# KINDOFUNEVEN ⸻ scott mccall, rescued from mtv's teen wolf & raised with love since 2012. headcanon driven, selectively canon divergent, very crossover heavy and source material critical, mostly through rewrites that address scott's constant dehumanization and parentification. 21+ only, have an alias, age, & basic info accessible ! UNAFFILIATED WITH THE TEEN WOLF FANDOM & DOES NOT ACCEPT THE 2023 FILM AS CANON. not duplicate friendly. anti - jdavis. anti - AI. read all pages before following, hydrate, take your meds, be kind to yourself and each other.
as of march 10 / 25, i will no longer follow any blogs for teen wolf canon characters ( multis are on a case - by - case basis, but exceptions are gonna be rare ) or any blogs that are heavily affiliated with / integrated into the fandom. i'm tired of the same bullshit takes, i'm tired of the misinterpretations, i'm tired of the plagiarism, i'm tired of the blatant racism that this fandom still won't take accountability for and i'm tired of being talked over, talked down to, and dismissed by white writers who want to defend their problematic white faves while doing everything possible to erase and dehumanize the latino lead of a whitewashed show crammed full of racial bias and stereotypes. it's 2026, do better. this does not apply to any current mutuals, but i reserve the right to block if i deem it necessary.
the last of the groceries are loaded into trunk , nice & neat & oh so normal . formula . household supplies . produce . meat she didn't have to butcher herself . sometimes , even years later , the ease of it still feels wrong : like a dream of abundance , she is always braced to wake up back in the wilderness . alone . she slams the trunk shut , the sound sharp against scott's soft voice . ' just get in the minivan , scott . i won't bite . ' spoken like it should be obvious , like she hasn't spent the better part of the years since their rescue pretending like he simply didn't exist .
she steps around to put callie in her carseat , pauses for a moment to push back the little wisp of brown hair sprouted from tiny head . otherwise she doesn't linger : it's hard to look at callie for too long sometimes , too much of a reminder that she's not the son she lost but instead a symbol of the marriage shauna has trapped herself into . she buckles the baby in securely , shuts the door behind her & takes a breath . god dammit . of the other survivors , scott ranked pretty low on the list of any of them that she'd actually want to see . she's already regretting saying yes to coffee when she climbs into the driver's seat , 2000s pop music blaring as the car starts .
there's a coffee shop only about two blocks away , some lame hipster cafe that popped up only a few months ago . she's never been , but pulls into the parking lot anyway . neutral ground , or whatever . there's a definite air of awkwardness as she sits down at an empty table , absently bouncing callie in her arms . she gestures to the chair across from her , silently telling scott to take a seat . then she truly assesses him for the first time today , doe brown eyes sizing him up . he hasn't changed much from what she remembers , except maybe the nose ring . she doesn't know if that's comforting or not . ' you know , i thought you were pretty comfortable in california . i didn't think you'd come back . '
it should feel like progress, and it doesn't. he almost says no. almost keeps walking to avoid turning this into something it's not. something with texture, heavy as blood - soaked canvas. words kick at the base of his throat and his body locks for maybe five seconds before he forces it to yield. circling the van, getting into the passenger seat while she straps her daughter in. music takes some of the weight off. loud enough to fill the space, consistent enough that he can pretend to forget what's outside of it. a town he used to know, two blocks of passing snapshots like slides in those toy binoculars he had when he was six. he can't figure out what feels normal and what's more like an out - of - body experience.
most days, from thousands of miles away, wiskayok is a fever dream that someone else described to him after too many drinks. seeing it more or less how he'd left it leaves a metallic taste in his mouth. seeing shauna with groceries and a baby and a wedding ring is so deliberately normal that it almost feels fake. they don't say anything for the entire drive. scott's working the silence between his teeth, trying to decide how to break it, but she does it first. he'd sat when she gestured, like he got into the van when she'd told him to. the unease of it all stretches like wire. nothing about her is openly antagonistic, and that's the thing. rip currents don't seem dangerous until you're already underwater.
