a hand on his shoulder, referencing his blaring body heat. “Is that part of the whole… werewolf thing?”
It was also something you had noticed about Isaac that was different now. He used to have cold hands near constantly, and the last time he had been in your bed, his skin had been giving off heat like a furnace.
Scott just raised a brow at you, unsure how to answer, and before he could stutter out some dumb reply - the bell rang.
“Uh - I-I’m gonna go.” He said.
You nodded, and gave him a small wave as you walked off to class.
…
You raced out of class as soon as the bell rang and made it to the cafeteria in time to beat the lines. You got two sandwiches, two bottles of juice, and two cookies for yourself and Allison. You figured that if she was going to do you the favour of finally talking to you, then you could do her the favour of buying lunch. Then, you walked to the library and saw her standing outside the doors, and she smiled at you when she saw you.
“Hey,” She greeted you kindly, giving a smile.
“Hey.” You returned. And you stuck a hand out to her, holding the sandwiches in their plastic wrap. “Turkey or tuna?”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised that you had brought food, and contemplated for a moment before grabbing one. “Tuna. Thanks.” She nodded.
“I also have cookies. And juice. But I put them in my bag.” You told her.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Do you wanna go find a place to sit outside? You know how Ms. Thompson is about food in the library,”
“Yeah.” You nodded, and followed her when she began to walk toward one of the doors. “Wait - why did you ask me to meet you at the library anyway? Were you not planning on eating lunch today?”
Allison frowned and shrugged. “I guess not. I’ve just been so stressed out lately… I haven’t really been thinking about food.”
“Well that’s not gonna happen on my watch.” You told her. “Honestly, I have the opposite problem. When I get stressed out, I snack. And I wanna feed people. You should come over to my place and I’ll cook you dinner.”
Allison’s insides squeezed painfully. She hadn’t really had a good home-cooked meal since her mother had died.
“Well, you’re gonna wanna make a whole buffet when you hear what I have to tell you.” Allison sighed.
The two of you found a quiet, low trafficked area on the North side of the school, opposite from where the lacrosse field was. You sat under a tree and ate while you talked, and you grew increasingly shocked as she told you more and more things that you had never heard before. Things that you never could have imagined to be true. But the more she explained things… the more you knew she couldn’t be making any of it up.
Her family - the Argents - were werewolf hunters, and they had been for generations. Though apparently, now they were ‘retired’. You didn’t fully get that part, not with the crossbow that she kept in her bag. Though you did trust that she wasn’t actively trying to kill Scott or Isaac.
She and her family had moved to Beacon Hills last year because her father had been looking to discover the identity of, and eventually kill ‘The Alpha’ - the monster that had murdered your mother. Her Aunt Kate had gotten killed in the process, apparently as revenge from Peter Hale because of the fire she had set years before. (That was one of the only things that wasn’t news to you, because the papers had called her an arsonist shortly after her death.) What painted the fire in a new light, though - Allison said that Kate had set the fire in an attempt to make the Hale family extinct, but it had been without the help of the rest of the Argents. Killing innocent children and even non-killer werewolves in such a fire went against the Argents’ Code.
And wearing that Code proudly, Allison did assure you that she would always help Scott and Isaac when she could, rather than try to hurt them - because they weren’t killers. They would never hurt anyone, and neither would she.
She explained that with Peter Hale out of the picture, Derek Hale was now an Alpha werewolf, leader of a pack consisting of Boyd, Isaac, and previously Erica. Apparently Jackson used to be able to turn into some giant mutant lizard called The Kanima, and he had killed several people without even knowing it, and that was the reason he had moved away - not because he was now going to a fancy private school in London, like Lydia had originally told you. (You had to guess that Lydia didn’t even know the real reason why he had moved away, and she had no clue that she had been supplying you with a lie at the time.)
Even what you had heard at the time about Allison’s mother dying hadn’t been true. She had killed herself due to a rule in Argent family that if any of them receive the bite of a werewolf that causes lycanthropy, they must take their own life rather than turning into a werewolf that they are meant to hunt. In Allison’s mind, this meant that Derek Hale had killed her mother because he was the one who had bitten her.
