He DOES try not to freak out. Because he knows it wonât help anything. Heâs not a fan of the blood and guts part of the MESS that has become their lives, but when the chips are down, he can force himself to deal with just about anything for at least a little while. âBoil waterâŚ? Right⌠okay,â he muses, arching one brow slightly. âStiles, the midwife⌠on duty.â He manages a WEAK grin over at his friend after his quip, trying to show that despite his desire to be more panicked about the situation, heâs able to maintain his usual sense of humour. Even if itâs NOT appreciated. He turns on his heel, bolting from the room and down to the kitchen, figuring the kettle would boil FASTER than a pot on the stove. So, he fills the kettle with hot water and turns it on, pacing anxiously while he waits for it to boil.
   Okay, it was a poor excuse for getting Stiles out of the room, but it works. Scott takes a moment, once Stiles is gone, after flashing him a weak, tired smile at the joke. He rests his forehead against the mirror again and then steels himself, pushing up to stand, igniting the lighter. One hand braced himself against the sink, the other moving the lighter to the wounds. He thinks maybe it should be something bigger, a bigger flame. But this was all they had. He pressed the flame to the open wound and bit down hard enough on his lip that he drew blood to keep himself from making too loud a sound. He had to burn the wolfsbane out, he knew that, but that didnât stop the agony.Â
