#mpdip

I hold on tight to the leather-padded car door as we squeal around the bend, my seatbelt having been forgotten in the heat of things.

“Faster?” Scott asks, keeping his eyes on the road while Stiles and I look behind us at the black Argent SUV tailgating us.  

“Much faster,” Stiles confirms. Scott nods, and takes a breath, steels himself for a second before switching gear and pressing harder on the gas pedal. But the harsh growl emanating from the engine makes absolutely no difference as the SUV remains in its uncomfortably close position; the bonnet practically touching the bumper of Derek’s car that we’ve briefly commandeered as a distraction.

“Scott, I don't think you're grasping the concept of the car chase here,” Stiles says, his head popping forward between the front seats.

“I know, which is why I’m driving,” I say, unbuckling Scott’s seat belt so we can switch places, because at the rate he's going we're going to get caught.

The action catches Scott off-guard, and he almost swerves us off the road, proving my point that he’s a shit driver.

“No! Do you know how dangerous it is to switch places while driving? We’ll get ourselves killed!” 

“If you keep going at this grandma’s pace then they’ll kill us, come on!” He hesitates for a moment, before nodding. 

“Oh, god. I’m gonna die,” Stiles moans at our interaction, leaning back into his seat.

I lift my leg over the gear stick and press it onto the gas pedal, and put my hands on the steering wheel.

“Now!” Scott immediately hops over my legs into the passenger seat, as I slide into the driver’s seat, and immediately gun it down the street at a much faster pace than Scott was going. 

I take some random sharp turns, tires squealing in protest at some of the hairpin bends, and I eventually manage to shake the SUV off my ass.

“They're gone!” Stiles yells a bit too loud in my ear.

Turning round to face him, “You do know I am literally a foot away from you, you don’t need to shout.”

“Eyes on the road! Eyes on the road!” Scott yells from beside me and I turn to face the road again.

“Relax, I’ve done this thousands of times before.”

“When?”

“My brothers taught me, it’s fine.”

“Well, did either of your brothers brutally die in a car crash?” Stiles interjects.

He… definitely had me there. We’d crashed three times, twice majorly and one fender bender.

“He... almost died,” I shrug, half-apologetic. 

Scott immediately grabs his seat belt and buckles it in, before tugging to make sure it’s tight. He then notices my lack of one and reaches over and buckles up mine too. 

“Almo- almost died?” Stiles squawks, “you didn’t think to mention that before we let you drive?”

As I’m about to respond, Stiles holds up the buzzing police radio he’d stolen from his Dad. 

All units, suspect is on foot heading into the Iron Works. 

“Fuck.”

I share a look with Scott and Stiles before swerving into a U-turn. I pull into the Iron Works and see Derek squatting behind a rusted outhouse. 

I swerve the car, using the friction from the drag to slow down from our fast speed.

Scott opens the car door before flinging himself into the backseat next to Stiles as Derek jumps in next to me, and I floor the gas pedal as the machine gun fire starts, bullets ricocheting off the body of the car.

“What part of laying low don't you understand?” Scott yells from the backseat, annoyed. Like I am, because I didn’t sign up to get shot at today. What I did sign up for was to drive around in Derek’s car to keep the Argents relatively busy while our resident Edward-Cullen-wannabe quietly investigated -- a very different situation from the one we have now.

“Fuck me, I had him!” Derek yells, smacking the dash with his fist.

“Who, the Alpha?” Stiles pops up in my peripheral vision again.

“Yes!” he snaps, scowling “He was right in front of me, and the fucking police showed up!” 

“Whoa, hey, they're just doing their jobs…” Stiles’ defense of his father trails off as Derek sends him a death glare. I can’t see it from the corner of my eye, but I can definitely feel it. 

“Yeah, thanks to someone who decided to make me the most wanted fugitive in the entire state,” he grinds out the -- not so passive -- passive aggression through gritted teeth. 

“Can we seriously get past that? I made a dumbass mistake. I get it,” Scott tries to shrug it off.

“Okay, we have bigger things to focus on, like how did you find him? Can you do it again, so we can catch him?” I flick my eyes over to Derek and back to the road again -- not wanting to be scolded by Scott and Stiles -- but Derek ignores my question and glares back out at the road instead.

“Can you try to trust us for at least half a second?” Scott snaps from the backseat.  

“Yeah, all of us,” Stiles pokes his head out again, and Derek just stares at him, “Or just him. I'll be back here.”

“What about me?” I ask, curious to see what Mr. Dark and Brooding thinks of me.

“Ideally no, but you’d be better than them,” he jabs a finger in their direction.

“Why her?” Stiles exclaims, but upon seeing Derek’s face he quietens and repeats in a calmer tone, “Why her?”

“Because she has an idea of what she’s doing, unlike you two idiots.” 

I really wouldn’t go that far Derek.

“Either way, I’m stuck with the lot of you. Look, the last time I talked to my sister, she was close to figuring something out. She found two things. The first was a guy named Harris.” 

Stiles bolts forward, “Our chemistry teacher?” Why he sounds so surprised, I’m not sure; we all know that Harris is literally devil spawn. 

“Why him?” Scott leans forward too. 

“I don't know yet.”

“That’s helpful, really,” I quip, but wipe the smirk from my face when it’s my turn to be on the receiving end of the death glare. 

“What's the second?” I change the subject, because my face looks like it’s about to get mauled off, and I really don’t want that. At all. 

Derek pulls a sheet of paper out of his pocket, “Some kind of symbol.” I take a quick glance at it, it’s a wolf with some stars in the sky above it, along with other things that I can’t quite discern in the dark light, but it is familiar; I just can’t place where I’ve seen it before. Apparently, Scott can, as Derek asks,  “What? You know what this is?” 

Scott sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I've seen it on a necklace,” at Derek’s unrelenting gaze, he elaborates, “Allison's necklace.”

“Seriously? You’re not kidding, right?” 

“Why would I joke about something like this, Charlie?”

“Fuck.”

***

I push open the doors and sigh, another glorious day of high school. Maybe the whole school thing would be better without werewolf problems. I guess we’ll never know. 

“This is gonna be impossible, you know,” Scott sighs about our lack of a plan; we’d spent the whole of last night trying to come up with something on the ride home, and even now, we still had nothing. 

“Why don't you just ask her if you can borrow it?” Stiles shrugs, tugging on his backpack strap, adjusting the lacrosse stick poking out of it.

“How?” 

“That's easy. You just walk up to her and say, 'Hey, Allison, too bad we broke up, no hard feelings though. But I need to borrow/steal your necklace to see if there’s anything in or on it that can help me kill an Alpha werewolf -- those are real by the way -- so then I can get cured and get back together with you because your psycho family won’t be trying to kill me.'”

Scott fixes me with a glare, obviously none too pleased with my attempt of humour, “Not. Helping.”

“Why don't you just talk to her?” Stiles states the obvious. 

“She won't talk to me. What if she, like, only takes it off in the shower or something?” Scott stares off into the distance, thinking of a possible plan. 

“That's why you ease-” Stiles trips, the rubber of his sneakers squeaking against the floor, as he rights himself and continues, “that's why you ease back into it, okay? Get back on the good side, remind her of the good times. And then you ask for the necklace.”

Scott’s look is still vacant, as he looks at the floor, a smile pulling at his lips. I know that look.

“You're thinking about her in the shower, aren't you?” 

“Yeah,” he giggles and Stiles smacks him. 

“I just- I don’t think easing her back into it is going to work,” Scott sighs, kicking the floor in frustration.

“Hello,” I wave, “Dumbass one and two -- you can just steal it.”

“I can’t do that! It’s illegal!”

“Not technically, you’re just borrowing it without permission.”

“It’s still illegal, Charlie.”

“I’m sorry, was the underage drinking or the multiple felonies we’ve committed by breaking into school at night, too much for you?” I raise my eyebrows.

“All right, ignore her, and listen to Stiles. You just gotta stay focused, okay? Remind her of the good times, get the necklace, get the Alpha, get cured, get Allison. In that order. Got it?” The bell goes and Stiles and I leave Scott as we walk to our first period together.

***

Walking over to Scott’s locker at break I see Jackson storming away from Scott, with a punchable level of arrogance, my eyes trace his figure as it moves down the hallway and I notice he’s doing a weird little strut, it's probably because of the entire oak tree wedged up his ass.

“What was that all about?” I ask Scott, who looks terrified.

“He knows.”

“He knows knows?” Stiles asks as we start to walk to next period.

“He knows knows. And he wants the bite.” Well fuck me in the ass and call me Barbara, we are fucked to hell.

“How the fuck did he find out?” Seriously, how? He has about three brain cells, total. 

“I have no idea.” Scott flings his arms out to the side in panic, taking two steps at a time down the stairs. 

“Did he say it out loud -- the word?” Stiles asks. 

“What word?” 

“What word do you think? Werewolf!” Scott looks at me with wide eyes, and I lower my volume. “Did he say, ‘I know you're a werewolf’?” 

“No, but he implied it pretty freaking clearly.” 

“Okay, maybe it's not as bad as it seems. I mean, he doesn't have any proof, right? And if he wanted to tell someone, who's gonna believe him anyway?” Stiles tries to make the best of the situation.

“What about Allison’s dad?” I add -- if he finds out, Scott is as good as dead. Well, not as good as; Scott will be dead.

“Okay, it's bad.” 

“Bad is an understatement. We’re severely fucked.”

“I need a cure. Right now.” Scott runs a hand through his hair, tugging harshly at the ends. It was a habit he did a lot when he was nervous, which was pretty much all the time given our little paranormal high school experience. 

“Does he know about Allison's father? Because then we’re not in as deep shit,” I add; if Jackson doesn’t know about Argent then he won’t go running to him. 

“I don't know.”

“Okay, where's Derek?” Stiles eyes are flitting about all over the place, I can tell that he’s working up a plan. 

“Hiding, like we told him to. Why?”

“You’ve got a plan, haven’t you?” I ask. 

“Yeah, but it's gonna take a little time to finesse, though.”

“We have that game tonight. It's quarterfinals,” Scott reminds Stiles and me. 

“And it's your first game too,” I add, remembering that Stiles is now first line.

“I know, I know. Look, do you have a plan for Allison yet?” he turns to Scott. 

“She's in our next class, I’m sure you could steal the necklace then -- just trip her up, and slip it off her when you help her up,” I shrug, not seeing a problem with my plan.

“I’m not stealing it, and I’m not tripping her up either!” He looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. 

“It doesn’t matter how, just get the necklace.” The first bell goes and Stiles scrambles to get to his next period which is all the way across campus. 

We walk into English, and there’s an empty seat next to Allison -- perfect. Scott starts to walk toward it, but Lydia overtakes him, slamming her books onto the desk.

“Try another row, sweetheart,” she smirks. It’s surprising that she’s looking out for her friend and not back-stabbing her like she does the rest of her clique, but it's very very annoying as it’s just made our job ten times harder. 

Scott takes the seat behind Lydia -- the one behind Allison having already been filled up -- and I take the seat next to him. 

“Okay, class, let's settle down. Let's get our books out,” Mrs. Ramsey says, and I fish through my satchel and pull out my dogeared copy of Othello.

“Allison,” Scott says softly, catching her attention. 

“Hey,” she replies with a tight-lipped smile, “class is beginning,” she turns back around, dismissing any further conversation. And we’re off to a great start, a second-hand-embarrassment inducing start.

“I know. I'll shut up. I just, um... I have some stuff on my phone that I wanted to send you. I thought you might like it,” he waves his phone around to prove his point.

“Okay.” She gives an awkward smile, and Scott turns to his phone, fiddling around with it for a few seconds before putting it down. He pulls out his textbook and waits, watching. This better go well.

Her phone goes off, and she picks it up, thumbing the screen with an apprehensive hesitation.  

Mrs. Ramsey finishes writing on the chalkboard, dusting off her fingers and sending chalk dust flurrying into the air, intermingling with the dust particles that shone in the mid-morning sun gleaming through the windows.

“All right, I'd like to return to our discussion from yesterday with a more in-depth analysis of Iago and the way in which he preyed upon Othello's jealousies.”