" i wanted to, " he says, because it's the truth. he's been back a couple of times since he first left, but he didn't see her then, and he didn't stay. his leg starts to bounce under the table, pressing the ball of his foot into linoleum like he's hoping for a sinkhole to open up underneath. " things got — busy, i guess. i mean, with school, and work, and making sure that my mom was okay, there wasn't really time for a trip across the country. " stacking excuses like a deck of cards. no matter how sincere, the connotations don't look great. a quick, easy smile hitches into place. that's what you're supposed to do, right? smile, make conversation, make it easy. " besides, you look like you've had your hands full. how old is she now, anyway? "
why are you afraid now that i'm giving you what you want? / from ms monroe xo
memes, always accepting / @packmenta1ity !
she sounds more like gerard than she'll ever know. scott hears a conversation that he'd had more than ten years ago, caught in the playback, like he's listening to it from another room. he remembers that room. sick and stale, a room that people only live in while they're waiting to die. gerard tried this routine. he tried to chisel at scott's resolve, to change the shape of an opinion that had already calcified. i wonder, when it became my nature to believe most things couldn't be asked for but had to be taken. monroe is playing the same game.
scott affords himself a second and listens fully to the rhythm of her pulse. downbeat, uptick. not a single spike. gerard's was steady, too. because i was telling the truth, he'd insisted, and scott can see it, the earnest expression, the carefully practiced surprise. he talked like he'd watched a tutorial on how to be an honest person and skipped the parts that made it convincing. or because you're a really good liar. credit where it's due, scott thinks — she had a qualified teacher. no one he's ever met could sell bullshit with as much conviction as gerard.
there's an unnatural calm in the set of his shoulders. everything about him is calm, except for his eyes. they're sharp, focused, too dark. he's calm like that silence before a storm hits. the kind that tears whole neighborhoods apart, rips out trees by the roots. why are you afraid? he wants to scoff. laugh. scream. something. all he does is watch her, evaluating the threat like an animal in the woods.
" i'm not afraid. i just don't believe you. " his tone's even, but the cadence of it has an edge. low, quiet, rough as gravel. she tilts her head and he mirrors it, removing the option for her to look away. " after all this time, after everything, you're telling me that you want a ceasefire? how many times did i ask you, before now? how many chances did i give you to end all of this? do you remember? 'cause i don't. i lost count, actually. so, no, " a muscle tics in his cheek, " no, i don't believe you. i think you're stalling. i don't know why, but i'm gonna figure it out. you once told me that you wanted to see me beg for peace. you told me that if we ran, you'd hunt us down until every last one of us was gone. and you did that. you've been doing that. and now you wanna stop? shake hands and call it a draw, and everybody goes home? no. i'm not buying it. not from you. "
something flickers in the void of her gaze like stone striking flint. scott moves, a slight shift of his weight, measuring her reaction. " convince me, " he says. half invitation, half challenge. " if you're serious, then you're gonna have to work a little harder to prove it. "
sender licks receiver's blood off their thumb (we couldn't resist, feel free to ignore if it doesn't make sense sdfka)
memes, always accepting / @klaeus !
scalp wounds bleed a lot. clusters of superficial blood vessels just under the skin that tear easily, even if the injury isn't serious. scott remembers his mom explaining it to him, a million years ago, after he'd bashed his head on the monkey bars and fully believed that he was dying because there was so much blood, but he was fine. a band - aid, an ice pack, a lump that formed later. no sutures. he was fine then and he's fine now. healing fast, that familiar itch and pull of regenerating cells like nature's own suture kit. the runoff is familiar, too, except his own blood doesn't make him panic anymore, not by a long shot. klaus didn't flinch. didn't seem remotely bothered, which is pretty much what scott expected.
what scott didn't expect was for klaus to raise his thumb and primly catch some of the red with his tongue, like he'd smashed an order of hot wings and didn't want to waste any sauce. scott blinks, adjusting his expectations in real time. it isn't funny, but that's why it's funny : he really should've seen that coming.
