BETTER & WORSE

there’s a small part of him that finds a measure of glee in the flinch.  but it’s only a small part – a part that’s quickly snuffed out by the weird level of guilt he feels for even thinking glee to begin with.  damn scott mccall for planting seeds of softness within his prickly exterior, he doesn’t want to help stiles, and yet–

    ❛ hold still, moron. i’m trying to take away the pain. ❜     hand encasing a fragile wrist like a makeshift bracelet – again, isaac’s reminded of how grateful he is to no longer be fractured glass.  his veins begin bleeding black.     ❛ you do remember you’re still human, right? ❜

“    no,   isaac,    ”     mocking the same inflection in moron,     “  i forgot.   ”    grip slackens  ---  almost resisting and then giving in all at once  ---  when the pain pulsing like a heartbeat fades and slips away from him.     he watches as isaac’s veins creep and bulge like black snakes up his arm,    following the path until he trails all the way up to finally meet the icy blue of his gaze.

it does,  and it doesn’t.  it matters because he could have bit off more than he could chew.  he could have been backed into a corner   /   he could have been infected.  the possibility is there.  which makes it easy for her hand to fall back to her side when he pulls away.  but her stare doesn’t waver.  trained and waiting to watch his skin crawl.  figuratively,  and literally.  more important,  it matters because her investigation could be compromised.    (   not that it already wasn’t.  she’s sure They knew;  the hivemind infiltrating the campus,  little by little,  was bound to make a push for them.   )    time isn’t on her side.

“  then it must be your lucky day that i’m here.  ”    it doesn’t matter because he made it back,  intact.  more importantly:  he was left alone.  without a second thought,  she moves towards her office door  —  locks it behind her.    “  —are you thirsty?  ”    he should know the implications.

“     guess it is.     ”    tries to keep his response cool and casual,    but he swallows heavily once she turns away.   skin feeling only warmer still---     a product of her heavy,    unnervingly intense gaze.    does she know what she does to him?    probably.   ( alien bullshit happening around them be damned. )     he leans back heavily against her desk,    rubbing a hand through his messy hair and letting out a sigh. 

                         “  how’s han doing?  ”    curious as ever,  all while managing to express mild concern.  forget how she literally saw the duckling yesterday.  she worries.

@eatpanic.

                         she wants to get out of this bed.  is already imagining herself ripping the iv from her arm and pushing through her pain to get to him. whether or not she’d make it is her only concern. but the urge to nurture is overwhelming   /   she could drown in her desire to make things right.    (   still,  there was no going back to the way things were  —  that’s why she stays put.   )    sits up more against her pillows and suppresses a wince.

it’s when he’s not looking that she reaches for him,  only to fall short.  and her hand is back at her side in the blink of an eye.    “  don’t be.  don’t be sorry for what it did.  ”    she could rationalize that it could have been any of them.    (   but she knows the odds   /   knows that the nogitsune only had a choice between her,  or stiles.   )    had it been the former  —  no.

               she won’t buy into more what if’s.  they had their outcome:  they had their win.    “  i’m telling you not to be.  if you still want me to accept your apology,  i will  —  i do.  but i’d do this again.  ”    and with no hesitation.  she might as well draw attention to it;  glances to where blood once flowed freely.  where she’d have herself a lasting scar.  a reminder.    “  just  —  don’t leave.  ”

melissa’s working right down the hall.    even long after visiting hours have ended,    he knows he can finagle more time with allison.    ( and he’d find a way without her help. )      “    ----------- i won’t.    ”      if she wants him here,    he’ll be here.    it’s the least he can do.    especially when she insists and insists that it’s okay.

