for @laurahale-appreciation week’s day one theme: Laura Didn’t Die
Laura & Scott | gen | 2.5k | canon div | asthma | alpha!Laura | minor character death (Peter)
(also on AO3)
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Scott stumbled over a half-hidden tree root. The carpet of leaves was slippery and only luck stopped him from tumbling down hill to his left and ending up in a bloody heap. That would’ve been hard to explain to his mom in the morning. His dirty clothes were going to be hard enough. He was going to have to hide them under his bed until her next shift when he could do a load of laundry without her noticing.
He should’ve just come forward when Sheriff Stilinski called for him. Sure, he would’ve gotten in trouble and probably been grounded for a month, but was that really worse than traipsing around the woods in the middle of the night with a killer on the loose? God, he was so stupid; he was going to end up like that jogger they heard about on Stiles’ police radio, torn to pieces and left for dead.
And he still hadn’t found his inhaler.
The light from his phone was enough to tell him where to put his feet, but it didn’t magically make his inhaler appear in front of him, so he turned around and walked back the other way. It had to be around here somewhere and he had to find it. Those things were expensive and there was no way his mom wouldn’t know something was up if he said he’d lost it, not with how careful he usually was with them.
This far from the road, all he could hear were rustling tree branches, the occasional hoot of an owl, and his own cursing when he slipped on more wet leaves. It might’ve been peaceful if it weren’t so spooky. How did he let Stiles talk him into this? He could’ve been at home, studying or working out or generally not living out the start of every Supernatural episode ever.
He was so focused on poking around a pile of leaves where he thought he caught a glimpse of white plastic that he almost didn’t notice when everything went silent. All the owls stopped hooting, the little woodland creatures quit rustling around in the underbrush, and there was nothing but his own harsh breathing. It wasn’t until a chill ran through him, hairs standing up on the back of his neck, that he froze.
He’d never put much stock in the idea of being able to feel eyes on you before you could see them, but he was quickly reassessing his stance on the matter because someone was watching him now.
A twig broke, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Scott had seen enough horror movies to know that he shouldn’t turn around. And yet, he was moving before he could stop himself. A part of him was convinced that he was being stupid and paranoid and he’d turn around to find a fluffy little bunny rabbit sniffing up at him, completely harmless. The rest of him was really wishing he had his inhaler because, if the serial killer at his back didn’t get him, the growing tightness in his chest might.
It wasn’t a serial killer. Not unless serial killers had glowing blue eyes these days.
Scott couldn’t be sure if the snarl came first or if he was already stumbling back when it ripped out of the creature’s mouth, but it didn’t make much difference. Either way, he was going to die.
The light from the phone still in his hand flashed like the worst kind of strobe light as he ran, splashing across the ground and the trees as they blurred past him. His legs burned almost as badly as his lungs, which was really saying something, but he couldn’t stop. Another snarl sounded, almost a roar, and what even was that thing? It had looked almost wolf-like, but only if the wolf had rolled around in toxic waste and gotten mutated like one of the monsters in Stiles’ comic books.
Whatever it was, it crashed through the trees like a bulldozer. Absurdly, Scott thought of a meme he’d seen on facebook once, something about Florida schools teaching kids to run from alligators by zigzagging.
He took a sharp left turn and the creature barreled right past where he’d been.
The reprieve was short lived; as soon as he slowed down, his foot hit another of those buried roots and luck wasn’t on his side this time.
He hit the ground hard at the bottom of the hill, the very last of his breath knocked out of lungs that refused to draw in any more to replace it. He couldn’t even worry about the monster coming to eat him when his chest was caving in and the edges of his vision were already going fuzzy. Cold blue eyes loomed over him, bright enough to illuminate a gaping maw of giant teeth, opened wide to tear him apart, and Scott’s last thought was that he was grateful Stiles wasn’t here to die with him.
Only, it wasn’t Scott’s last thought.
Another roar sounded, shaking the very ground under Scott’s back, and the glowing blue eyes jerked up to somewhere over his head. A split second later, something big and fast-moving slammed into the monster’s side. They both went sprawling in the dirt, a writhing mass of teeth and claws and dark hair and Scott couldn’t even pretend to keep track of what was going on when his lack of oxygen was reaching crisis point.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, fighting his own body while the monsters fought each other. The next thing he was aware of was an impact to his chest, way too light to be a threat. He forced his glazed eyes open to see the familiar white plastic of his inhaler. Desperation and hypoxia made him clumsy, but a pair of red-smeared hands wrapped around his to steady them as he brought the apparatus to his mouth.
“—re we go, that’s it. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine, kid. Just breathe.”
The voice was soft and soothing, which was a bit of a jarring counterpoint to all the blood. Her hands were drenched in it, clothes splattered, hair matted down. The woman wasn’t all that big and, once Scott’s meds kicked in enough to make his lungs expand and his vision clear, she didn’t look like she’d just fought off a slavering beast with her bare hands. Under the gore, she looked normal. Pretty, even.
“What—?”
She didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t finish his question. It was probably obvious anyway. She smiled, close-lipped, and Scott had to wonder (a little hysterically) if it was because she had blood on her teeth too.
“Werewolf,” was all she said.
As far as one-word explanations went, it was pretty comprehensive. Rather than acknowledge that a concept as absurd and unbelievable as “werewolves” had just been dropped in his lap, Scott nodded and closed his eyes. Breathing hurt, but it was better than not breathing, so he focused on that for a while. The hand rubbing his back felt nice, even though it was undoubtedly getting blood all over his hoodie.