You had to wonder if in some way, the same thing had happened to Isaac. Had Derek sentenced him to death by tainting his life with all this danger? Was The Bite nothing but a curse?
“So - did Derek bite Scott too? Does he just go around biting people? Is he trying to build up some werewolf army?” You asked, urgency stirring up in your voice.
You were curious about Derek, wondering why Isaac seemed to like him. You never got the impression that he was a ‘good’ person - especially not when Scott and Stiles were urgently insistent that you stay away from him, and they even told you that he was a murderer. (He had been arrested at one point, even if he had been let go.)
Maybe it was because Isaac had traded one abuser for another, and he didn’t know that Derek was too much like his father, too blind to see it. Or maybe you didn’t know enough about Derek to make the judgement call - but what you did know, you didn’t like.
“No, Derek wasn’t an Alpha then.” Allison explained, taking a sip of her juice. “Only a bite from an Alpha can turn someone.”
You felt vastly out of the loop, trying to catch up on all the lore, so you just nodded.
“The one who bit Scott was Peter Hale.” She explained.
“He’s dead, right?” You posed, wanting to be sure of this.
It was something you distinctly remembered - chasing down Stiles at the hospital when you had gone to check on Lydia after the attack. The worried look on his face. Questioning him when Jackson let him get into the driver’s seat of the Porsche and opening one of the doors to let yourself in before they could stop you.
The giant black beast had gone up in flames and Derek had slashed his throat. That must have been how Derek became an Alpha - by killing one.
After that night, Scott had assured you that ‘it was all over’, and you had nothing more to worry about. Boy - had he been wrong.
When Allison didn’t say anything, you hesitantly added on:
“Right?”
Allison’s expression churned with nervousness, and your insides soon matched it to a terrible degree.
You were certain of what you had seen, but you also knew that most people didn’t believe in werewolves. So you were willing to bet on the impossible.
“What? You’re telling me that he got up and walked away from that?” You snapped.
Allison didn’t have the time or the patience to explain to you what had actually happened, and she certainly didn’t want you to blame Lydia for your mother’s killer still walking the earth. So instead, she went with something else. Something much easier for you to stomach.
“Well… werewolves have a capacity to heal from a lot of things…” She mumbled out nervously.
“Great.” You sighed and rolled your eyes, hating the lump that came in your throat as you remembered that horrible beast staring you down, growling viciously before Scott had stepped between the two of you. “Well, at least that means that Isaac is less likely to get hurt.”
“Well…” Allison trailed off, clearly hesitating to tell you whatever was on her mind.
“‘Well’ what?” You prodded, anxiety stirring harshly in your stomach once again.
“Scott told me that Betas can get hurt more easily and they heal slower if they’re attacked by an Alpha.” She explained.
“And Isaac is a Beta?” You concluded, thinking aloud.
Allison nodded, her expression grim.
“So, that would only be a problem if Derek attacked him, right?” You theorized, your throat clenching up terribly.
A horrible thought flashed in your mind. It was Isaac’s father all over again. It was why he had been so shaken when he had appeared at your door the other night. But there hadn’t been any marks on him. (You did know how terribly deep mental scars could go, but you were thankful that nobody had put their hands on him.)
“Well - there’s this Alpha pack-”
“Alpha pack?” You gaped. “A whole pack of Alphas? A whole horde of those monsters?”
Allison nodded hesitantly, looking at you with sadness clouding her eyes.
“Is that who’s been killing people?” You wondered aloud - though you had heard that the recent murders had been by strangulation, and that didn’t seem like a very ‘werewolf’ method of killing someone. “Are Scott and Isaac in danger? Do-?”
“It’s okay.” Allison said firmly, cutting you off. “You don’t have to worry about Scott and Isaac. They can take care of themselves.”
You did trust that to be the truth, but-
“I know. I just hate being so… uninformed.” You sighed.