             NONE OF IT IS OKAY.   none of it will ever be okay.   not when,   even now,     even watching as she leans up in her hospital bed and earnestly tells him she’d do this all again,     he remembers liking it.    in the most insane,    in the most awful way.    but he remembers.    and he feels sick.

but he’ll only roughly rub at his eye,    as if to force the tears welling up back in.    hopes she doesn’t notice,    instead smiling at her with as much cheeky stiles charm he can manage.    ( his face doesn’t feel like his own. )    hand drops down to rest by hers on the hospital bed as he scoots forward on his chair---   leaning more into her space.    trying,   trying,   to be himself again.   to be stiles.

it was foolish,  she realizes,  thinking he would get better once they moved in together.   it’s the excuse she fed herself over & over again when so many miles separated them  —-  he just needed someone to take his hand and lure him to bed,   someone whose presence occupied his mind more than the unsolvable mysteries.   she was supposed to help,  but…  maybe she couldn’t.   maybe even she wasn’t enough to keep his monsters at bay.      ❛  considering your very hot,  very smart,  very tired girlfriend has been in bed alone for the last four hours, i’m going to guess you haven’t even really tried.  ❜   stubbornly persistent as always,  lydia tugs her hand from his and moves around him,  only to sink onto his lap    ❛  will it help if i look at the case?   ❜  a pause,  brow lifting infinitesimally as she gently runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.   ❛  —  or i could always distract you?  ❜  ( a much better offer, in her opinion;  one she punctuates with a lingering touch of her lips along his jaw )

“   probably,    yeah.   no---   i know you could help.    but i’m pretty sure if i stare at that any longer,    my eyes will actually bleed out of my skull.   ”     though her intense,    inquisitive,    supernaturally-intuitive eyes would likely point him in the direction he so desperately needs,    he’s not even sure his sleep-deprived brain could grasp it.    ( and if anything,    it’ll just continue and continue to keep him awake. )    he knows it’ll bother him,    this case that’s starting to FESTER like an untreated wound.    but lydia’s trying,    and her weight on his lap is a very welcome distraction.    especially after those years of dating long distance.    

it’s something he has to remind himself:    he doesn’t have to do this alone.    if anyone could work through it with him,   it’s her. 

it’s instinctive,   how quickly and quietly she crosses the room  ( almost surprisingly so,  given how long they’ve lived in different states and different worlds ).   but she’s there anyway,  hand gently knocking his aside so she can rub at the knots of tension in his shoulder.    ❛  yeah,   the whole messy hair,  bouncing leg,   scratchy voice didn’t give that away.   never would have guessed you’re bothered.  ❜   her own voice low and teasing,  hazy green eyes flashing towards his leg in a pointed look.   ❛  you are aware staying up all night is counterproductive, right?  your ability to problem solve decreases with lack of sleep.   so, really, you’re screwing up tonight and tomorrow’s work.  ❜  come to bed, stles. 

                         the wolf basks in it,  time and time again.  over battles  won  and enemies    slain    lost.  it reminds scott that it’s here to stay.    (   that it never really left.   )    there’s only so much he can hide and only so much that he can get away with.  guilt makes a home out of it   /   just as claws make a home out of the softness of his palms.  claws that break the skin   /   make him bleed.  forces pain back on himself as an anchor point  —  but old tricks like that aren’t working.  the scent of his own blood brings a low growl.  eyes that were once forced shut,  spring open.  center on the added warmth that cups his cheek.  stiles.

scott’s reluctance to speak is proof enough that there’s more to it.  he has to actively battle with the impulse to snap  —  his lip still twitches upward into a snarl.  blazing eyes bouncing from side to side    (   wild   )    before he finally forces a steady gaze.  as gentle as he can be,  bloody digits encircle stiles’ wrist.  holds his hand there as he tucks his chin in   /   lowers his head   /  closes his eyes.  guides the other boys’ palm to rest at his forehead.    (   encouraging long fingers to entwine in soft hair   /   coarse fur.   )    “  i’m trying.  ”    voice like gravel  —  he is,  but it’s not working.

there’s no resistance as scott moves his hand,    fingers splaying across his scalp and interlocking through dark hair.   though he knows it’s risky,   can see the almost feral glint in scott’s eye that makes his heart squeeze,    he trusts scott.    trusts him with his life.    other hand lifts and rests,   open-palmed,    against scott’s shoulder.    it’s wet there;   probably blood.    “   hey -----    ”      doesn’t stop stiles from gripping his shoulder harder,   rubbing and squeezing--   grounding.

              “    ---- i got you,    okay?    ”    voice quiet and low,   so unlike the growl that roughens scott’s.   trying to speak softly because hopefully,   maybe,    scott can focus on it,  along with the gentle tug of his fingers as he pets him.    ( and maybe because he’s a little nervous,    pulse thudding faster---    but he wants to help. )