. "You’re crazy! You’re out of your mind!” + dealers choice!
test driving some mitchell characterization thru the scott werewolf reveal
this takes place during ice pick (s2e3) right after scott fights derek and the betas over boyd
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"What the hell was that, McCall?"
Mitchell had only caught what looked like the tail end of a fight, with some guy holding his boot to Scott McCall's throat, then sauntering off with three kids he didn't recognize. He waited until they left before booking it to the ice and rushing over to McCall who was pushing himself up into his elbows.
His face looked weird. Not just the fact that his features were twisted with pain, but it looked.. almost inhuman. There was a crease between his brows that wasn't usually there, and sideburns that he definitely didn't have, and his eyes were – holy shit, his eyes were yellow. Golden yellow like sunflowers that grew along the freeway.
"Why do you–"
He blinked and then McCall's face was back to normal. His eyes were the same shade of brown that he was used to, staring him down through the grates of his facemask. But they hadn't been. What the fuck?
McCall got to his feet, wheezing. "Um, how much of that did you see?"
He was nervous, tugging on the hem of his jacket. Mitchell had never seen him nervous before.
"Just that guy with his boot on your neck." His own nerves came to life as the image flashed behind his eyes again. He didn't know much about the guy, not anything meaningful, but he didn't think he was the kind of person who deserved to have his throat stepped on. "Are you okay, by the way? What was that about? Do you want to call the cops? Or go to the hospital?"
He shook his head. Mitchell didn't know which question it was in response to. "I'm okay. I don't– No cops or hospitals necessary."
He did sound better, marginally less wheezy, but his voice was still strained.
"Okay. Can I at least walk you to your bike?" He didn't want him to end up getting jumped on his way home.
McCall laughed, the sound coming out mostly air, as if he was surprised. But he nodded.
+
It took five minutes of pushing, but Mitchell managed to convince him to accept a ride home. It would have weighed on his conscience forever if something happened to him when he could've prevented it.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?" he asked, starting the car. It was his Dad's old dinged up Chevy Cavalier, and it was his baby. It was odd to have someone in it that wasn't his dad, or his sister, or a teammate.
"It doesn't matter," McCall said with a sigh. "It's not your problem anyway."
Mitchell was making it his problem. "Tell me, McCall." Bruno Mars was crooning about grenades on the radio, and it was distracting as hell. He turned it down, glancing over at the apprehensive expression on his face. There was a crease between his brows again, but it looked nothing like the one from earlier. "Also, tell me how to get to your house, please."
McCall snorted, but gently told him to take a left as he left the parking lot.
+
Twenty minutes later – Mitchell was trying very hard not to think about how long McCall had to ride his bike there, just to get his ass beat – they were double parked in front of his house.
"You're seriously not going to tell me what that was about?"
McCall ran his hands over his face, and Mitchell couldn't tell if it was from distress or annoyance. Maybe both. "You wouldn't believe me if I did."
He rolled his eyes, undoing his seatbelt just so he could cross his arms over his chest, and turn to give him a disapproving look. "You don't know that. I'm very empathetic. Or is it sympathetic? I don't know the difference."
"Sympathy is when you're like aww, that's sad. Empathy is like aww, I'm sad with you," McCall explained. "And it really doesn't matter, dude. It's not–"
"If you say it's not my problem again, I'll be the one stepping on you next."
McCall rolled his eyes, holding his hands up in surrender. "You really wanna know?"
Mitchell nodded. "I've only said that, like, fifteen times."
McCall paused, and the car was filled with quiet. It should've been awkward – Mitchell didn't really know the guy, after all – but it wasn't. It was just easy quiet, like just before you fell asleep. Almost comfortable.
"I'm a werewolf," McCall said, voice serious, "And the guy stepping on me is one too. And I was trying to stop him from turning Boyd, the guy on the Zamboni, like he did with Erica and Isaac, the blonde girl, and the guy from my team. But I was too late."
Mitchell blinked at him, stunned into silence. A werewolf. That didn't make any sense. There were barely any actual wolves in California, let out werewolves. How would that even work? Did he turn into a wolf or was it like An American Werewolf in London situation?
His eyes were yellow, his brain screamed. How else would you explain his eyes, the hair on his face, the way his facial structure changed in the blink of an eye.
But what had he even seen? His eyes could've been playing a serious trick on him.
There was no way. McCall was full of shit.
"Ohh," he said after a too long stretch of silence. "I get it now. You're crazy. You're out of your mind."
McCall scoffed. "I told you that you wouldn't believe me."
"You know, now I really do think we should call the cops on that guy. It's terrible of him to assault the mentally ill."
McCall laughed, despite his obvious annoyance. He turned to open his door, climbing out. "Thanks for the ride, Hwang."
Mitchell sent him an easy smile. "Any time, McCall. Don't forget your bike in the trunk."
He watched him grab his bike, then walk towards his house. Before thinking better of it, he rolled down his passenger window. "Yo, McCall!" he called. When he turned to him, Mitchell howled, "Awoooo!"
He was rewarded with McCall's middle finger.
Laughing, he drove off. Now he had to figure out how to get home from here. It gave him more than enough time to hypothesize about what McCall's actual deal was.