" you could've bought me a drink first. " flat, not unamused. his expression lands halfway between curiosity and mild admonishment. it might be different, if they hadn't met before. if all that he had to go on were rumors and stories and a hell of a reputation. none of those cancel each other out, but scott isn't afraid of him yet. he hasn't had a direct reason to be. that could change at any point, he figures — right now, he's more intent on ducking out to scour himself clean in an unbearably hot shower. eyebrows raised, he wipes his forehead once more and then looks thoughtfully at the cloth he's holding. weighing the risk of making another joke or just letting the moment slide by. he opts for the latter. " i'm good, by the way. but i guess you knew that already. i'd apologize for the mess if you weren't enjoying it so much. "
just another dull wiskayok day : people going about their business , cars driving in the street , kids going to school . somewhere in the parking lot of a grocery store , a housewife is loading groceries into her car , baby strapped to her chest . unassuming to those who have never seen beneath the cloak of normalcy , scratched the surface to see the true rot underneath . scott knows better than to startle her , called out his greeting from several cars away . he's received with a huff & a dismissal : she's busy , okay , hauling all these stupid ass bags into her car so she can go home and make dinner for her husband ..... like any of it actually matters .
shauna takes a moment to just look at scott when he asks her to coffee . a brutal denial on the tip of her tongue , but she pauses when callie coos , wide eyes looking around at a world that hasn't hurt her yet . she wants to set a better example for her daughter , knows she's not exactly the epitome of wholesome maternal figures . figures a sliver of kindness could only benefit them both , at least for now . ' coffee ? ' she repeats , impossible to tell if it's surprise or disdain . ' do i look that exhausted ? ' a question to which she already knows the answer , & continues with a grimace . ' don't answer that , actually . she's still not sleeping through the night . ' baby's big blue eyes peer at scott , a happy interested gurgle that opposes the expression in its mothers eyes .
her life has shrunk to a pinpoint since giving birth to callie . every waking moment revolves around her , shauna never gets any time for herself anymore . resentment twists in her chest before she suppresses it , holds callie a little closer as if silently apologizing for even thinking it . ' it is a terrible idea , ' she affirms . ' but if you're offering . i guess i'll go . ' it's been so long since she's hung out with another adult other than jeff , and although scott isn't exactly high on her ranking at least he's here ..... & it's hard to imagine him with the ulterior motives the others might carry , though suspicion never ebbs completely .
nothing wavers on the outside, but he's gotten good at that. controlling how he reacts like it's programmed in advance, neatly coded into his dna. she grimaces, he nearly smiles, the moment passes clean and he catches the curveball like it didn't faze him. that's the easy part. the part that doesn't smell like blood and wet wool and rot. memory peels and overlaps like a stuttering film reel. shauna in a grocery store parking lot with a cooing baby on her chest. shauna in a cabin screaming because none of them heard the baby cry. nothing wavers on the outside. the baby, this baby, the one that's alive and pink - cheeked and not sleeping through the night, blinks at him with huge blue eyes and knocks something loose in his chest. the axis tips and steadies itself, like slipping on ice and grabbing someone's hand before you fall.
" you guess? " he's careful to keep it between soft and teasing, not too much of either. " works for me. my, uh, " a hand slips from his pocket, gestures down the lot, " my bike's that way. i can meet you somewhere, if you don't wanna carpool. " it hasn't fully sunk in yet that he has no idea what they'll talk about once they get there. small - talk feels like a copout, but catching up in any bigger way is a door that wouldn't be safe to open even if they wanted to. maybe they won't talk at all, and the silence won't be that bad. it can't be worse than what they're used to.
that suddenly, a rush of total selfishness hits him like a wall. the debris were still airborne when he'd left town. the dust hadn't even settled yet and his mom was telling him to pack his bags for california. she'd wanted him clear of the fallout, but even then, especially then, when everything felt fresh and terrible and impossible, it felt like abandonment. he went home to california while they were all still scattered in the wilderness. that's not a conversation that you have over coffee. it's not a conversation to have, period. scott brushes it off. all of it, all at the same time, and takes half a casual step backwards. " i'll meet you, " he decides, like that removes a layer from this. or adds a layer. " just tell me where. "
static drones through the line for almost a full minute before scott clocks that he's the one causing it. that he'd checked out of the call three words in, because his mind stopped writing the script. he didn't know what came next. couldn't remember how to turn a blank page and a blinking cursor into something cohesive, something that made sense, an explanation that didn't have to be a lie.
rain pelts the awning above him. cars file past in staggered rows, light bouncing off the pavement. there's a second or two where he's seeing hospital lights instead — harsh fluorescent panels and the clatter of a gurney across tile.
deaton's voice filters between the static. saying his name once, like a question, then again, a firm statement. " yeah. i'm here, sorry. " he clears the rasp in his throat and the noise levels out all at once, like somebody disconnected a pair of headphones. a black SUV slows in front of him. tinted windows, so he can't see inside. he holds it in the center of his vision like crosshairs and doesn't exhale again until it's gone, switching lanes, cornering to disappear at the end of the block.