No hiding that from mom. It wouldn’t come out in the wash. He’d have to burn it or something.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed forever, not if he wanted to actually get home before dawn. Opening them took more effort than it should—asthma attacks always knocked him down for the count and sleep was already trying its damnedest to take hold of him—but he managed. They immediately landed on the shadowy lump that was the monster.
“Is it…” He swallowed. “…dead?”
The woman turned to look at it too. For a long time, she didn’t say anything. She almost looked sad, though it was hard to tell in the dark. Scott’s phone flashlight was still on, somewhere to their right, its harsh glow limning half her face in white and casting the rest in even darker shadow.
“Yeah,” she told him. “He’s dead.”
“He?” Scott raked his eyes over that monstrous form. There wasn’t anything to it that he could see to indicate gender, but what did he know about werewolves? That one certainly didn’t look anything like the one in front of him. Maybe she had a freaky giant mutated wolf form too and they all looked the same like that. “Who was he?”
The woman faced him again, turning her back on the beast. “My uncle,” she said. “At least, he used to be.”
A million questions flew through Scott’s head, but the wooziness of exhaustion made it hard to get any of them to stand still long enough for him to ask them. His first attempt to stand up failed because the ground didn’t seem to want to stand still either, or maybe that was his legs shaking.
The woman took him by the arm, steadying him. “Let’s get you home, kid,” she said. “Why were you even out here in the first place?”
“Wasn’t my idea,” Scott muttered.
He let her take most of his weight. She was a few inches shorter than him, but she didn’t seem to have any trouble holding him up. Of course she didn’t; she’d just bested a literal monster in hand to hand combat. For all Scott knew, she could probably bench press a school bus. That seemed like the kind of thing a werewolf would be able to do.
God, a werewolf. He would’ve laughed if he thought he would be able to stop once he started. Stiles wasn’t going to believe any of this. Scott barely believed it, and he was living it.
They limped through the trees for a few minutes in silence. The light followed them; the woman had picked up Scott’s phone for him. That was nice of her. Nicer than he would’ve expected of a horror movie monster.
“Why did you help me?”
The woman didn’t answer. The woods were starting to thin out around them, more moonlight filtering through the branches overhead. It wouldn’t be long before they found the main road. Scott hoped werewolves still used cars because he didn’t think he could walk the six miles to his house in this condition.
“He was after me.”
It took Scott a minute to remember what his question had been, but then he frowned. “I thought you said he was your uncle.”
“He was,” the woman said, her fingers digging into Scott’s arm where it was pulled over her shoulder. “But he was…broken. Injured, from a long time ago. Out of his mind with it. He wanted my power. I think he thought it would heal him.”
That didn’t make a whole lot of sense with what Scott knew of biology, but that was human biology. “Does it work like that? You know, for…people like you.”
“Don’t know. Maybe.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t going to let him kill me to find out.”
“Man,” Scott said. “His own niece. That’s messed up.”
“I’m not sure he even knew what he was doing,” she said. Then, quietly enough that Scott wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear it: “I hope he didn’t.”
Scott hoped so too.
Through the trees, black asphalt appeared. The road looked the same as every other time Scott had ever been on it. Somehow, that didn’t feel right. He felt like everything was just a little bit different, or it should be.
The only thing appropriately new was the shiny black car tucked away on the side of the road. The woman led him to it, depositing him gently against the side of it. She handed his phone back before fishing a set of keys out of the pocket of her jacket. Moonlight glinted off the smears on the leather; without the white glare from the flashlight app, it was almost too dark to see how red it was.
“I’m sorry,” Scott said. “That you had to do that. That you had to kill him.”
She faltered, keys clinking against each other as her grip on them tightened. A second later, she was offering him another of those tight-lipped smiles, though this one seemed the tiniest bit more genuine.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “You’re an innocent. Family or not, I couldn’t stand by and let him hurt anyone else. My pack, my responsibility.”
The phrase had a solemness to it that made Scott think it was a motto or a creed, something she’d said a hundred times before and would say a hundred more. Words that she lived by. Words that she would die and kill for. He thought that maybe that should frighten him, and it did, a little bit. Everything about this night had been beyond terrifying, but somehow, he wasn’t afraid of her.
“I’m Scott.”
The woman paused with the driver’s side door halfway open, looking almost taken aback, like something as trivial as names hadn’t even occurred to her. Then she ducked her head. Her long hair swung down in front of her face, but Scott could see the way her shoulders shook in a quiet laugh. When she looked back up, she was smiling for real, with teeth and everything. They weren’t bloody, like he’d expected them to be, but white and straight. It was a nice smile.
“I’m Laura. I’d shake your hand, but—” She wiggled her grimy fingers and made a face.
Scott mirrored it; he was already filthy enough as it was. No pleasantry was worth the extra time he would have to take in the shower he definitely needed before he would finally be able to get into his bed. Thought, at this rate, he might just pass out on the drive back. Even propped up against the car, he was swaying, eyes drooping against his will. School tomorrow was going to be a bitch.
He might have said that last bit out loud. Laura was chuckling again, at least, so he had to have said something.
“Come on, kid,” Laura said, tugging at him. “Let’s get you home.”
Home sounded fantastic: warm and clean and safe. He put up no resistance as Laura gently manhandled him into the passenger’s seat. The window was tinted, but the moon was still a bright, full presence, peering down at him through the canopy of leaves.
Werewolves, he thought again, with all the bleary marvel of someone teetering on the edge of consciousness. Stiles was going to love this.
The car purred to life around him, muted in that way that only really expensive cars can manage. As Laura pulled back onto the road, Scott pushed his address out around a yawn. Then, with Laura’s soft laugh in his ears, he let his exhaustion pull him under.