“Trust me, I know the feeling.” Allison nodded. “If anything else major happens, I’ll tell you. But you have to try not to worry so much, okay? You have to worry about the things you can control.” She said, doling out the same advice her father had given to her after her mother had died. “Like lunch and… hanging out with your friends for a little while.”
You knew that this was covertly her way of thanking you, and you couldn’t help but to let out a small laugh.
“Well - thank you for telling me all this,” You said. “It’s nice to not feel like I’m missing some giant piece of the puzzle.”
“It is a very relieving feeling.” She nodded. “Oh, and by the way, Scott’s eyes do glow when he-”
“Too much information!”
Both of you burst into laughter, laughing so hard that your cheeks began to hurt. It was nice to spend time with one of your best friends again.
…
Luckily, the rest of the day flew by fairly fast for you.
Even if thoughts of Alpha packs and the potential of Isaac getting hurt lingered in the back of your mind, you tried your best to follow Allison’s advice. You tried your hardest to push him to the back of your mind, trying to focus on what was in front of you. Which, stupidly, turned out to make you think of Isaac even more.
Your last class of the day was art. And during the last bit of free time you were given, you found yourself sketching a pair of sad, bright blue eyes that looked all too familiar.
You just couldn’t keep him off your mind, could you?
…
Three months of lunchtime and after school detentions.
That’s what Isaac had been sentenced to for beating up Ethan. But it was a comparatively low punishment when he had originally believed that he was going to be suspended. The Principal had gone easy on him when his ranting yells about threatening to call Isaac’s father had been met with Isaac’s dull reminder that his father was dead, and so was his mother - Isaac didn’t have any parents to threaten to call. And because he was eighteen, he didn’t even have any legal guardians that the Principal could threaten to call either.
It also helped that when the school nurse reported back about Ethan’s injuries, she didn’t seem to have anything to report. After wiping the blood off his face, he didn’t seem to have any major injuries. And Isaac had to play dumb about the whole thing while the nurse theorized that the blood had come from his nose that Isaac had ‘aggravated, but not broken’ while hitting him.
He couldn’t break into an outburst about how the motherfucker had werewolf healing and Isaac hadn’t done any damage to him anyway.
But still, due to the fact that Isaac had hit him, and Aiden’s whiny verbal report that Isaac had choked his brother, even though there were no marks on his neck - it still seemed bad. So Isaac now owed three months worth of detention for snapping on the guy.
It was worth it, though, he quickly decided as he lugged a large cart of supplies up the stairs to begin restocking the janitor’s closet. Hopefully they got the message and stayed far away from you. They could mess with him all they wanted, but he had made it clear: you were fully off limits. If anybody went near you - werewolf or human - they should be prepared to meet a world of pain.
You were on your way out of the school after art class had ended, your sketchbook in hand, physically and emotionally exhausted from the day. You were fully prepared to go home and watch Food Network alone while doing your homework in far too much detail in a continued attempt to avoid thinking too much about Isaac. And of course, you just happened to cross his path once again. You saw him carting a large trolley of stuff toward the janitor’s closet, and against your better judgement, you walked over to him.
“Need some help?”
You asked, trying your best to sound bright and helpful, not wanting to sound like you were upset with him. With his father’s ghost still weighing on him, the slightest change in your tone of voice could send him spiralling. It was an effort, because the smallest part of you was upset at him for trying his hardest to avoid you.
All of his muscles visibly tensed, and you wondered if you had done something to upset him. You wondered if he regretted the sex, if the night that the two of you had spent together had been a mistake…
“No.” He huffed, refusing to face you as he opened the door to the janitor’s closet and wheeled the trolley inside. “This is detention. My punishment. I’m not supposed to have help.”
You were itching to ask him why he had detention in the first place. Of course, you knew that it likely had something to do with what had happened that earlier morning that you still hadn’t been told about. But knowing Isaac, even if you asked about it, he wouldn’t tell you either. He would clam up if you asked him about it. And you didn’t want him feeling guilty or thinking that you were trying to interrogate him for his ‘sins’, especially because he obviously thought that whatever he had done was worthy of ‘punishment’.
