#badgers writes

"... You're probably very confused about the fact that I'm... naked?" The boy tried, looking like he wasn't actually sure what Stiles should be freaked out about, but that was the thing about Stiles; he was always happy to offer his point of view.

"Naked? How about the fact that you're like three billion watts of light walking around on two legs? Jesus, where did you even come from? Where- Did you just fall from the sky? Are you an alien?"

"No, I'm not extra terrestrial, techincally!" The other offered, looking proud, "I live just outside of this solar system."

"You... What?"

It's late. It's not night yet, but it's the later part of dusk, just after the sun sinks low enough to disappear and the entire world shifts into a blue-grey haze that makes it harder to see shapes. He was supposed to be back by now, long before dusk, but things rarely went according to plan. 

He'd been cornered, injured while escaping through a window, and he had a gimp leg to show for it. He'd lost a lot of blood before he could cauterize the wound to get rid of the smell, hoping none of the rotters had caught a wiff and come to sate their appetite. Of course one had, of course it'd be him, while Scott was downed and almost out of bullets. He has four left, though, and a clear, near point-blank shot. 

But his hands are shaking. 

He looks so different, but at the same time, not so much. He's clearly infected, rotting away like the others, but he's still whole, still undeniably him, and Scott can barely look the thing in its browning, crusted eyes. It's just staring at him, watching Scott while Scott watches back down the barrel of his gun, through tear soaked lashes that obscure most of his face. 

"Stiles," He moans, and the thing's lip curls up in a snarl, "Don't make me shoot you. Please."

Stiles cocks his head and his snarl becomes more pronounced. Scott pulls back the hammer of his gun in  a fumbling, panicked motion. 

"Stiles, no. Please, just leave. Please don't make me do this- I can't do this!" There's no point to speaking, it's isnt as though the other can understand him. They can't, it's all just empty noises, the final grunts and squeals of their prey before being devoured. Stiles is no different, Scott tells himself, he can't understand. 

He doesn't leave, not that Scott expected anything less. He starts toward Scott with slow, unsteady movements and Scott jerks a little on a sob - he's not scared of dying, not really, but he's terrified of saving his own life. He doesn't want to shoot Stiles, he doesn't want to have to. He'd rather die than put a bullet in his best friend, rotter or no. He can only keep his gun trained on the other for a full three seconds before his arms drop in defeat, and he leans back against the wall he's resting near. It makes Stiles pause, just for a moment, and Scott shakes his head. In disbelief, in amusement, in denial, he's not sure. 

He's ready to die, he supposes. Stiles is snarling and hissing like any rotter does and his dirty, blood caked fingers are clawing up into the air toward Scott, eager for purchase in his skin. He wants to rip into him and Scott can't be upset. It's what he is now, he can't help himself. Scott can't condemn him, not even for that. 

I don't want Scott to be able to put himself out. I want him to burn as brightly and as hot as ever. I don't want there to be an opportunity for them to touch because I don't want this story to be about sexual tension. This is purely about Stiles gaining a friend, support, and for Scott to do the same. 

Stiles is so overwhelmed and awed by Scott that he doesn't think about it often.

I want Scott to have solar flares when he's angry, to interfere with technology, to flicker when he's sad, I want anywhere he goes to be warm and sunny. I want Scott's eyes full of fire. I want flames on his skin and in his voice and the way he moves.

I want Scott to be a force of nature.