I’m still gauging Allison’s reaction when she packs up her stuff, piling her pencil case and textbooks into her arms. She stands up, turning in my direction to look at Scott, sending him a face full of hurt and betrayal through misty eyes. She shakes her head, sniffling slightly before walking out the classroom. Scott jumps up, and follows her out the room.  

“We seem to have some here today,” Mrs. Ramsey comments on the teenage couple as they exit into the hallway -- no doubt having a big dramatic discussion -- before continuing, “as a slight refresher, I’d like you all to speak to the person next to you, get a few ideas before we discuss it together as a class.”

Conversation bubbles up, and she finally notices my lack of a partner, “Miss Stuart, you can pair up with Miss Martin.”

I guess there are worse things.

The strawberry blonde twists round in her seat to face me, she sighs, gives her nails a once over and says, “Judging by how worn your copy is, you’ve already read this, haven’t you?” 

I nod once.

“So have I, I read it in the 5th grade. So there’s absolutely no point in us talking about it.” 

My head perks up at that, surprised she’s putting away the airhead act, but she ignores my gaze, turning her immaculately-made face to stare out the window, lips turned up in a disinterested pout.

“So, how’s Allison been?” 

“What do you mean?”

“The whole break up thing.”

“Oh.” 

Why I’m making small talk with Lydia Martin, I don’t know. Why she’s actually responding without diatribes or a hint of sarcasm, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the shared trauma of the other week. Or maybe it’s the pity I feel for her. Like Stiles says, she obviously feels like she has to pretend to be dumb for whatever reason; she has to treat people like shit first so she doesn't get hurt when they treat her like shit, so she lives in a sort-of lonely limbo -- a cage of her own philosophical devising.

But yeah, it’s definitely the trauma thing.

“She’s been moping the whole time. What about you?”

“Well, I’m fine; the break up doesn’t really involve me.”

She rolls her eyes, “I meant Scott. How’s Scott been?”

“Like a kicked puppy. Who knew puppy love could be so melodramatic?”

She huffs out a sharp breath, that almost sounds like a suppressed chuckle, but I don’t have enough time to ask her, as Mrs. Ramsey calls our attention back to the front of the class, and Mr. Kicked Puppy walks back in, practically collapsing in his seat.

I lean over, “I take it that it went well.”

I turn my head back to the front of the class, ignoring the middle finger being sent my way.

***

I’m picking my way through the mediocre cafeteria food when Stiles rushes in, slamming his tray down next to Scott’s in front of me.

“Did you get her to give you the necklace?” 

Scott huffs, “Not exactly.” 

“Ah,” Stiles winces, “What happened?”

“She left the classroom. Crying,” I add my insight. 

“And then?”

“Then she told me not to talk to her. At all.”  

Stiles takes a large bite of his chicken, cramming it in, as he says around his mouthfuls, “So she's not giving you the necklace-”

“She's not giving me the necklace,” Scott snaps, throwing his hands out to the sides.

“Well, did you find anything else out?” Stiles asks, picking through his food. Though, the term food is rather generous -- it tastes like a mushy cardboard paste. And -- for once in my life -- I’m not being melodramatic.  

“Just that I know nothing about girls, and that they're totally psychotic.”

It’s at that point I look up from my poor excuse for food, “Oi! I’m sitting right here.”

Stiles holds up a finger, indicating for me to give him a second before he reaches down under the table. I feel him grab my foot through the leather of my shoes, and I immediately yank it out of his grip.

He tuts, before reaching for my foot, and placing it on the bench between them, my leg now stretched out between the two benches. He flicks up the leg of my boyfriend jeans to reveal the knife tucked in between my sock and boot, and pulls it out.

“Not psychotic, huh?”

“There’s a difference between being a psycho, and being prepared from the inevitable. Now give it here before you hurt yourself,” I reach over the table and snatch it out of his hands, sticking out my tongue. Mature, I know. 

Scott looks none too pleased at our exchange and Stiles sighs, “Okay, I came up with a plan B just in case anything like this happened.” 

“What's your plan B?” I ask, shoving my tray aside; it’s no point in even trying to consume it. 

“Just steal the stupid thing.”

“You? You came up with that? That was my plan A!” Typical, so typical. “But no, Charlie, that’s illegal! But as soon as Stiles says it, and we’re all here for it!” I lower my voice for my brief impression to sound dumb, just like the two (loveable… ish) idiots in front of me.

Scott just sighs, ignoring Stiles’ betrayal. “Couldn't we try at least getting to Harris?” 

Stiles grabs his drink and takes a quick swig, “My dad put him on a 24-hour protective detail, okay? The necklace is all we got.” True, even with Stiles’ advantage of being the Sheriff's son won’t help us get to the Asshole with a capital A. 

“So we’re going to steal it. Exactly like I said earlier,” I add another dig about that, still more than a little butthurt. 

Scott suddenly draws in on himself, leaning forward onto his forearms, “Guys, he's watching us.” I notice their eyes flick behind me, and I have to resist the urge to turn back and see, which would give us away.

“Who’s watching us?”

“Jackson. Just… act normal.” Of course Jackson is watching, now that the asshole knows knows, he's going to taunt Scott as much as possible. Because we needed another problem.

Scott winces, and his face screws up as he stares in agony at the table between us.

“Scott, what's wrong? You look like you’re constipated,” I ask, as he looks on in pain. 

“Jackson's talking to me. He knows I can hear him.” That motherfucker. I look over my shoulder and Jackson’s smirking and my fist involuntarily clenches.

“Look at me. Just talk to me. Act normal. Pretend that nothing's happening,” Scott says to me and Stiles, panicking more and more every second that the cloying silence hanging around us stretches on.

“Say something. Talk to me!” He says through, gritted teeth, and glares at the pair of us, and I share a look with Stiles, his mind probably as blank as mine is. I run a hand through my hair, desperately running mental circles on how in the everloving fuck to ape a normal conversation.

“I can't think of anything. My mind's a complete blank.” I’m combing through everything in my mind before I finally settle on a subject I can ramble on about all day.

“Any of you seen the new show, Game of Thrones? It’s good isn’t it? Geoffrey -- what a dick,” I nervously chuckle, trying my best to act natural with the total blank looks I’m faced with. 

“And Daenerys? Wow, she could kill me and I’d say thank you! And I’m betting that those dragon eggs are going to hatch? What do you guys think?”

I sigh at the total silence, “Come on guys, you gotta give me something to work with here,” I gesture to the silence between us.

“I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about, but it doesn’t matter -- he's not even sitting with them anymore.” I whip my head around, and notice a Jackson-less seat. 

“Where the fuck is he?” Scott looks around, craning his neck. 

Jackson must start talking again, because Scott’s glare fixes on a spot on the table, eyes glazing over as he mutters under his breath.

He grabs his water bottle, grip getting tighter as he raises it to his lips and takes a sip, seething. Whatever Jackson’s saying it must be bad, because Scott’s fist continues to clench, the plastic warping with a crinkle under his grip.

“Scott, come on, you can't let him do this. You can't let him have this kind of power over you. Okay?” Stiles tries to calm him down, but it’s to no avail, and Scott grabs his lunch tray, hands shaking in pure fury. The tremors increase until Scott finally lets go and the tray snaps in half with a loud crack that has everyone’s attention on us. 

Scott wheels his head around, normal puppy-brown eyes, hardened with a wolf-like ferocity… well, a werewolf-like ferocity. I turn and find Jackson, smug little face smirking. I know I can’t punch him in front of everyone, but I sure as hell can do this: I stick my middle finger up in his general direction. His face sours slightly, and it gives me immense joy.

***  

I’m grabbing my leather jacket out of my locker at the end of the day -- the hallway rapidly emptying out as the mass of bodies fills out into the carpark -- when I can’t help but overhear Lydia and Jackson’s conversation.

“Jackson! This little text -- not funny!”

I turn my head slightly, so that I can glance the brewing argument in my peripheral vision.  

“No, I wasn't trying to be funny,” if I had one word to describe Jackson, it would 100% be punchable, and dipshit, he continues on, heavy condescension in his voice, “I would have put a ‘ha ha’ at the end of it.” He points to the phone in her hand, “And, see, there's no ‘ha ha’." 

Lydia clenches her jaw, before quoting the text: "’Lydia, please give back my spare house key at your earliest convenience as we are no longer dating’?”

This is a whole new low, even for Jackson, King of the Dipshits.

“You didn't lose it, did you?”  

“What the hell is this?” she hisses. 

“Well, Lydia, in preparation for some big changes, I've decided to drop some of the dead weight in my life. And you're just about the deadest,” he continues smirking like he’s not being an objectifying asshole.

“Are you breaking up with me?” her eyes are full of hurt while Jackson looks on, unbothered.

“Dumping, actually. I'm dumping you.” He stalks off, but only manages to get about two paces away from the high-heeled woman before she has a handful of his leather jacket, and yanks him back to face her.

“Dumped by the co-captain of the lacrosse team. I wonder how many minutes it'll take me to get over that.” He scoffs, and walks away, blowing her a sarcastic kiss. 

“Wait, seconds, actually. Seconds!” she snaps again pathetically, and I notice that she’s desperately holding back tears. 

And I have had enough. I slam my locker door shut, before following Jackson.

I quicken my pace until I am a half pace in front of Jackson. With my right hand I grab a fistful of his shirt by his right shoulder, and slam him against the lockers. It’s at that moment I’m glad no one else is around -- I’d probably have gotten detention for that.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He hisses, as I apply pressure to his collarbone with my forearm, pinning him in place against the metal.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Let me go.” He tries to slip out again, but his technique is sloppy and he goes nowhere.

“Don’t even try,” I threaten as he continues to writhe, “and I’m talking about the bite. You have no idea what you are getting into, all the shit that comes along with it.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“I wasn’t talking about me. Everything that comes from the bite will make your tiny head explode, and you’ll be up to your eyeballs in shit. You are not cut out to handle it, so for once, pull that stick out of your ass and look at the bigger picture, and leave it the fuck alone.” 

I begin to relax my hold when he juts his chin out, “It doesn’t matter if you think I can’t handle it -- it’s still going to happen. Because if it doesn’t, everyone will know about your dirty little secret-” he doesn’t finish his sentence as I tighten my hold again, pushing him harder into the lockers.

“Was that a threat? Because it sounded like a threat,” he doesn’t answer, so I continue, “either way, I’m warning you now: you threaten my friends, my family… and you’ll regret it.” 

My attention is drawn to Lydia leaving the school building, I can hear the faint clack of her heels on the tiled floor, “And while we’re at it: how about treating women with some respect, huh? I see how you treat Lydia, and Scott told me everything you said about Allison; they are not your little playthings, you don’t own them, so stop pretending that you do. You know, maybe if you didn’t use and abuse people to stroke that little pathetic ego of yours, then people might actually give you that respect you’re looking for, instead of hating you. Because trust me, everyone does.”

I reach down and grab my shoulder bag from where it fell on the floor, when, I’m not quite sure, but I find it hard to care. I give Jackson one last glare, daring him to say something, but he remains silent, taking that as my answer, I walk out into the parking lot. I huff as I rifle through my bag, looking for my car keys.

“You didn’t have to do that,” the voice catches me off guard, and I see Lydia standing to my left, she must’ve seen the little situation out in the hallway and waited for me.

I walk down the steps and she follows me, albeit at a slower pace, no doubt due the six inch heels she’s in that still leaves her about 2 inches shorter than me.

“Don’t worry Lydia, that was all for me. Your asshole boyfriend was being an asshole to me and my friends, so he gets treated like an asshole. The fact that he was an asshole to you a few minutes ago is just a coincidence of my timing,” we’d reached my car by then and I unlock it, tossing my bag into the passenger seat.

“Well then, thank you for your timing. He deserved it.”

“Well then, goodnight, Trashbag.” When the nickname rolls off my tongue, it isn’t the harsh diatribe it used to be, it just lingers in the air… a nickname, devoid of any feelings.