' when were you supposed to be back? '
less firm this time and more like how you'd ask a question that you've already logged the answer to. scott's grip shifts around the phone, the low point of his next breath holding for a beat in the hollow of his ribs. " tomorrow morning, " he says finally. hesitates, like deaton probably knew he would. " but i might be a little longer. i haven't heard back from ethan yet, and the warehouse was another dead end, so ... um, so we're gonna try something else. before we head back, i mean. "
guilt pushes up underneath his jaw bone, locking it briefly in place. he's tossing breadcrumbs. pieces of information that don't add up to anything that helps, and deaton knows him well enough to recognize when he's withholding.
he bites the inside of his cheek, a hard exhale through his nose. " could you just, uh — could you talk to my mom for me? i already tried calling her, but i think she's still at work, and i won't be able to charge my phone for a while. just, um. just tell her that i'm okay, and that i'll be home as soon as i can, alright? everything's fine, i promise. "
" right. got it. " he has to scale back the impulse to drop a wry and it's nice to see you, too. she'd already sniped him twice. with a look, and with a line like a preemptive strike. like just being here is enough to make it weird. in scott's defense, this wasn't a targeted meet. he's in town without an agenda. it always happens eventually : the tug of an old wound, like trying to dig stitches out from under scar tissue because you left them for longer than you should've. a lot longer. scar tissue doesn't mean that you healed, only that your body adapted to cover the mess.
the funny thing is, he's almost relieved by shauna's reception. it feels normal. something that stayed intact, from before.
he keeps his distance and watches her mildly as she loads a couple of bags into her car. the same ones he'd asked if he could help with, before those two shots rang out. i don't need any of that weird shit today. there's a heaping pile of weird shit that none of them ever needed, but the universe, as it turns out, has a twisted sense of humor. he shifts his weight, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. curled where no one can see the tics. the way he's constantly pushing his nails into his palms, scraping at skin like he's trying to reach bone. his shoulders hitch a little. " so, uh. i guess asking if you want to grab a coffee is a terrible idea, right? "
sentimental to his own detriment clearly hasn't changed, but he's not expecting a yes. a coffee isn't a moral imperative. giving shauna an olive branch comes with pretty decent odds of her setting it on fire. the corner of his mouth twitches. " we don't have to do the whole catching up routine or anything. i just figured i'd offer, while i'm here. "
sender hushes receiver after hearing an odd, howling sound from the woods nearby.
memes, always accepting / @eatbitch !
he treks out at dusk. armed with nothing but hope and a dead girl's inhaler, both running dangerously close to empty. shauna's not far. a hundred yards, give or take. normally he'd leave her alone. if the sun was still up and the shadows weren't starting to stretch, long and uneasy, like reaching fingers. there's something sentient about the nights out here that sets his back teeth on edge. among other things. scott steps loudly on purpose, giving her a fair warning so she has less of a reason to snap at him for sneaking up on her. not that she needs a reason. not that he blames her ; nobody signed up for this. it isn't anyone's fault. " hey. it's gonna be dark soon. " no points earned for stating the obvious. " are you almost done, with ... whatever you're doing? " maybe half a point for not prying.
when she doesn't respond right away, he sucks in a clipped breath. " okay, look, i know that i'm not exactly the first person that you'd pick to be stranded with, or be anywhere with, but couldn't we at least try to act like — " like she doesn't hate his guts in a way that simultaneously feels intentional and totally obscure. she shushes him before he gets that far, and he figures she's just done with the conversation. telling him to shut up without telling him. but that's not it. realization seizes him like a violent cramp.