So you took a different approach.
You stepped into the closet with him, shouldering off your bag and dropping it into the corner, still holding your sketchbook in one hand as you came to stand beside him.
“So - I’ll keep you company, then.” You posed gently. “We can just… talk.”
“No.” Isaac bit back harshly, still not looking at you.
“Look, you know we have a lot to talk about-”
“Y/N, can you please just leave?” He spat the words like horrible venom, saying your name like it was poison on his lips. You couldn’t help the hurt that flowed through you at this. He peered over his shoulder at you, his jaw stiff as he added on: “I don’t want you here.”
It felt so horribly forced. Once again, you were rocketed back to that terrible day in the locker room - seeing him covered in Erica’s poison red lipstick, believing a play you knew wasn’t real. And this time, rather than running away like Isaac wanted you to, you forced yourself to plant your feet.
“Why?”
You asked, your voice quivering, your stomach so tight, your hands shaking as you clutched onto the hardcover sketchbook. A book that was so full of Isaac, so full of your heart when you couldn’t get him out of your head, desperate for something to hold onto. You knew you couldn’t reach out and touch him, terrified of being rejected again, and still - you held him desperately close.
Isaac forced himself to face you. And he took a sharp breath.
‘I don’t want you getting hurt. I can’t be the reason you get hurt.’
The words were plump on his tongue, but never made it to the air.
Something horrible happened.
The door to the closet slammed shut and both of your attention was quickly directed to it. Swallowed up in suffocating darkness and now promptly aware of just how small the much larger than average closet was, Isaac rushed toward the door, yanking frantically on the handle as if trying to pull it right off.
“It’s locked! It’s locked!” He yelled, his voice tight with panic. “We’re stuck!”
You tossed down your book, unsure what to do - hesitant to reach out for him, knowing that he was already spiraling into a terrible panic. You knew all the details of what his father had done to him. He had told you about the freezer one day after you had invited him over to help you paint your bedroom and a mishap with a ladder falling over had caused him to get stuck in your closet, which turned him into a screaming, panicking mess. Not long after, he had been compelling to confess everything, and a lot of things about him quickly made sense in your eyes.
“C-can you break it?” You stuttered out, hating the way his back was shaking, the way his muscles were so tense. “Can you break the door handle?”
You began looking around the room for things that might be able to break the door down, wondering if using the trolley as a battering ram could work. But Isaac was a step ahead of you mentally, furiously shedding off his cardigan before he then began ramming his shoulder into the door.
“There - there’s something on the other side.” He said, his voice reduced to a small, pathetic whimper. He collapsed against the door, his forehead pressed against it in a pose of pure hopelessness.
Before you could wonder what, or who, had locked the two of you in here, Isaac’s gentle cries distracted you from further problem solving. His distress awakened something in you, and rather than continuing to formulate some plan on how to get out, that instinct of caring that you had toward him took over. He was beginning to pant harshly as he hyperventilated, panicking, and you heard him muttering ‘no, no, no, no’ as his mind was muddled with terrible emotions.
You had to put a stop to it. You had to calm him down before anything else could be done.
You stepped toward him, gently laying your cheek against his quivering back, tightly wrapping your arms around his waist. You squeezed as hard as you could, delivering as much pressure as you could muster, trying to regulate his nervous system.
“You’re not there.” You said firmly, loudly, trying to ground him. “You’re not there. You’re not alone.”
Isaac took in a shuddering breath, and you felt the chaos in his lungs right underneath your cheek. In the back of your mind, you were sure that you made his shirt wet as you released some tears of your own, your empathy for his pain nearly swallowing you whole.
You couldn’t help but to squeeze him harder. You needed to hold him close. You needed him to feel your love.
“I can’t - I can’t -” He heaved, still struggling to breathe.
“You’re okay.” You said firmly. “You’re here with me. You’re not alone, Isaac. You’re okay.”
“Please, I-” He took a sharp gulp. “Let me - let me - I need to see your face, please.”