“See you at the game tonight, Tree.” When she returns her greeting, it too is lacking any trace of animosity. As she walks toward her car, I start to realise… that maybe I don’t hate Lydia Martin.

I must be going insane.

That’s the only possible explanation, not the fact that she’s an actually nice person under her facade that she dons 90% of the time, not at all.

***

It’s when I’m knocking on the door to Stiles’ house that I realise just how useful having the keys to other people’s houses must be. His dad opens the door and lets me in.

“What you here for, Charlie?”

“Stiles called, saying it was an emergency,” when I see his eyes widen slightly, I clarify, “a homework emergency.”

“Oh, right.” 

I walk up the stairs and enter Stiles’ room and-

“Holy fuck! Oh my- what the fuck!” I yell, way too loudly, my heart racing at Derek’s sudden presence behind the door, that had me metaphorically shitting myself.

Derek glares at me, and gestures for me to keep quiet when Stiles’ Dad calls out for him, probably alarmed by my shouting. Which is not a good thing, because Derek is a wanted fugitive and he’s in Stiles’ bedroom... and the Sheriff wants to come in.

Stiles springs from his computer chair, rushing to his door frame, he only manages to close it half the way, before his Dad arrives, so he wedges his body into the opening. He spreads his arms unnaturally wide, trying to block as much of the bedroom from sight as possible.

“Everything okay in here?”

“Yeah, yep, all good, everything is totally fine, no problems here.” Could he be any more suspicious? 

“I thought I heard Charlie shout.”

“Yeah, she was just… excited.” 

“About what?”

“The uh… carpet.” I share an exasperated look with Derek -- the carpet? Seriously, just please shut up.

“Why would she be excited about the carpet?”

“Because it’s nicer than the one in her apartment.”

“But she’s been here thousands of times, why now only get excited?”

“Because… this was the first time she noticed it,” I just know that Noah isn’t buying it, “I don’t know Dad! She’s weird like that.” 

He obviously knows that he’s not going to get the truth so he just dismisses it, “Listen, I've got something I've got to take care of, but I'm gonna be there tonight. I mean, your first game.” 

“My first game. Guh, it's great. Awesome. Uh... good.” I facepalm: why can’t he act like a normal person?

“I'm very happy for you,” I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy from that -- normalcy. Stiles has a Dad, actually has a Dad, not some faded memories of an alcoholic, neglectful piece of shit who died when he was 6. Sure, I had my brothers -- had, past tense -- but they never congratulated me on things like a lacrosse game. 

It was always commendations on a wendigo hunt, or some other shit a 12 shouldn’t have to deal with, the few times that I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me for sneaking on the hunt in the first place. And I really want that, that normalcy, but I’ll never get it.

I’m brought back to reality when Stiles closes his door, huffing a breath of relief as he turns to face us. He doesn’t get far because Derek grabs him by the shirt and slams him against the door, pinning him in place the same way I did to Jackson earlier.

Stiles lets out a surprised yelp before Derek points a finger in his face, “If you say one word…” 

“Oh, what, you mean, like, ‘Hey, dad, Derek Hale's in my room -- bring your gun’?” Derek considers his words for a moment, before lowering his arm to his side. “Yeah, that's right. If I'm harboring your fugitive ass, it's my house,” Stiles slaps Derek’s shoulder, “my rules, buddy.”

Derek says nothing, glaring at the spot where Stiles’ hand made contact before glaring at his face. Stiles returns his gaze with a sheepish unspoken apology. Derek gives a slight nod before letting Stiles go and taking a step back. 

Stiles’ jacket is rumpled from Derek’s hold so he straightens it out with a harsh tug, with a cocky smirk Stiles returns the favour, though Derek’s jacket is essentially fine so it’s more just an act to annoy him. Derek, takes it surprisingly well, and just takes a step backwards.

Stiles starts to walk back to his desk chair when Derek makes an abrupt move at his face, that even makes me jump.

“Oh, my God!” 

“Scott didn't get the necklace?” Derek asks after Stiles takes his seat.

“No, the first attempt failed. Abysmally. So he’s still working on it,” I update him.

“But there's something else we can try,” Stiles says, looking quite proud of himself.

I crane my neck to look up at him, “This the plan with finesse?”

“Yeah. The night we were trapped at the school, Scott sent a text to Allison asking her to meet him there.” Stiles’ epiphany makes my head perk up from the floor. Scott didn’t send the text -- the alpha did. So if we can trace it, we’ll have him, his location and his identity (even though I’m 90% certain sure it’s Scott’s boss). 

“So?” Derek asks, having not been in the school that night. 

“It wasn't Scott who sent the text, it was the alpha.” 

“Well, can you find out who sent it?” 

“No, not me, or Charlie if you have any hidden hacking skills?” Stiles asks and I shake my head, computers were always Sam’s speciality.  “But I think I know somebody who can,” Stiles says.

***

It takes about half an hour before Danny arrives under the guise of doing lab work with Stiles. 

I’m still lying on the floor when he arrives, nodding in greeting when the door opens and he mumbles a hello in reply. 

Stiles however, skips the pleasantries and cuts straight to the chase: “I need you to trace a text.”

“You want me to do what?”  

“Trace a text,” he replies nonchalantly, though at this point, tracing texts is as normal as it’s going to get for us. 

“I came here to do lab work. That's what lab partners do.” he adjusts the strap of his backpack. 

Stiles groans, running a hand over his head, “And we will, once you trace the text.” 

“And what makes you think I know how?” 

“We, uh, looked up your arrest report,” his eyes shift across the room, before landing on me, “she helped too.”

“Dude! Way to throw me under the bus!”

“Am I lying?” Stiles counters me with a glare.

"No,” I sigh.

“I was thirteen. They dropped the charges,” Danny defends himself. 

Stiles grumbles before turning back to his laptop.

“No,” he insists, grabbing a stool to sit next to Stiles, “we're doing lab work.” 

“Oh, my fucking-” Stiles makes a noise of frustration, clenching his fist.

There’s  few moments of clicking and keyboard tapping, before Danny pipes up, “Who's he again?” He points toward Derek who’s settled himself in the corner, reading. Well, pretending to read; Derek doesn’t seem like a book kind of guy. 

“Um, my cousin... Miguel,” Stiles improvises, and Derek is not impressed with his lying skills, sending a subtle glare.

“Is that blood on his shirt?”

I shoot up from my position, “Yeah, he gets really bad nosebleeds. Like terrible, terrible, awful to the point where he needs to stick a tampon up his nose, awful.” Now, it’s my turn to get the death glare. 

Stiles sends me a bewildered look, “Hey, Miguel,” his brooding gaze turns back to Stiles, “ I thought I told you you could borrow one of my shirts.” Stiles glares at his dresser, and Derek obliges, snapping the book closed and flinging it onto the bed.

He strips off his shirt and begins to rifle through Stiles’ drawers.

“So anyway,” Stiles and Danny turn back to the laptop, while I keep my eyes on Derek, stifling a laugh at his expression. If looks could kill both Stiles and I would be dead. Several times over. 

“I mean, we both know you have the skills to trace that text, so we should probably-”

“Uh, Stiles?” 

Stiles, turns around, exasperated, “Yes?” 

“This,” Derek says through gritted teeth, “no fit.” He holds the shirt up and stretches it to show just how tiny it would be on him.

“Well it could fit… if you wanted a crop top,” I shrug.

“Just try something else on,” Stiles grits out, turning to Danny, “sorry.”

But Danny isn’t paying attention, his gaze still locked on Derek’s back, Stiles also sees what’s going on, turning to me with a light-bulb moment; it takes me a second, but I finally get it.

“Hey, that one looks pretty good, huh? What do you think, Danny?” Derek’s pulled on an ugly brown and blue striped monstrosity of a shirt that’s about three sizes too small. Which is something duly noted by Danny, as he looks at Stiles utterly confused, having missed what he just said entirely, too busy staring at ‘Miguel’’s torso. He then clarifies, “The shirt.” 

“It's,” he gulps, “it's not really his colour.”

“I don’t know, I think you look pretty great Der-Miguel,” Derek looks about ready to rip my throat out.

He begrudgingly pulls off his shirt, before continuing the search. 

“You swing for a different team, but you still play ball, don't you, Danny boy?” that part makes me roll my eyes. 

“You're a horrible person,” he counters.

“Agreed,” I add my two cents. 

“I know,” he sighs, “It keeps me awake at night. Anyway, about that text…” 

“Stiles! None of these fit.” 

Danny immediately jumps into action, “I'll need the ISP, the phone number, and the exact time of the text.”

Stiles leans back in his chair, wobbles for a perilous moment, and gives me a strained high five -- we’re one step closer to gutting the alpha.

Danny hacks and enters code for a few minutes before finally announcing, “There.” 

I get up off the floor, joints cracking in protest and I join Stiles and Derek in crowding around the laptop. 

He points at the screen, “The text was sent from a computer. This one.” 

“Registered to that account name?” Derek asks, sounding as shocked as I feel.

“Are you sure?” I ask Danny and he nods in confirmation. I run a hand through my hair, and huff a breath of shock. 

“No, no, no, no. That can't be right,” Stiles denies it, but it doesn’t change what’s sitting right in front of us.

Text message located::filesystem catalog entry =

Account registered to:

Beacon Hills Hospital - Melissa McCall

***

By the time Stiles had done his lab work with Danny -- there was absolutely no way of getting out of it, we tried -- and we had driven to the hospital, night had fallen. And we were definitely going to miss the lacrosse match -- I’m not even in my kit yet. 

I’m leaning forward, ear pressed next to Stiles’ phone as we call Scott from the jeep.

“Did you get the picture?” Scott asks, and I can hear the shouts and babble of pre-match warm up… and we are definitely missing the game. 

“Yeah, we did,” we both look at my phone again, the picture of Allison’s necklace perfectly matching the drawing Derek has, “and it looks just like the drawing.” 

Derek leans over, snatching the phone away from Stiles,  “Hey, is there something on the back of it? There's gotta be something. An inscription, an opening, something.” 

“No, no, the thing's flat. And, no, it doesn't open. There's nothing in it, on it, around it, nothing. And where the hell are you guys? You're supposed to be here. You're both first line.” I wince, that first line thing might be going down the drain for me and Stiles after this. 

I hear a thwack come from Scott’s end, and Coach yell obscenely loud, “Where the hell is Bilinski and Stuart?”  

“Man, you're not gonna play if you're not here to start,” Scott sighs. 

“I know,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Look, if you see my dad, can you tell him… tell him I'll be there, I'll just be a little bit late, okay? All right, thanks.”  He hangs up.

“You're not gonna make it.”

“Gee, thank you for that helpful bit of information, Captain Obvious.”  

Derek glares at me, “You didn't tell him about his mom, either.” 

“We don’t know for sure,” I refuse to acknowledge that the Alpha is Melissa. I’ve only met her a few times but she just cannot be the Alpha.

“Charlie’s right -- not till we find out the truth.” 

“By the way, one more thing,” Derek grabs Stiles’ head and smashes it into the dashboard unnecessarily hard. 

“Oh, God! What the hell was-” He yells, clutching his nose. 

“You know what that was for,” he glares, and I’m starting to think that his face is just permanently glaring.

“Dude, it was a bit much. Maybe if you pulled that stick out of your ass then you’d be less uptight.”

“You wanna be next? Because you’re this close!” He holds up his fingers with barely a millimeter space between them.

I raise my hands in surrender, “My nose is wonky enough as it is, thanks.”

“Go. Both of you,” he nods to the hospital in front of us, when neither of us move he yells, “Go!” 

As I’m climbing out over the front bench, I turn and stick my tongue out at Derek. Mature, I know, but if I gave him the finger, I’m pretty sure he’d just snap it right off.

***

“Yeah, I said I can't find her,” Stiles says to an impatient Derek on the phone. We’d been searching for Melissa, but the whole hospital was empty and eerily quiet, as in, the eerie quiet when you’re about to get murdered.  

He goes quiet for a bit. “What did he say?”

“To look for the nurse looking after his uncle.”

“Derek has an uncle?”

“Yeah,” at my continued confusion, he elaborates, “you were with me when Scott told us about him.”