he missed it the first time. the second time plays like a sound bite from a horror movie. resonant, pitching high and then low. it's an animal. it can't be anything else. animal calls are eerie sometimes. bobcats, mountain lions, owls, foxes, they can all sound like something they're not. scott's skin prickles cold anyway. his eyes catch shauna's and hold, seeking confirmation that they haven't completely gone off the rails yet. " probably a wolf or something, " he says, barely an octave above a whisper. " i don't really want to stay and find out, do you? "
he angles himself away from his locker, leaning it quietly shut. the air shifts around mason's question. around mason, standing there like he'd blurted it out before he could convince himself not to, holding the tension of a kid confessing to a low grade on a test. " that's what you wanted to talk to me about? " scott asks him, and it lands soft by comparison. mason nods. shoulders up, like he's blocking a cold breeze.
scott's fingers curl loosely against his palm as he drops his hand. he works his lip between his teeth for a beat. when mason opens his mouth, already starting to course - correct, he waves gently to cut him off. " no, hey, it's okay. i get why you're asking. to tell you the truth, i'm not sure that it's ... " trailing off like the slow downward turn of a volume knob. it wanes into a sigh, but there's no impatience behind it. more like he's trying to map the best approach. mason lets him get there without interrupting. not sure that it's the best time, is what he'd nearly said, but that isn't totally true. it's rarely ever a good time. they don't get to prepare in advance, train for disaster before it hits. they have to do it on the fly. adapt to catastrophe while it's happening, not in case it happens.
and mason's in it. he's been in it for a while. the ghost riders aren't pulling any punches, and everyone is marked, and no one is safe. no one is allowed to sit this one out. benching mason now won't protect him from what's already here.
scott shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck like it hurts. " yeah, " he says steadily. " yeah, i'll teach you. i'm not an expert — you'd be better off with someone like argent for that, or braeden, but i'll do my best. c'mon, " bag hefted off the bench, swung over his shoulder, " unless you've got somewhere else to be, we might as well get started. "
it's hard to look at him. not that he's unsightly — more that he's unsettling. lucy loses a whole lotta comfort when she can't figure one side of the fence to the other, the gray areas of their conversation creepin' in over the horizon. an accident, he says: as if any monster is a monster by accident. as if death by a creature isn't somethin' innate, flush to their blood and fueling their carnage. body after body, she's seen it— the unveiling of self. the truth about what these sorta beings can do.
yet, here he is, working the case, same as her. still, oh-so-different. it makes her want to claw at the walls, scratch her own skin off. something's not right, sure, but lucy thinks it has little to do with their hunt— far more to do with them.
"not often that it isn't an accident." muttered, and half a slight. not intentional, really, but she finds it hard to keep these types of things sealed shut. she scrubs at her eyes, runs a hand through tangled strands, and then spares a look his way. "i don't leave jobs unfinished." everything sounds like sharp edges coming out of her mouth these days, and she tries to soften the blow. "'s okay. don't worry 'bout me."
his jaw tics at the hinge, quick enough to miss if you're not watching for it. nothing else changes, not on the outside, but over a decade of practiced restraint closes around his heart like a fist. not often doesn't mean that it can't happen. he's seen it. the result of circumstance and stolen agency, becoming something that you never wanted to be. he knows how it feels to have that choice removed by force and to fight with everything you've got to get it back.
she'd slipped the dig under her breath like the words escaped without asking permission. the pause is louder. barbed exhaustion, a sparsely thrown look. scott's hand smooths over the book's cover again, pad of his thumb pushing into the corner. things like this aren't simple. they're never exactly how they read on the surface. she has her reasons, just like he does, and arguing about it won't tip the scales.
" okay. " there's more appeal in a compromise than a debate. she's willing to see this through, and it isn't the first time he's allied himself with someone who kept their trust locked inside a room that he didn't have access to. not yet. maybe not ever. he's nowhere near the level of hypocrisy to cast stones at glass houses. " then we'll finish it. the rain would've washed away everything from that last crime scene, but if i can get a look at the body, i can catch the scent of whoever's responsible. you know where they took it? "
" the guy that killed me stole it from a psych hospital eight years ago. it's basically harmless, as long as you don't put it on. " leaving the context open - ended makes it impossible to know if he's underreacting. he doesn't look fazed. enough time's passed that he doesn't have to dilute the memory like a bad aftertaste. he circles the table, glances at the mask without touching it. not like he's scared to ; he's assessing quietly, working his way towards a better explanation.