Hesitantly, only compelled by the pure desperation in his voice, you let go of him, and he numbly turned away from the door, leaning against it. He was covered in a layer of sweat now, and when he faced you, his lashes were glued together with tears, some streaked down his flushed cheeks.
Instinctively, you put a hand over his heart, hating how much it was racing under your palm. He clasped his hand on top of yours, his grip almost crushingly tight. You put your other hand on the side of his flushed, sticky cheek, drawing him in so that his forehead gently pressed against yours.
“I’m here.” You told him firmly once again. “You’re not alone. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
There it was again - that dangerous proclamation that he wasn’t alone. The fatal idea that he wouldn’t have to be alone again. The sound of such a perfect fantasy given to him from your sweet lips, delivered to him like it was the truth. Your eyes were so warm, and you were right there. You were right in front of him like nothing had changed. Like the world wasn’t cursed by dangerous Alphas and sacrificial killers and the cruel fate that always seemed to follow him.
He could have reached out and kissed you and he knew that you wouldn’t have pushed him away. You were looking at him with such warmth, with that perfect loving pity yet again.
He could have kissed you, and you would not have pushed him away. You never would.
But that was your whole problem. You didn’t know the difference between a lover and a monster. And he had to save you before you found out the hard way.
“No.” He grunted out.
He needed to make sure that you stayed away before it was too late.
“Isaac?” You questioned, having no clue why he seemed so upset again just as his breathing was evening out.
“No.” He growled.
In an intense moment, in a fierce bid to protect you from himself, with some of that horrible panic still spiking in his system - his eyes flashed yellow and his claws sprouted against his will, and he reached up, grabbing your arm that held a hand to his imperfect heart. He only meant to push you away, but with those wicked claws, he accidentally scratched two deep gashes into your skin. It was something that he would never forgive himself for.
“Ow!” You hissed out, more shocked than in pain.
By instinct, you took a large step back, cradling your arm, and Isaac let out a deep growl. His own self hatred for hurting you fueled his adrenaline, and he found himself unable to shift back. You stared him down in horror as his eyes continued to glow and his teeth sprouted into sharp fangs.
“Isaac?” You called out his name, wondering if he was in control of this, or if some greater force had taken over.
Before you could wonder for too much longer, the door to the closet burst open, letting in a flood of light - you squinted past it, wondering who your saviour was. That saviour pulled Isaac outside by the collar of his shirt, pinning him to the floor harshly.
“Isaac! Isaac, stop! Isaac!”
Scott. You easily recognized his voice - and soon, Isaac’s animalistic growls dissolved into more pathetic whimpers. When you next caught a glimpse of him, his eyes were back to their usual blue colour, and his claws and fangs were nowhere to be seen. Whatever werewolf mind trick he had pulled on Isaac, it had worked.
Cowering on the floor, Isaac noticed your sketchbook - one of you had kicked into the hallway and knocked the cover open. His eyes fixated on a picture you had drawn - a hyper-realistic wolf that had soft, baby blue eyes. You must not have known that for werewolves, blue eyes when shifted were the mark of a killer. That was likely what you thought of him as now: nothing but a horrible beast, a monster.
He had no clue that you had drawn it because you thought it was something so soft and beautiful. Because you had been thinking about Isaac as something sweeter and more docile… like a puppy. Something loyal that would sit in your lap at the end of a long day. Which is what he had done long before he had ever received The Bite.
Your attention was locked onto Scott as he stepped in to check on you and Isaac huddled tightly against the door, seemingly eager to get away from you once again. You knew that he was likely embarrassed and upset that he had unintentionally hurt you.
“Are you okay?” Scott asked, his voice steady, but deeply concerned.
“Yes, I’m fine.” You said, trying to hastily hide your arm behind your back.
You didn’t know that due to his heightened werewolf senses, he could smell the blood. He reached over and gently grabbed your wrist, and pushed up your now ripped sleeve to reveal the large cuts you had on your arm.
“It was an accident.” You quickly explained. “He-”
“I know.” Scott said, nodding, his face tight with a serious thoughtfulness.