“I probably wasn’t paying attention,” to be fair, Scott had talked incessantly about Allison and there’s only so many times that I can actually listen.

“Derek’s Uncle was burned alive in the Hale House fire, third degree burns all over his body, and he’s just comatose now. Probably trauma. Derek’s convinced it was the Argents.”

“Knowing their reputation, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

We finally reach Derek’s Uncle’s room -- Peter Hale, as it says on the door -- but it’s totally empty of any and all comatose uncles.

“Yeah, well, he's not here either,” Stiles says down the phone. 

“He's not here. He's gone, Derek,” he says again, obviously responding to something I can't hear. I do however hear what Derek says next, and my blood runs cold. 

“Stiles, get out of there right now -- it's him! He's the Alpha! Get out!” 

The realisation takes an agonisingly long moment to settle, and then it’s too late. A man walks into my peripheral line of vision, half of his face covered in puckered, angry red burns, and a toying grin twists on his face. 

“You must be the little Winchester I’ve heard so much about, and you,” he turns to Stiles, “you must be Stiles.”

I grab a hold on Stiles and he grabs a hold on me, and we both slowly back away from Peter, who is more terrifying in human form than alpha.

Our backwards trajectory is halted by a nurse, her face cold and hard.

“What are you doing here? Visiting hours are over.” Oh fuck.

“You... and him. You're... you're the one who... Oh, my.. and he's.. Oh fuck, I'm gonna die.” Stiles pieces it together, while my eyes are darting across the room looking for a potential weapon or a way out, anything. But there’s nothing. And we are going to die. 

The nurse cocks her head at me, taking a step forward but a leather-clad elbow swings out, connecting with face, and she falls to the ground. 

I have never been more happy to see Derek.

“That's not nice,” Peter mockingly tuts, “she's my nurse.” 

“She's a psychotic bitch helping you kill people. Get out of the way,” Derek nods to us, and Stiles grabs me, pulling me down to the ground. We shuffle back into the doorway of Peter’s room -- out the way, but not trapped so we can make a runner at the first opportunity. 

Peter stalks toward Derek, “You think I killed Laura on purpose? One of my own family?”

Derek roars, teeth out and wolf eyes flashing an icy blue, before he takes a leap, one foot pushing against the wall for leverage, the other high in the air as he pounces down on his uncle.

Peter easily dodges, and uses Derek’s momentum against him, grabbing him by the jacket and throwing him against the wall.

Plaster flies through the air by our heads, and Stiles grabs a hold of my forearm, yanking me in his direction. We start to scramble down the hall, ignoring the sound of Derek getting tossed about like a ragdoll. Our hands and knees scooting along the floor as we pass by the nurse, and I nod in the direction of the reception, and Stiles agrees.

I keep crawling and duck behind it -- shit cover is better than no cover. However, Stiles doesn’t make it, trapped behind a medicine counter instead.

I peek around the corner, and Peter has Derek in a chokehold, dragging him along the floor as he continues his obligatory evil monologue, “My mind, my personality were literally burned out of me. I was being driven by pure instinct.”

He drops Derek to the floor, rummaging through his nurse’s pocket.

Derek staggers to his feet, “You want forgiveness?” he throws a punch that Peter easily side-steps. He tries to go for his shoulders, but Peter catches his arms mid-swing, holding him in place while he headbutts him.

Derek teeters backwards, while Peter delivers a swift kick to the chest “I want understanding.”

The force has Derek flying several meters in the air, before landing, limbs sprawling across the floor. 

“Do you have any idea what it was like for me during those years?” Derek coughs, a mouthful of blood splattering on the floor. 

“Slowly healing, cell by cell. Even more slowly coming back to consciousness.”

Stiles dashes toward me, and I have to hold out an arm to stop his momentum from propelling him right into the middle of the fight.

Derek slowly rises to his feet, as Peter drones on, “Yes, becoming an Alpha, taking that from Laura pushed me over a plateau in the healing process. I can't help that.”

Derek feebly tries to swipe for Peter’s head, but he sees every attack coming. He grabs ahold of Derek’s hand and twists, a sickening crunch audible even from here.

“I tried to tell you what was happening. I tried to warn you.” Peter grabs a hold of Derek’s jacket, and I motion to Stiles to leave because I know what comes next.

I jump up after him, running toward the exit. The sound of shattering glass confirms it -- we were just about to get discovered, and probably killed. 

We burst into the night air, and share a look of utter disbelief that we actually made it out alive.

“Holy shit,” he pants.

“Holy fuck,” I agree. 

⏭  1 - dream of californication.

⏭  2 - the bane(s) of my existence.

⏭  3 - a disturbingly familiar encounter involving shovels and corpses.

⏭  4 - strike me down so I can’t get up again. please.

⏭  5 -  death threats, bullet wounds and cramp.

⏭  6 - the perks of being an orphan.

⏭  7 - like a choked cat being shoved into a blender. alive.

⏭  8 - just like something from a dumb horror movie. except it’s real, and we’re about to get murdered.

⏭  9 - breaking out the handcuffs, and not in the fun way.

⏭  10 - fast and furious, with a side of theft and plot-twists.

⏭  11 - how many times do I have to punch this mofo for him to listen?

⏭  12 - charlie stuart: certified fifth wheeler.

⏭  13 - bitches up in flames.

I traipsed my way through the thicket, and entered a clearing of sorts -- trees were sparse between the boulders that both composed and sat atop the ground; perfectly matching the description Stiles gave to me over the phone. My assumption is right when the boys round the corner into my view, Stiles waving me over.

After Allison broke up with Scott at the school the other night -- the kicked-puppy expression makes a lot more sense now -- Scott had been quite depressed, as one is when they’ve been dumped. At least he’s handling it better than me; and by better than me, I mean he hasn’t gotten wasted off his face yet, though that may change after tonight. Because in an effort to cheer him up, Stiles decided we all needed another night out like the one when I first arrived in this anything-but-normal town.

I half-run, half-walk up to them because I don’t want to slip on the still-wet ground because I genuinely don’t think my pride can take another hit after the whole almost-skewering-the-janitor thing. Because that was very embarrassing.

“We really shouldn't be out here. My mom is in a constant state of freak-out from what happened at the school,” Scott groans, and by his obvious lack of enthusiasm, I can tell that Stiles probably dragged him out here kicking and screaming. Well, kicking and howling would probably be more accurate for our werewolf friend.

“Well, your mom isn't the sheriff, okay? There's no comparison, trust me,” Stiles starts off toward a large and very comfy-looking boulder, and Scott and I follow.

“Hey,” I shrug, gaining both of their attention, “try having two asshole half-brothers who leave you for dead when they get a shiny new relative,” I joke, but it falls short with a lukewarm reception, so I correct myself, “Kidding,” they both raise their eyebrows at me and I sigh, “Not really, as that actually happened, but I’m not butthurt over it, or anything,” I lie through my teeth, because I am still very pissed about it.

Though, I must have built some lying skills over my lifetime because they move on. After all, the many ‘it was just a few friends’, ‘I was just studying’, ‘yes, I did my homework’ and ‘no, I didn’t break into your liquor stash’ over the years must have given me some practice to build some decent lying talent.

“Can you at least just tell me what we're doing out here?”

“Yes. When your best friend gets dumped-” Stiles starts, but is cut off by an adamant Scott,

“I didn't get dumped. We're taking a break.”

“Yeah, look how well that turned out for Ross and Rachel, the toxic motherfuckers,” I mumble, but Scott clearly hears me, glaring at me. I really need to start remembering that he has werewolf hearing.

“All right, well, when your best friend gets told by his girlfriend that they're taking a break,” Stiles continues, “you get your best friend drunk.” He gestures to me and I pull out the three bottles of jack I got with my fake ID with the desired dramatic flourish.

“Charlie, I said a bottle, not three,” Stiles says incredulously.

“Yeah, well some of us use alcohol to cope with traumatic incidents like the other night,” I shrug, and set about lighting a fire in the metal containers the preserve people leave out for this very purpose.

A few too many drinks later and I’m feeling very buzzed while Stiles is… absolutely wasted, for lack of a better word.

“Dude, you know, she's just one... one girl. You know, there are so many... there are so many other girls in the sea,” Stiles’ voice wavers a registrar higher than normal, voice breaking as the alcohol hits his light-weight body.

“Fish in the sea,” Scott corrects from behind me.

“Fish? Why you talking about fish? I'm talking about girls. I love girls. I love 'em. I love especially ones with strawberry blond hair, green eyes, 5'3"...” he trails up, looking at the sky dreamily.

Swallowing my sip, I can’t help but roll my eyes. While I completely agree about the part about girls -- if a girl were to stomp on my neck 9/10 times I’d thank them -- but it’s the Lydia part I really don’t get. Sure, she’s pretty, but not enough to go all Edward Cullen on her.

“Like Lydia?” I suggest, looking at his eyes which are half-open and still fixated on the sky, images of the redhead no doubt filling his mind. Dork. Well, loveable dork.

“Yeah, exactly. Hey, how did you know I was talking about… about…” he spaces out again, “What was I talking about? Hey, you're not happy. Take a drink,” he hits Scott's leg weakly, trying to push a bottle toward Scott who still looks as heartbroken as ever.

“I don't want any more,” he refuses.

“You're not drunk?

“I'm not anything,” it’s now when I take the time to look at Scott, to really look at him. And he’s so fucking depressed. So I offer him a small smile that he weakly returns -- I would go all therapist on him, but trying that with Dean has given me enough bad experiences, it’s harder for men to open up. Another reason why gender roles are total and absolute fucking bullshit.

“Hey, maybe it's like... maybe it's like not needing your inhaler anymore, you know. Maybe you can't get drunk as a wolf,” I can’t not imagine not being able to be drunk, it must fucking suck, after all, how does a teenager have fun when they can’t get drunk?

“Am I drunk?” Stiles asks, looking up at me.

“You're wasted,” I say, playfully rolling my eyes.

“Yeah!” Stiles fist-pumps the air, and tries to comfort Scott again, “Come on, dude, I know it feels bad. I know it hurts. I know. Well, I don't know. But I know this. I know that as much as being broken up hurts, being alone is way worse,” he pauses for a moment, That didn't make any sense. I need a drink.”

I turn to Scott, “Don’t listen to him. It does suck, it really does, and I know it feels like you’ll never be able to love or feel again, but, trust me, it will happen again,” I try, thinking about all of the times when I’ve fallen for a straight girl, and it’s fucking awful, and the pain of not being able to love who you want to love, feels like it’ll never end, but eventually, one day, it does; and you start to feel okay again. Until you meet someone new and the whole cycle repeats itself, because love fucking sucks.

Our little moment of sincerity is interrupted when some skeeze-bag of a guy snatches the bottle from Stiles’ hand, and says to his also skeeze-bag friend, “Well, look at the three little bitches getting their drink on.”

“Don’t worry, Scott I can take them,” I whisper into his ear, and rise to my feet. But I must’ve drunken more than I thought I had, because the whole world veered and rocked on its axis, and I was pushed back onto my ass by the overwhelming dizzy spell. Yep, definitely drunk.

“Maybe not,” I shrug, and Scott takes over.

“Give it back.” He must be channeling his inner-wolf, because he is a little intimidating.

“What's that, little man?” Asshole. I may be drunk, but I’m pretty sure I can still stab this man.

“I think he wants a drink,” the other one teases.

“I want the bottle,” he persists.

“Guys, maybe we should just go,” Stiles says, looking at me warily.

“You brought me here to get me drunk. I'm not drunk yet,” asshole 1 and 2 scoff, and each take a swig from the bottle, which is very unsanitary, might I add.

Scott rises to his feet, and stands right in front of the guys, he growls lowly, “Give me the bottle.”

When it doesn’t work, he persists, sterner, “Give me the bottle of Jack.”

I suddenly feel very sober when I spot Scott’s nails growing into claws in his clenched fist. He’s wolfing out. 10 bucks also says that his amber eyes are also glowing.

“Scott?” The werewolf in question ignores Stiles and continues glaring at the men.