" i think it has something to with electromagnetic fields. and it lets you ... see things, sort of, but i don't think it works unless you're like us. unless you've got some kind of an ability, i mean. it's hard to explain. " pause. the mask sits between them, blank - eyed and strange, silent as a threat that's waiting patiently for you to fold. scott reaches out and spins it to face the wall. he can't decide whether his palm's tingling afterwards or not. maybe his mind filled in the blank. threaded a residual current through something that hasn't been touched since he was eighteen, and not even by him.
" i've never used it, " he tells her, casually earnest. " i just know that it's better off in here than out there. people that screw around with stuff like this aren't usually doing it because they have good intentions. they usually don't care who it hurts. so, we keep it in here, where it can't hurt anyone. "
it's a loaded question, only because he's used to deflecting. to reshaping his answer like soft clay, bending the truth so no one worries. nico's never been the lecturing type, at least not with scott. worry looks different on him. keen and direct in how he levels his focus, waiting for an honest answer, and scott hasn't committed to the alternative. " a while, i guess? " he hedges, feeling the itch behind his eyelids like an elbow to the ribs. " a couple of days. maybe longer. i'm not sure. " the days are all blending again. merging like paint smeared across canvas, or blood staining fabric. that spread of color in monochrome shades until you can't find the seams, can't tell where one stroke starts and the next one ends.
he rubs his face with the heel of his hand. waits for the static to clear, then offers the upward tilt of a nod. " when's the last time that you slept? " it's more gentle admonishment than an attempt to dodge the callout.
except he's losing steam fast. the breath he hauls in costs him something heavy. restful sleep, real and consistent, is a luxury that none of them can afford. " there's still too much that we don't know, but we're closer to figuring it out now than we were when it started. we have to keep trying. i'll be fine, " he's insistent, not combative. not relenting, either. " i can sleep once this is over. and i'm going to, trust me. i'll probably sleep for a month. "
she asks it sweet and undemanding, and her voice melts over him like warm honey. he would've done naked cartwheels down hollywood boulevard if she'd asked him in that voice. there's an obedient hum as he stands, eye contact held, charged, like the air around them knows. he's normally good at not folding under pressure. it's part of the whole fishbowl thing, laying yourself bare to public scrutiny and taking the hits as they come and navigating the minefield without triggering a detonation. this is another kind of pressure. a little like the pot on the stove, almost boiling over. he turns the knob until it clicks off. the food smells good, but he's too steeped in daphne's perfume to really notice. he lifts the pot, sets it aside, manages not to spill anything or burn the hell out of himself like last time.
and he's nothing if not goal - oriented ; mission accomplished, he's back in arm's reach like a moth flinging itself towards the brightest light in the room. " i didn't check to see if it was ready. we should definitely taste it first. " the double meaning is written all over his face. no excuses, though — scott never claimed to be subtle. he proves that part when he levers his weight above her on the couch, braced on the armrest that hems her in, nudging her thighs apart with his knee so he can slot himself in between. they're close enough to share a breath, his mouth lightly grazing hers. you'd think he had it all planned out. the way his pulse thumps like a bass drum tells another story. his free hand coasts from waist to hip, settles low in the curve like a mooring point to pull him out of free - fall before the kiss finally connects.
the rain lets up as soon as he crosses industry bridge, when he can literally see his house, like this entire night's been one long cosmic joke. scott isn't laughing. stiles might, if he spins it the right way. stiles can laugh and scott can carp at him about not getting a ride home, and they can file the whole thing neatly away in a drawer labeled bad ideas. some stupid inside joke to tell at college parties, or something. hey, remember that time i left you in the woods and you got jumped by a giant wolf? what are the odds! the pickaxe headache doesn't help. neither does the adrenaline, even though it's supposed to. the adrenaline is probably what's blocking any pain.