Behind him, Isaac made haste in getting up off the floor, and without so much as another word to either of you, he took off running at top speed. That was definitely something he was good at - running away from people who cared about him.
“Uh-” Scott looked from you to Isaac’s retreating form, clearly torn about who he should take care of first.
“I’ll be fine.” You insisted. “Go after him. He doesn’t wanna see me right now. You might be able to help.”
“Are you sure?” He asked.
“Yes!” You insisted, giving him a nudge. “Go!”
“Okay.” Scott stepped out of the closet, and took one last look at you, continuing to talk while he took hesitant steps away. “There’s a first aid kit in Coach’s office, make sure you get some bandages or something. He keeps the door unlocked in case anybody needs it.”
You nodded and tried to wave him away.
“I’ve got it covered.” You assured him.
“Okay, I’ll text you later!”
He then ran after Isaac - and you just hoped that Isaac would be more receptive toward Scott.
You then began to gather your things, and when you found your sketchbook on the floor, open to the sketch you had made that was a distant imagining of Isaac’s werewolf form… you just hoped that he hadn’t actually had time to look at it. He was probably insulted by it, or found it to be strange. When you went to grab your bag from inside the closet, you noticed that his cardigan was still on the floor where he had torn it off in a haste.
You knew that he wasn’t likely to come back and get it anytime soon. Selfishly, you lifted it up to your nose and inhaled. It smelled like a new body wash that you hadn’t noticed on him before. But it still distinctly smelled like him, like his natural scent. You opened your bag and stuffed it inside, telling yourself that you would give it back to him the next time you saw him - if he would let there be a ‘next time’.
Ugh.
…
Scott caught up to Isaac far outside the school - he would give the guy credit, he could definitely run far and fast when he wanted to.
“Isaac, what the hell was that?” Scott hissed, both of them slightly out of breath, and walking in stride.
Isaac still refused to slow down much even though he was clearly starting to tire, and Scott just tried his best to keep up with him.
“I think you know what that was.” Isaac replied sharply. “The sharp teeth, the claws, the glowing eyes - the wonderful thing that was supposed to fix my life, make me whole, heal me.”
Maybe he was beginning to regret it. Maybe he was beginning to regret you. Which one, he wasn’t quite sure.
“Not what I meant.” Scott rolled his eyes. “You left her, and she was terrified-”
Scott was exaggerating. You had been fine. He didn’t know that it was the wrong card to play with Isaac - it didn’t make him feel dutiful and empathetic, it just made him further wallow in his own guilt.
“Exactly.” Isaac hissed. “She was terrified because I’m a monster. I should be exiled out to the woods, where all the other monsters belong.”
Isaac took off running again, and Scott was too tired - perhaps more emotionally than physically - to keep up.
“Isaac!”
Scott just hoped that Isaac would come home on his own, that he would know that Scott still loved him, and still wanted him around. Scott hoped that he wouldn’t have to go out looking for Isaac. He didn’t need another thing to worry about.
...
I would really like to see this part get 10 Comments and 10 Reblogs before I post Chapter Three - this could include anonymous asks if you're a bit shy and you still want to comment, and I am totally okay if this could include multiple reblogs from the same enthusiastic person or people.
I think that this number is really low considering that currently the first chapter currently has 92 notes, and the point of this is to encourage some people who have only liked the chapter(s) and not reblogged them to comment and reblog in order to 'unlock' more of the story.
If I was being really overeager, I would say that I would like to see 30 comments and 30 reblogs to equal to 60 people of the people who only liked the fic, but the tricky thing about likes is that I don't know if people bookmarked it for later or if they actually read it - which is another reason why I encourage people to comment and reblog. I want to know that you actually read the story and that you haven't just liked it for it later. (I definitely understand that happens, but if you read the fic, I wanna know.)
Anyway, I will likely increase this number on the next chapter in accordance with the interaction that the fic gets, and I am very thankful to everyone who has left comments on the first chapter and reblogged. I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Sunny ☀️


