The unknown asshole looks like he’s about to shit himself, and he gladly passes the bottle back to Scott; the eyes were definitely showing. He then hurls it at a tree, sending the assholes scurrying back from whatever place they came from. Terrified.

Scott just stands there. Chest heaving for a moment, before storming off back in the direction of his car.

I scramble to my feet, and grab Stiles’ arm to help him up, both of us leaning on the other because the world is still spinning unusually fast.

We’re still stumbling along behind him, when Stiles pipes up, “Okay, please tell me that was because of the breakup. Or 'cause tomorrow's the full moon,” Scott doesn’t answer and just opens the car door and Stiles just falls in, butt smacking against the leather seats.

“Move,” I whine, not-so-gently stuffing Stiles into the backseat, because if I stand for a second longer, I think I’m going to puke. And that is definitely not what I’d call not fun. I flop down into the passenger seat, and just focus on not barfing as Scott drives -- as much as it sucks, the no-alcohol-for-werewolves thing is good; we always have a driver.

Scott pulls up to my apartment, and I open the door, and practically fall out, saving myself at the last second before I hit the asphalt. The backdoor also opens and Stiles gets out too.

“Stiles what the hell are you doing?” Scott asks.

“‘M goin’ home,” he slurs his speech.

“Stiles, this isn’t your house,” I say. I try squinting my eyes to see if it’ll make the ground stop moving, and it works. Sort of.

“I know,” he whispers, “but I can’t go home home, not like this.”

“Oh,” that makes sense, “why are we whispering?”

“I… don’t know,” he giggles and I join in, because it’s not funny -- it’s hilarious.

“Come on,” I whisper and grab his arm, slinging it over my shoulder.

“We should say bye to Scott,” Stiles suggests, leaning into my face. And his suggestion is genius, because how could we have forgotten to say goodbye to Scott?

“You’re right,” I hiccup, and turn to face the car we’d just passed, “Bye-bye Scott!” I scream, and burst out into laughter, and I’m not sure why. Stiles gives a lazy wave, and I hear the car pull away.

We reach the lobby door, Stiles smacking himself into the glass to try and push it open.

“Move,” I grab a fistful of his jacket and shove him out the way, and pull the door open.

“Wow, you are strong,” he says, leaning on me again.

“Come on, dummy,” I put his arm around my neck again and we hobble up the stairs.

“Ooh,” he giggles, hand squeezing my bicep, and continues to ramble “look at those muscles.”

“I know! I’m like Wonder Woman… except cooler… way cooler.”

“Definitely more awesomer.”

It takes us about five minutes to make it up the first set of stairs. Ugh, Stiles is so slow.

“Hurry up!” I groan.

“But the stairs are hard, and I’m too drunk,” he complains, but we continue to shuffle up the stairs.

It takes me a few minutes to unlock the door when we reach it because the key was being mean, and wouldn’t work.

When we get in I walk over to the couch, and let Stiles go, his dead weight making him collapse onto the cushions, already asleep. However his torso starts to slide off, and his head hits the floor with a loud thump. But I’m tired. And he’s heavy. So I slide a cushion under his head and leave him like that, and I go to bed.

***

I wake up and I feel like absolute shit. My head is pounding with a pulsating pain, and the very air around me is ringing. I genuinely want to die. Whoever decided to drink on a Sunday is a moron. I groan; that moron is currently asleep on my couch, and we’re gonna be late, because my alarm clock has been thrown on the floor... by the past, tired me.

I roll out of bed, holding my head, and start a pot of coffee, because God knows I need it. Or even Amara... or whatever.

I swallow an aspirin dry, which is insanely gross but I don’t have time for niceties right now.

“Stiles,” he doesn’t stir in the slightest.

“Stiles,” I try again, louder.

“Stiles!” I poke him this time but I get no reaction.

I grab the pillow and quickly slip it out from under his head, hitting him around the face with it.

“I’m up!” he groans, fully falling off the couch.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late,” I throw the bottle of aspirin at him and go over to the coffee pot, filling up two to-go cups.

“What am I supposed to take this with?”

“Just swallow it! We don’t have time,” I’m stuffing my feet into my shoes, while simultaneously grabbing my bag. He must catch a glimpse of the time because he suddenly scrambles to life, groaning while pulling his jacket on.

I lock the door behind us, and pass him his coffee. Stiles takes three aspiring with a swig of coffee.

“Stiles, I don’t that’s safe.”

“I don’t care, it works,” he shrugs, handing me back the bottle.

Considering how the world is still buzzing, I take his advice and swallow down another two as we run down the stairs.

We race to Shane and jump in, and I start the engine, and peel out of the car park, foot firmly on the gas pedal the whole way to school.

Beautiful Monday morning, Beacon Hills High School is back open after being closed Thursday and Friday. Police search continues for alleged killer Derek Hale-

the radio starts before I slam it off. It is too loud for a day like today. And, I really don’t want reminders of Friday, or the fact that we proverbially threw Derek under the bus while he was still alive.  

***

Scott laughs when we walk up to his locker.

“How you guys feeling?”

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps.

“I think I’d rather have died on Wednesday,” I complain.

“You’d rather die? My neck is killing me.” He rubs the stiff muscle.

“Huh, wonder why,” I internally wince because it may have been my fault because I was too lazy to fix his position, but what he won’t know won’t hurt him.

The bell rings far too loud, and both Stiles and I groan.

“Now you know how I feel,” Scott smiles, having absolutely no sympathy, the bastard. Though, if I were in his position I’d probably gloat even more.

I head into maths and after taking one look at the calculus on the board I wish I’d actually died  while being a soul-bomb against Amara.

***

First period takes way too long, but luckily I have a free period with Stiles next. I spend most of it trying to sleep off my hangover, but Stiles wakes me to go and eavesdrop on his dad’s meeting with the principal.

We get there, but my brain is too tired to even attempt living, so we just wait for Noah and his deputies to leave the office. He murmurs to his colleagues for a moment before walking over to us, and we rise from our squatted positions on the floor.

“Don't you two have a test to get to? And I’m not even going to try to ask where you were last night,” he sighs, fixing Stiles with a stern look.

“We… were studying, for that pesky test next period. But we fell asleep, and almost overslept. Sorry for being so irresponsible, Sheriff,” I lie, and not to be too far up my own ass, but I’m quite proud of how quick I came up with that one -- the on-the-spot lies are the ones I struggle with the most.

“Wow, I’m impressed. That’s actually more responsible than either of you have been recently,” he smiles, and the guilt layers on slightly. But oh well.

“What's going on? Did you find Derek yet?” Stiles tries to dig for information.

“I'm workin' on it. You go take your test,” he dismisses us, but Stiles persists.

“All right, dad, listen to me-”

“Go!”

“This is really important. You have to be careful tonight, okay? Especially tonight.”

“Stiles, I'm always careful,” he tries to reassure.

“Dad, you've never dealt with this kind of thing before, okay? At least not like this.”

“I know, which is why I brought in people who have. State detective. Go take your test.”

Stiles huffs, hesitating, before we walk off the Harris’ bullshit test that I have not studied for in the slightest. I hate high school.

***

Scott walks in, and tries to talk to Allison but she continues to give him the cold-shoulder. Ouch. Harris -- being a dickwad, as per usual -- demands he take his seat, which is in front of Stiles and next to me.

“You have 45 minutes to complete the test. 25% of your grade can be earned right now simply by writing your name on the cover of the blue book,” Harris begins, and I immediately scrawl my name on the front; I don’t want to be a dumbass. He continues in his usual slimy fashion:

“However, as happens every year, one of you will inexplicably fail to put your name on the cover, and I'll be left yet again questioning my decision to ever become a teacher. So let's get the disappointment over with. Begin.” He clicks the stop watch, and I tear open my test packet.

The test is surprisingly alright considering no revision has been done on my part. About half-way through our time, I notice Scott start to pant beside me, looking panicked. I’m just about to ask if he’s alright when he grabs his bag and runs out the classroom.

“Mr. McCall?” Harris shouts after him. Stiles quickly runs out too, a stern “Mr. Stilinski!” following after him.

I take a quick look at the three questions I have left, skimming them before roughly circling the right answers. My ass hasn’t even made it an inch of my seat when Dickwad with a capital D unfortunately says, “Miss Stuart, don’t even think about leaving your seat.”

Which is absolute bullshit because Scott and Stiles are in trouble. I’m looking for a quick way out, when I pull out the unbeatable card from my sleeve. The period.

“But oh!” I cry, dramatically putting my hand to my forehead, “the agony! Cramps, destroying my uterus, a waterfall of red soon to be trickling from my vagina for I have not protected myself from this! Oh, the blood!” Before I can continue my oscar-worthy performance, Harris rolls his eyes and nods so that I can leave. I make sure to limp on the way out to really sell my performance.

Following my instincts, I run to the locker room to see Scott -- shirtless, of course -- under the shower, while Stiles is watching warily.

Scott shuts off the water and faces us, breathing rapidly.

“I can't-”

“What's happening? Are you changing?” Stiles asks.

“No. No, I can't breathe,” he chokes out between shallow breaths.

Stiles immediately opens Scott’s bag, and rummages in the pockets, pulling out Scott’s inhaler and holding it out to him.

“Here, use this. Come on, do it.”

Scott takes a puff and immediately his breath comes back to him. “I was having an asthma attack?” he shows his bewilderment freely on his face.

“No, you were having a panic attack,” Stiles corrects, “but thinking you were having an asthma attack actually stopped the panic attack. Irony,” he jests.

“How did you know to do that?”

“I used to get them after my mom died. Not fun, huh?” Stiles smiles softly

“I looked at her, and it was like someone hit me in the ribs with a hammer,” Scott says, holding his arms out.

“That part, I can help with. You see, there’s this little thing -- I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it, there’s only like 3 million songs about it -- it’s called heartbreak. And trust me, whatever you’re feeling now, it’s about 10 times worse when you fall for a straight girl,” I add, thinking about Claire’s rejection after I kissed her. Unrequited love sucks.

“But Allison is a straight girl,” Stiles says.

“You know what I mean.”

Scott, having ignored our last few words, continues, “I can't stop thinking about her.”

“Well, you could think about this: Her dad's a werewolf hunter, and you're a werewolf, so it was bound to become an issue,” Stiles tries, but Scott gives him a dead-pan look, “That… wasn't helpful. Dude, I mean, yeah, you got dumped, and it's supposed to suck.”

“No, that's not it. It was like I could feel everything in the room, everyone else's emotions.”

“That’s got to be the full moon, then. So we'll break out the handcuffs,” Stiles sniggers and I sigh, “we’ll break out the handcuffs, and not in the fun way, and lock you up in your room. That way, your creepy boss, AKA Mr. Alpha, can’t get to you,” I outline our previously agreed upon plan.

“I think we need to do a lot more than lock me in my room.”

“What, you mean because if you get out, you'd be caught by hunters?”

“No. Because if I get out… I think I might kill someone.”

I walk into the boys changing rooms after switching into my lacrosse gear to see that Coach is just about to start an announcement so I quickly slide onto a bench next to Stiles.

“Well, that’s lovely.”

“All right, geniuses, listen up. Due to the recent pink eye epidemic. Thank you, Greenberg,” he pauses to glare at a sheepish Greenberg behind him, “the following people have made first line on a probationary basis,” Stiles immediately perks up at that, looking around excitedly to me, so I smile at him as Coach continues, “emphasis on the word ‘probationary’. Rodriguez.”

There’s a pause for a lack-luster round of applause. “Welcome to first line,” Coach mutters, before continuing his list, “Taylor, and, uh... Oh, for the love of crap. I can't even read my own writing. What is that, an ‘s’?” Coach squints at his notes and I notice that Stiles is fired up, and is just waiting to hear his name called out.

“No, no, that's not an ‘s.’” Stiles wilts beside me, disappointment setting in as he still hasn’t made first line.

“That's a... that's a... That's a ‘b’. It's definitely a ‘b’. Uh, Rodriguez, Taylor, and, uh… Bilinski.”

Stiles goes insane. He jumps around, screaming, fist-pumping the air and whooping for joy.