he didn't get a good look at the bite. not in the dark, not before that car tried to turn him into roadkill, but there was blood. he can smell it. practically taste it, like it's climbing up the back of his throat. adrenaline, he thinks firmly. everything gets sharp and bright and loud when your nervous system kicks into a full factory reset. he trudges up the porch steps, trailing mud and rainwater that he does his best to wipe off on the mat before he goes inside. he could have called stiles — could have texted to ask for a ride home, but the neurons in his brain kept zapping like fireworks and they never figured out which direction the target was in.
get home, get inside, get cleaned up, go to bed. objectives like in a video game, organized in a way that he knows how to follow. get home. the porch light flickers obnoxiously down at him. he squints, shielding his eyes. it's brighter than he ever remembers it being. get inside. the front door shuts behind him and the house sounds like it's humming, noise coming from nowhere.
his mom's car wasn't outside. she's working another double, but he catches himself listening for her anyway. " mom? " tentative, just a kid breaking curfew. muddy and bleeding is a new addition. no answer. he breathes out, willing his head to shut up for a second so he can concentrate. willing his heartbeat to find a rhythm. he ditches his shoes by the door, wet socks audibly squelching up the stairs. get cleaned up. he can do that, right? it's just a little blood. just a bite. if it'd hit an artery, an organ, anything important, he would've already lost consciousness. or maybe that's the adrenaline again and he's about to fall over dead on his bathroom floor.
nausea lurches a wide sweep across his stomach. light switch on, mirror in front of him, scott digs his nails into his palms and takes a couple of slow breaths.
there's no rattle in his lungs, no thin wheeze. not that it would matter, if there was ; he never did find his inhaler after he'd dropped it.
he found a body instead. half a body. her eyes were wide open and staring, because of course they were. the rational part of him knows that he should call someone about it, but that would mean confessing to the sheriff that he was out there, and outing stiles for covering his ass, and he hasn't even finished processing the last hour yet. thinking further ahead than get cleaned up and go to bed isn't happening right now. everything else is a tomorrow problem.
but it's weird. it's weird that there's no rattle. his asthma's bad enough that walking five miles in the rain should've landed him in the emergency room. adrenaline doesn't get rid of asthma.
right?
" okay, " he exhales out loud, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. " okay, it's totally fine, it's no big deal, just ... just don't panic. just clean it, and cover it up, and you'll be fine. you're not gonna die. you're totally, completely fine. " the buzz of his phone against his thigh makes him jump. there's no way that he should be able to hear it. feel it, sure, but not hear it, like it's on a hard surface instead of in his pocket. " adrenaline, " he mutters to himself. that's normal. totally, completely ... he wets his lips, clamps his teeth over the bottom one and fishes out the phone to check it.
stiles, asking where he is.
home, scott texts back. everything's cool. i'll see you at school tomorrow.
because he doesn't want to deal with more questions, he presses the power button until the screen goes black. stares at it for a beat. half blank, half accusing, like it buzzed louder on purpose just to mess with him. focus. get cleaned up. he's prepared in a technical sense. he's not prepared for what it looks like in the light.
blood soaks into the waistband of his jeans. there's a pattern in the bite, but not a clean one. curved, jagged rows, shredding the flesh in between, ribbons of skin peeled back like overripe fruit. it makes him dizzy to look at. it's deep, needs stitches deep, and he's bowing forward to clutch the edges of the sink when that sick feeling crashes into him a second time. " you're not gonna die, " he repeats, through the grit of his teeth. it looks worse than it is. that has to be it. but he's thinking about infections and bacteria and his skin's hot, and he can't tell if that's from fear or fever. there's a thermometer in the cabinet, but he pushes it aside and reaches for bandages instead. pressure dressing. the pulse of blood is steady, not fast. not like he's bleeding out. nobody ever died from something like this.
denial is a hell of a motivator.
denial activates rote memory and lets him do what he needs to, crossing another objective off the list. all that's left is going to bed.
he starts to calm down a little once the lights are off and he's under the blanket like he's five years old and shaken by a nightmare. talking himself past it. he can talk himself past this, too. it'll be fine tomorrow, and his mom never has to know, and stiles doesn't have to get in trouble for lying. scott rolls over onto his side and pulls the blanket with him, grasping it in both fists.
pure exhaustion finally drags him under like riptide.
right before he goes, so close to sleep that he won't remember if he'd dreamed it or not, the sustaining echo of a wolf's howl carries in through his open window.