“Bilinski!”

“Yes?”

“Shut. Up.” Coach grinds out.

“Yes, sir,” he sits back down next to me.

“Having fun there, Stiles?” I ask him, chuckling slightly.

“It's Biles. Call me Biles, or I swear to God I'll kill you.”

“Well, Biles, hate to break it to you: but you’re not threatening. In the slightest.” He shoots a joking glare my way. Well, at least I hope it’s a joke.

“Another thing,” Coach adds, “from here on out -- immediately -- we're switching to co-captains. Congratulations, McCall.” I did not see that one coming.

“What?” Jackson looks livid, asshole jaw clenching tight enough to break teeth; not that I’m complaining about that part. I share a look of worry with Scott -- yes, I’m happy that Jackson is pissed, but if he is pissed, that means Jackson is going to be more of an asshole than normal. Which is not fun.

“What do you mean, what? Jackson, this takes nothing away from you. This is about combining separate strengths into one unit. This is about taking your unit, McCall's unit, and making one big unit. McCall, it's you and Jackson now. Everybody else, Asses on the field!” When no movement is made -- the shock still keeping everybody in place -- Coach repeats himself louder, “Asses on the field!”

As we’re making our way to the field, Stiles is practically buzzing with excitement and blabbering happily, “Dude, can you believe this? You're a captain. I'm first line. I'm first freaking line! And Charlie…” he trails off, and I raise my eyebrows at him, wondering what he’s gonna come up with.

“Charlie is looking considerably less pissy, which means her hangover is going away.”You know what? I’ll take it.

“Are you not freaking out? I'm freaking out,” Stiles says to Scott, referencing his distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“What's the point? It's just a stupid title. And I could practically smell the jealousy in there,” he shrugs it off.

“Hold up, you smell jealousy?” He nods.

“That is so weird,” I say.

“Yeah, it's like the full moon's turned everything up to ten.”

“Can you pick up on stuff like, I don't know, desire?” And here we go again.

Scott doesn’t follow, “What do you mean desire?”

“Like sexual desire.”

“Sexual desire?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, “He means lust.”

Scott glances at the Trashbag in question, who’s just down the hall, “From Lydia?”

“Probably,” I answer, because when isn’t it about Lydia?

“What? No, in a general, broad sense, can you determine sexual desire?”

“From Lydia to you?” he confirms.

Stiles concedes, “Fine, yes, from Lydia to me. Look, I need to know if I have a chance with this girl, okay? I've been obsessing over her since the third fucking grade.”

“Why don't you just ask her?” Is he dumb?  

“Well, to save myself utterly crushing humiliation. Thank you, Scott. Okay? So, please, can you just go up and ask her if she likes me? See if her heartbeat rises, pheromones come out.”

“Fine,” he agrees.

“I love you. I love you. You're my best friend in the whole world.”

“I am standing right here, Stiles.”

“You’re my best friend too, it’s just that you’re not helping me get together with the love of my life -- all you’ve done is insult her,” we continue walking to the pitch.

“Love of your life? Seriously?”

He looks at me like I’m the stupid one. “Yes. Dead-serious. Do you see a joke on this face?”

“Well, besides the joke that is your whole face, no. It’s just that you can’t even manage a single conversation with her… so how is she the love of your life?”

“Oh ha, ha, ha,” he dead-pans as we step onto the pitch, stopping to look at me,

“I take it back.”

“Take what back?”

“The notion that your hangover is gone. You’re still pissy, and a little bitchy too,” he jokes.

“I’m not being bitchy, I’m just stating the truth.” I chuck my bag down and start pulling my arm pads on.

“What truth?”

“That she has the personality of a brick. Well, she chooses to have the personality of a brick, which makes it worse,” I start pulling the lacrosse pads on, strapping them up.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve talked about this: the dumb act, and how she deliberately chooses to put people down just so she can stay popular; or have you not noticed how quickly people get kicked out their clique?” I slide my gloves on as I say this.

“Well… maybe she feels like she has to,” he attempts. And, he does have a point, proving why I feel a little sorry for her, that, and she’s in a relationship with an asshole.

“Hey,” Stiles greets Scott, “What happened?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, what? Did you ask her? Did she say anything? Did she say she liked me? Did she imply she liked me?” Stiles interrogates.

“Yeah. Yeah, she likes you. In fact, she's totally into you.” Stiles loses it for the second time today, fist-pumping and an incredibly happy smile on his face that I awkwardly return. I’m pretty good at reading people, and the vibes from Lydia to Stiles? They do not equate to being into him. But maybe I’m wrong; either way, I don’t want to ruin his happiness.

***

We start practice off with an offensive play -- three players in defense, and the rest of us lined up to advance and shoot individually.

Scott -- who is in front of Stiles who is in front of me -- is next in line, but he doesn’t look too good. From what I can see, he’s hunched over slightly, and his whole body is buzzing with pent-up energy. I nudge Stiles and point out Scott’s all-too-familiar behaviour: he’s on the verge of wolfing-out.

“Scott, you okay, dude? Look, I know we just got good news and all, but there's still seven hours till the full moon, okay?” Stiles tries, but Scott just continues looking forward.

Coach blows his whistle, “Let's go!”

Scott breaks out in a run toward the goal, when two of the defense create a barrier, smacking him to the ground. Hard.

Coach walks over, and looks down at Scott, still on his back, “Guess some people don't appreciate your new status there, McCall,” he turns back towards us, “Who's next? Let's go.” The whistle sounds.

However Scott doesn’t sulk to the back of the line, he jumps back up to his feet and looks absolutely pissed.

“You have a problem with that, Bilinski?”

“What? Yeah, no,” Stiles answers Coach’s question, grabbing a ball from the ground. But he doesn’t get a chance to go as Scott comes back, smacking him in the chest with his stick. Hard. Way too hard.  

“That's it, McCall! That's the spirit! You earn it! Earn it, McCall!” Coach encourages from the sidelines, which is unfortunate because if Scott ‘earns’ it, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna end up hurting someone.

And once again, I am a prophet.

Scott smacks the two defence players aside like they’re nothing, before he makes for Danny in goal and knocks him aside too. Though he does a lot of damage, because Danny’s groaning on the floor, and all of us go to see what’s wrong.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing?” Stiles pulls Scott aside.

“He's twice the size of me,” Scott brushes it off casually, like he didn’t just physically assault one of the nicest people in this school.

“So? Doesn’t mean you have to have a WWE smackdown with him!” I exclaim, exasperated because full-moon Scott is quite an asshole.

“Yeah, everybody likes Danny. Now everybody's gonna hate you,” Stiles furthers my point when not a single flash of remorse crosses his face.

“I don't care,” Scott swaggers off with some Edward-Cullen level moodiness.

I get closer to assess the damage, an on-site medic now checking Danny over, shining a torch in his eye.

“Is he okay?” Lydia rushes over and asks her asshole of a boyfriend.

“It looks like he just has a bloody nose…” Jackson trails off, noticing something about his girlfriend. I take a closer look and notice it too; her flawless lipstick isn’t perfect for once. Instead it’s all smudged around her lips. And we all know exactly why it’s like that, and who did it. Scott.

It only takes me a single glance at Stiles for me to know that he’s figured out the chain of events too: instead of asking Lydia if she likes Stiles, he made-out with her. And lied about it.

***

I drive Stiles back to his house, as he needed to do something whilst I went back home and took a quick shower, ready for tonight.

I’m still getting changed when Stiles calls me, so I pick it up, shoving the phone between my shoulder and ear as I still get dressed.

“Hey, do you have any chains?”

“That depends: do you mean the type to use as a weapon; the restraining type or the Rihanna type?”

“Do you really have all three?”

“No! I was kidding about the last one.”

“Oh, do you have the restraining type,?”

“I should do, but come over because I don’t know exactly what you want.”

“Okay, on my way.”

A couple minutes after I’m fully dressed the front door opens and Stiles walks in.

“How did you do that? The door was locked.”

“Uh… I made a key,” he holds it up.

I sigh, “Disappointed but not surprised.”

I open my closet door to show Stiles the array of stuff I have.

“Woah.” He goes to touch some of the ring daggers I have.

“Don’t touch that,” I stop him, the memory of when he spilt coffee all down himself this morning too fresh. And he wasn’t even holding the mug -- it was on the table.

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” he agrees before rifling through the restraints I have.

“What are these?” He holds out a pair of enochian handcuffs.

“Oh, they bind angels so they can’t use their powers.”

“Right, I forgot angels were real,” he shuffles about some more before he exits the closet, duffle bag in hand, stuffed with whatever he decided fit.

“Let’s go.”

***

When we get to Scott’s house, I’m unsurprised to find out that Stiles also has a key for the front door, so we let ourselves in.

“Scott?” Scott’s mom calls as she rounds the corner.

“Stiles and Charlie,” he chuckles nervously gesturing between the two of us.

“Key!” She points at Stiles’ hand in which he’s still clutching his key ring. Which, as I notice it now, had far too many keys on it and it begs the question: what can’t Stiles open?

“Yeah. I had one made, so…” he trails off.

Melissa sighs, “That doesn't surprise me. It scares me, but it doesn't surprise me.”

We smile awkwardly before Stiles dumps the duffle bag on the ground, causing a very loud thump. And I make the mental note to smack him later.

“What is that?” Please don’t look in the bag.

“Uh… school project.”

“A very heavy school project,” I add even though it doesn’t make our bullshit lie any more believable.

It must be quite usual behaviour for Stiles because she shrugs it off, “Stiles, he's okay, right?”

“Who? Scott? Yeah. Totally.” Other than the fact he shape-shifts into a mythical creature, he’s doing great.

“He just doesn't talk to me that much anymore, not like he used to.”

“Well, he's had a bit of a rough week,” Stiles continues the bullshit.  

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Yeah, um… Okay, uh... Be careful tonight,” she smiles as she starts to walk toward the door.

“You, too,” I smile awkwardly.

“Full moon.” Fucking shit. She knows.

“What?” Stiles croaks out, while the shock has rendered me speechless.

“There's a full moon tonight. You should see how the E.R. gets. Brings out all the nut jobs,” she chuckles. And thank the holy mother of fucks because I feel so relieved right now.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

“You know, it's, um, actually where they came up with the word ‘lunatic’,” she anecdotes, before walking out the door. As soon as it’s shut, I smack Stiles round the head.

“What was that for?”

“You know!”

He shrugs, “To be fair, I do know.”

I switch on the light in Scott’s room and I swear I almost have a heart attack because Scott’s in his chair, a creepy murderous expression on his face. I’m still clutching my heart as Stiles yells,

“Oh, my God! Dude. You scared the hell out of me. Your mom said you weren't home yet!”

“I came in through the window,” he replies in a monotonous voice that is not-at-all creepy. Sarcasm intended.

“Okay,” Stiles squats down and starts to shuffle through the bag, “Uh, well, let's get this set up. I want you to see what we brought.”

“I'm fine. I'm just gonna lock the door and go to bed early tonight.” Yeah, he’s fine.

“I’d beg to differ, because you’re pulling the exact same face that Ted Bundy did when he asked girls to get in his little murder van. And I’m praying it’s just the full moon, otherwise I’m never getting in a car with you again,” I interject because Scott is genuinely a creep.

“I'm fine. You should go now,” he nods to the door.

“All right, we'll leave. Well, look, would you just at least look in the bag and see what we brought? You know, maybe you use it, maybe you don't. Sound good?” Stiles bargains with Scott, who slowly rises from his seat and slinks toward us in a predatory manner, and my fingers begin to itch for the knife in my boot.

Scott grabs a fistful of the chains, “You think I'm gonna let you put these on and chain me up like a dog?”

“Actually, no,” Stiles waits a moment, before grabbing the handcuffs and diving at Scott, locking the band around his wrist and the radiator -- trapping him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yells, eyes glowing dimly for a few seconds.

“Protecting you from yourself and giving you some payback… for making out with Lydia.” Mic drop.

***

After a few minutes, Stiles pulls a bottle of water from the back along with a dog bowl, with the name Scott scrawled along it. So that’s what he was doing. Well played, Bilinski, well played.

“I brought you some water,” he struggles to crack open the seal on the bottle so he turns to me,

“Can you open it for me?” I oblige, turning the lid easily, and pass it back to him.

He nods his thanks, and pours it into the bowl and sets it in front of Scott. I have to stifle a laugh at the look on Scott’s face, while it is funny, his face is also kind of murderous, so on the odd chance he escapes, I really don’t want to get my face torn off. I like my face, hence the stifling.

Stiles only makes it back to the door frame, next to me, before Scott hurls the bowl at him and roars,

“I'm gonna kill you!”

Stiles rounds on Scott and lets out all his anger, “You kissed her, Scott, okay? You kissed Lydia. That's, like, the one girl that I… And, you know, the past three hours, I've been thinking, it's probably just the full moon, you know, he doesn't even know what he's doing, and tomorrow, he'll be totally back to normal. He probably won't even remember what a complete dumbass he's been. A son of a bitch, a fucking unbelievable piece of shit friend.”

Scott looks up, eyes hard as glass as he starts to taunt Stiles, “She kissed me.”

“What?” He falters.

“I didn't kiss her. She kissed me,” he continues to goad, “She would have done a lot more, too. You should have seen the way she had her hands all over me. She would have done anything I wanted. Anything!” After every word, Stiles tenses up more, bristling with hurt and anger.

“Stiles, go. I’ve got this,” I nod for him to leave the room, he should at least go down the hall. I cut him when he starts to protest, “This isn’t my first rodeo in one of these situations.” He takes another look at Scott before nodding and leaving, I follow his figure and I see him trudge down the stairs. Safe.

“And you, Charlie,” he spits out my name with a poisonous venom.

“You’ve been here all of five minutes? And think that you’ve finally found somewhere you belong? Pathetic. No wonder why your brothers left you for dead. You’re worthless.”

I let out a dry chuckle, “Oh, Scotty. I already know I’m worthless; and it’s gonna take a lot more than that to get under my skin.”

***

Eventually the jibes and screams do start to wear me down slightly, so I go out and sit in the hall, my back against the wall -- it was important that he couldn’t tell that he was getting to me.

“Charlie, please let me out. It's the full moon, I swear. You know I wouldn't do any of this on purpose. Please, Charlie, let me out. It's starting to hurt.” I squeeze my eyes closed, because even if it is Scott talking, I still can’t let him out.

“It's not like the first time. It's the full moon. It's Allison breaking up with me. I know… that it's not just taking a break. She broke up with me. And it's killing me. I feel completely hopeless. Just, please, let me out,” he continues to plead.

“Sorry, no can do.”

As another wave of screams begin, I feel Stiles sit next to me,

“Thought you could use the moral support.”

“Thanks,” I sigh as Scott continues to scream. Then...

Silence.

He’s stopped screaming. And it’s quiet, suspiciously quiet.

“Scott, are you okay? Scott?” I peer round the corner and there’s a broken pair of handcuffs and an ominous pool of blood. And no Scott.

“Fuck.”

“Double fuck,” Stiles says.

“Right, you go look for him and I’ll stay here, in case he comes back.”

***

After mopping up the blood and tidying up Scott’s room a little, I’m surprised to see Scott limping back into his bedroom, fully human and leaning on an alive Derek.

“Oh good, you’re both still alive!”

Scott chuckles nervously and immediately latches onto me and I help him sit down on his bed.

“Thanks.”

Derek turns to leave and is halfway out the door when Scott pipes up, “Wait.” He turns to look at us, “I can't do this. I can't be this and be with Allison. I need you to tell me the truth. Is there a cure?” he looks between us.

“For someone who was bitten? I've heard of one. I don't know if it's true.”

“Well, what is it?”

“You have to kill the one that bit you. Have you seen it done?” He asks me.

“Yes, but it didn’t work. But the girl was a rabid wolf, so who knows,” I shrug.

“So it’s settled then, Scott. If you help me find the alpha, I'll help you kill him,” Derek says before storming his dramatic ass out.

“Right, I need sleep.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“You do know that you’re not worthless, right? You mean something to me, and Stiles,” Scott smiles at me.

“Thanks, Scott.”

⏭  series playlist

⏭  season one

⏭ season two 

⏮  season three

⏮  season four

⏮  season five

⏮  season six

⏮  season fourteen

⏮  season fifteen

The air was heavy; static with unresolved tension. But, I suppose that’s what you get when you cram a teen, packed with a fuck-ton unresolved family issues, and a forty-something sheriff into a car for far too long after what might be perhaps the biggest argument of said teen girl's life.

And because of this heavy, unresolved tension, the air was cloying with a silence that I certainly did not want to break, so where did that leave me? Staring out of a questionably-stained-with-half-washed-away-monster-guts window at the blase scenery. And after hours on end, it was enough to make anybody want to shoot themselves. Or, in the very least, I wanted to shoot myself.

I’m not sure if it’s because of the awkward silence, or the mind-numbing boredom, or maybe even the fact that I’m being kicked out, and forcibly re-homed in the always-hot, always-makes-you-want-to-die California. Fun.

I spared a glance over at Jody, staring forward with a look that mirrored my boredom exactly. Understandably too -- she was the one who had always been kinder to me than I ever deserved, and slowly evolved into the sort-of mother I never had; which was more than anybody ever asked her to do in the first place. Now, she has to pick up the slack for my brothers, driving me to Cali and helping me get situated. That's right. Jody has been the one to help me, not Sam and Dean 'Family don't end in blood' Winchester. Though, I guess blood doesn't extend to your half-sister, the product of a drunken fling. Especially when your dead mother is brought back by God's sister to find a surprise half-kid. Then, it's time to get rid of her for her 'safety' (though we all know it's just a bullshit excuse, why leave the safest place on Earth for a sleep Californian town?).

And a part of me does want to understand why they did what they did, I really do. I'd be elated if I ever got the chance to meet my mom, I'd do almost anything. But the one thing I wouldn't do, is abandon someone I've known for 16 years for a practical stranger. No, I wouldn't do that. To give them credit, they had set up some fraudulent money system to get monthly cheques into my account so I could actually survive.

“You can turn it on you know,” Jody broke the silence, and nodded toward the radio, “instead of indecisively reaching for it every 30 seconds. God knows we need to break this awkward silence.” I chuckled, one thing about Jody -- you could always count on her to be truthful, even if it's a bit blunt.

After flicking the worn dial on, the sound system crackled to life,

Dream of Californication… the chorus blasted out. Ironic.

“I’m sorry… for you know…” I bobbed my head. I was never any good at apologies.

“Making this car journey incredibly awkward? Don’t worry about it. You have every right.” She smiled.

“To be an asshole?”

“Yeah. You’re not exactly in the best position, I get that. And besides, being this angsty is the first normal teenager thing I think I’ve ever seen you do.” True, she's never seen me do any normal teen things, like sneaking out to Lizzie's party, and -- possibly -- making out with her.

“So, what exactly is this place, again?” The conversation was rolling now, and I didn’t want it to stop, because if we're left in that god-awful excruciating silence again, I will legitimately shoot myself in the face. Because, fuck me, that would be awful.

“Beacon Hills. It’s got a good school, and a good lacrosse team.”

“And that’s relevant to me how?” Because my senses are picking up another Jody scheme.

“Well, you know, maybe you want to actually get out there, rather than being a little Hermit recluse.” I rolled my eyes at that part.

“Also, I know that you’re emancipated now, but I’ve met the town sheriff-”

“At the same retreat you met Donna at?”

Nodding, she continued “Yeah, he’s a good guy. I’ve asked him to keep an eye on you. So if anything bad happens, there’s a familiar face. I’m actually dropping you off at the station. He said his son -- I think he’s your age -- would give you a tour of the town.”

“Thanks, Jody.” She really was too nice for this world.

“Hang on a minute… to contact this sheriff, you’d have to have his number. Did you bang him? ‘Cause that’d be really awkward. Especially for me, because that mental image. Ugh.” I grimaced.

She scoffed, “No!”

“But did you want to?”

“I… I am not answering that.”

“Well then, I guess we have our answer. Just, please, for the love of god, don’t flirt with him -- I forgot to pack my bleach eyedrops.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.”

***

I must have drifted off at some point, because when I looked up we were pulling into my prison for the next few years -- Beacon Hills. It was a decent-sized town as it only took a few minutes to reach the Police Station which was, from what I can tell, about in the center of Yawnsville.

Getting out the car, I stretched my legs in a long-needed break; lanky-ass legs and tight-quarters, obviously, don't mix too well. I reach into the backseat and grab my duffel, the rest of my stuff having already been stuffed into my new apartment. By who, I'm not sure, but I'm betting it was Jody's naked wrestling friend. Who, by the looks of it, was walking out the entrance now.

“Noah,” Jody greeted the man as they hugged. A little too long. Screw puppy love, this is cougar love. And as disgusting as it is, it's good to see Jody move on in some capacity after her husband.

“It’s good to see you, Jody. You must be Charlie Stuart,” he turned to me, and offered his hand. I shook it. He had warm, kind eyes and a lot of smile lines. I definitely approve the naked-wrestling-and-potentially-more partner.

“Yeah, lovely to meet you.”

“This is my son, Stiles. He’s gonna show you around -- I’d do it, but apparently I’m not considered cool anymore.” The last half of his introduction was directed rather pointedly at the buzzed teen to his left -- Stiles -- and I gave him that close-lipped awkward smile that 90% of my social interaction relies on.

“Right, well, I’ll be off. You, no getting into trouble, and stay safe, alright?” I nodded, and Jody pulled me into a tight hug, and kissed my forehead. I’m gonna really miss her.

“Of course I will. You too.”

And as she turned to leave, she turned around suddenly and tossed something to me.

“Almost forgot.” I caught the set of keys, and was confused to say the least.

“But Jody, I already have my keys.”

“You’ll see when you get there. Now, behave!” And with that, she was gone. And I was alone in my new life.

I felt a presence and turned to see Stiles,

“Shall we go?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

Once we got outside the earshot of his dad, Stiles suddenly burst into life.

“So, school is that way, diner is that way, the hospital is over there. Nothing is hard to find -- there’s a sign post at practically every yard. And, because of that, I’m gonna skip the boring old tour, and instead, take you to the best spot in town. That sound good with you?”

“Sure,” I balked, surprised -- and unbelievably relieved -- that Stiles was so open already, that there was no uncomfortable hesitation that normally came with meeting someone new. Which is great, because I'm about a second of cumbersome silence from ending it all.

“Attagirl.” He high-fived me, and I actually returned. Maybe Jody was right after all -- being with people my age might actually be good for me. I could already feel myself shifting into a part of me never lived-in before. And this was after not even 30 seconds of conversation with this guy.

“Is it cool if my buddy Scott comes along?”

“Hey, Stiles. This her?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good, ‘cause he’s right there.” He waved his hand toward a floppy-haired boy that just rounded the building corner. I couldn’t help but laugh at Stiles’ presumptive response,

“Yep. Scott, Charlie. Charlie, Scott.” He gesticulated wildly between the pair of us.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Let’s go!” Stiles exclaimed and began walking in the direction of a beautiful blue jeep.

“This yours?” I pointed toward the beauty.

“Yeah, it’s his. He has a name for it and everything,” Scott whispered while Stiles began to caress his jeep with a disturbing fondness. Almost like- no, we are not thinking about them. Unless it's to make fun of them, or reference you own astounding humour in the presence of them.

I settled for a: “Sweet ride.” I really didn’t fancy a tirade about how precious the jeep was, which it unmistakably was, I just didn't feel like hearing about it.

After an awkward clamber into the backseat, and a near boxer reveal, we were off.

“So, Stuart, what’s your story?”

***

After a questionable amount of slushies, fries and soda, and numerous half-truths about my past, we were finally seated on a grassy bank in the reserve, overlooking the city.

“One hell of a view,” I remarked between sips.

“Gee, I didn’t notice. Scott, did you-did you notice that view?” He asked, pointing at a smiling Scott.

“Okay, okay. I deserved that.”

“Okay, Charlotte-”

“Call me that again, and I’ll stab you.” Charlotte was a little girl, uncynical loved and most humiliatingly of all, so straight. Because there are people who happen to be straight, and straight people. Charlotte was one of these people. And I can't even stomach the thought of her -- Charlie, me, is 1000x better, and she's still a human mess.

“Okay, Charlie. You have one final test to complete before you can join our ranks, and we can officially become the three musketeers,” Stiles exclaimed.

“Wait, you’ve been testing me?” I halted my swirling of the straw, and looked to Scott.

“He’s joking.” Well, that was reassuring. At least I know now that Scott is a terrible liar.

“So final test: are you cool? Because, you see, Scotty here has dragged me down to the murky nerd depths. And we need someone cool to bring us back up. So, simple question, were you popular?” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

“First of all, I don’t think that Scott is the only reason you’re a nerd. Secondly, I was always that kinda weird, but kinda scary loner. But, that’s a good thing for you, because I’m freakishly good at karate, so I’ll beat up anyone who’s a dick to you, and also stab them to the point of death.”

“Wow, you are all about the stabbing aren’t you? Little Miss. Violence,” Stiles poked my side, with each word.

“Eh.” I shrugged.

“Well, Scott, I don’t know about you, but I think she’s in.”

“I second that.” He smiled.

“Well then, Charlo-Charlie. Charlie, welcome to the three musketeers!” Stiles swung his arm wildly in the air, as if he were holding a sword.

“Oh, god,” I groaned, “does it have to be something as cliche, and  as the musketeers? Why can’t we be Han, Luke and Leia, huh, or Padme Anakin and my boy, Obi?”

Stiles choked on his drink and there was a long pause of silence. I swear I even heard crickets.

“Did you- Did you just seriously just make a Star Wars reference?” He questioned, eyes wide in an unmistakable state of shock.

“Yes, I am, after all, a woman of culture.”

Stiles laughed, “Oh, you are so in!”

“Great, now there’s two of them,” Scott grumbled. Them? Did that mean he’d never seen Star Wars?

“Wait, have you never seen star wars?” I turned toward him.

“No.”

“How? It is a staple in pop culture!”

Scott groaned, flinging himself down on the grass, and Stiles and I all-out laughing. And I found that I was actually happy. And that I have friends that didn't make me feel closed off, or in Jody's words, 'a hermit recluse'. Maybe she was right. Maybe I am going to like it here after all.

***

As the sun began to set, we all headed back to Stiles’ jeep and he drove us home, dropping off Scott first. It was then that I took the liberty to slide into the front seat, because I am so done with constantly ending up in the back.

It was silent again, but it wasn’t bad or awkward this time, it felt natural, nice, even. I turned toward Stiles when I could just see him flicking his eyes toward me and the road.

“So, I’m the Han to your Leia, huh? Maybe… you want to go on a date sometime?” Oh no.

“I’m flattered Stiles, I really, truly am. But, you’re really not my type.” It’d all be fine, just play it off like I’m not really into his type of boys, I comforted myself. Because there's nothing more terrifying than coming out to someone you've known for a few hours -- he could be a raging, murderous homophobic nutjob for all I know. Hell, I hadn't even managed to drop the bomb on them yet, so this was a whole-new level of shit-your-pants terrifying.

“Ouch.” Oh fuck. I really didn’t mean it like that.

“No-no-no, I mean… you have a penis, and I’m not really into that kind of… thing, if you catch my drift.” Ohshitohshitohshit. Literally. I'm 99% certain I've just shat myself.

"You're gay?"

“Yeah.” No point denying it now.

“Awesome! Please tell me you have some game, because I really need girl advice. And, as you can tell, Scott is absolutely no help - he’s had one girlfriend. And I’m 99% sure she’s not even real.” I could suddenly breathe again. Oh, that was nice. Yeah, breathing is really nice.

“Oh yeah, I have plenty of game.” I laughed, I couldn’t help it -- I just felt so relieved, like a massive weight had been lifted. Back in Kansas, I'd always hidden myself from most people, other than the few girlfriends I'd had, I'd been scared shitless. But here, this acceptance, is a part of my new start. And I'm sure as fuck going to embrace my sexuality. Because why the fuck not?

“Dude, you’re so awesome.” He laughed, before turning his attention back to the road as we pulled up to the near-empty apartment complex.

“Well, here we are. Your place.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide, and so did mine.

“Wait, is that a 1969 Ferrari Dino?”

“Yeah,” I breathed. I’d never been too in to cars, but growing up with them, meant I had the slightest bit of appreciation, and this red beauty before me was fucking gorgeous.

“Lucky guy, whoever owns it,” He remarked. It was then that I became acutely aware of the surprise keys Jody gave me - you’ll see when you get there.

Holy shit. That was my car. Jesus christ, Jody you’ve really outdone yourself.

“Stiles… I own it.” I sounded shocked to say the least, because I was shocked to say the least.

“How?” He exclaimed.

“Jody’s gift,” I nodded, jangling the keys in my hand.

“Holy shit!” He paused, both of us looking at my car. It was followed by a second, much more dire, exclamation when he looked at the dashboard.

“Holy shit! I got to go! My dad is going to kill me!”

“Oh shit, yeah. I’ll uh- see you Monday!”

“Bye!” I could hardly hear Stiles’ voice at the rate he roared off into the night.

Climbing up the steps to my new home, I still couldn’t believe that Jody got me a car. A car.

I got in, and shot her a quick thank you text, receiving a smiley face in return. Closing my phone, I noticed how quiet it was. How alone I was. How alone I’m gonna be from now on. But that was okay, because I could cope with part of this lonesome town because I had Scott and Stiles. Because I had my friends.

***

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The day after our little escapade into the preserve was occupied by unpacking, rearranging the furniture, and avoiding any thought of school, because I really didn’t want to think about that. Preferably ever.

Between my various errands, I’d been texting Scott and Stiles. Turns out, they’re both on the lacrosse team, and are both, apparently, very good (though I highly doubt that, considering I had a very biased source, and Scott has, you know, asthma). Either way, I am considering trying out for the team. Guess Jody was right after all; no more being a hermit. To prepare, I’d done some research so I could actually understand the rules of the game and not look like a total idiot. But that was still probably going to happen anyway.

I’d just settled down for the night, in my bed (that was actually new, and didn’t belong to an old dead guy at some point! which is an odd thing to enjoy I realise) when my phone vibrated, and I saw a message from Stiles:

i’m coming over. wear something warm.

why???

just do it

okay shia labeouf 

I quickly changed into the classic sweatpants and a hoodie, which was warm, as instructed, and perfect for any and all acts of hooliganism. Despite only knowing Scott and Stiles for a day, I just know they get into a lot of shit, and now, that they also included me, so having clothes that allowed for some sense of flexibility (running) would be immensely useful. 

Closing the door, I turned at the squeal of tires on asphalt to see that Stiles had arrived. I ran and, sacrificing my grace for speed, half-fell half-climbed into the backseat.

“My oh my, Charlie you have the grace of a ballerina.”

“Thanks,” I smirked, pulling my leg down from the back of the passenger seat where it had landed in my fall. 

“Not to be too interrogatory or anything, but where are we actually going?” I leaned against the back of the front bench, craning my head in attempts to see where we were going. I had absolutely no clue, but I blame that on my poor navigation skills. 

“We’re going to Scott’s house and then the preserve,” he said, looking at me the whole time. Out of habit, I almost said ‘eyes on the road’ before remembering that we live in a tiny-ass town with literally no cars.

Well, I definitely wasn’t expecting that. 

“May I ask if there’s a particular reason why? Or do you and Scott just perpetually live in the woods?”

The whole premise of my coming to Beacon Hills was to strictly and inherently stay out of trouble. Searching after a body didn’t exactly fall into that category, so, theoretically, I should steer clear; but Sam and Dean never let me go on the physical side of hunts, and I couldn’t help but be filled with a rush of excitement at the prospect of actually doing something. So, fuck yeah I was in. 

“Obviously.”

***

“What are you doing?” I asked when I saw that Stiles was sneaking around Scott’s porch to the back entrance, instead of the front door. You know, like a normal person does.

“I’m gonna scare him,” he whisper-shouted. I rolled my eyes - I’m never gonna get tired of this.

I followed suit, squatting by the porch, low enough so I wouldn’t be seen, while Stiles clambered onto the overhanging roof. Unsurprisingly, he made quite a bit of noise - enough to alert Scott, if the succession of lights making its way to the back door was anything to go by.

The door opened. And out came Scott. With a fucking baseball bat. It was at this point that I was really biting back my laughter. 

I crouched down further as he made his way closer to my hiding spot. And just as I was about to be found out, Scott suddenly began to scream at the top of his lungs and then Stiles screamed, then they both screamed. And I, well I fell flat on my ass laughing. Turns out having your best friend pop up in your face - while hanging upside down from the roof might I add - was so terrifying that you screamed like bloody murder.

“Stiles, Charlie what the hell are you doing?” Scott yelled as I picked myself up from the floor. 

“You weren't answering your phone. Why do you have a bat?” He gestured to the said bat.

“Yeah Scott, why do you have a bat?” I parroted.

 “I thought you were a predator,” he explained, flinging his arms out to the side.

“Of course the bat will ward off all predators. If said predator is the Green Lantern who has a strong phobia of wood.” I received a playful glare at that.

“I know it's late, but you gotta hear this. I saw my dad leave 20 minutes before I picked up Charlie. Dispatch called. They're bringing in every officer from the Beacon Department, and even State Police.” Stiles let out a little scoff at the incredulity of the situation - to be fair,it was a little extreme to bring in that much force for a single body. After all, three teenagers were going to be the ones to find it.

“For what?” 

“That’s the best part,” I said, leaning forward onto the porch railing.

“Two joggers found a body in the woods.” Stiles lowered himself to the floor, standing beside me. When I say lowered, I mean lowered like I lowered myself into the car seat earlier.

“A dead body?” I raised my eyebrows - seriously, what else could it be? 

 “No, a body of water. Yes, dumb-ass, a dead body.” I silently thanked Stiles for pointing out the obvious as he climbed onto the porch. 

“You mean like murdered?” His expression was beyond creeped-out, which as I think about it, makes total sense. It was a bit perverted to go dead-body hunting. Not that it was gonna stop us going or anything.

“Nobody knows yet. Just that it was a girl, probably in her 20s,” he explained, putting his hands on hips.

“Hold on, if they found the body, then what are they looking for?” Scott stated with a look that said: ‘You dumb-dumbs’.

“Yeah, but they only found half of the body. So, naturally, we’re going.” I slapped the railing beneath my hands before setting off toward the jeep after Stiles. 

After another graceful fall into the backseat, Scott turned to me,

“You’re really okay with this?” His eyebrows were raised and eyes wide.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? Nothing remotely fun or interesting has happened in my life, so when something does come, you best believe I’m going to take every opportunity with it.”

“Fair enough.”

***

“We're seriously doing this?” Scott’s face was screwed up - the epitome of apprehension. 

“You're the one always bitching that nothing ever happens in this town.” Stiles gave Scott a hearty smack on the shoulder before walking forward. It was then that I caught sight of the sign illuminated by the headlights - Beacon Hills Preserve No Entry After Dark. Well, considering I’ve been here all of two days, and I’ve already done it - twice - I think I can safely say fuck that rule.

“I was trying to get a good night's sleep before practice tomorrow,” Scott’s expression was melancholic to say the least. 

“Right, 'cause sitting on the bench is such a gruelling effort.” Stiles said, striding quickly into the forest. 

“No, because I'm playing this year. In fact, I'm making first line.” His voice was hard with a steely determination. Guess they took this thing pretty seriously huh.

“Hey, that's the spirit. Everyone should have a dream, even a pathetically unrealistic one. I mean, Charlie’s never even played before and she still has a better chance than you.” 

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult to Scott or a compliment to me.”

“Both?” Stiles shrugged.  

“Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?” Well, besides attempting to fight off predators with baseball bats, I guess Scott’s the one with the most common sense out of the three of us. ‘Cause I didn’t even think to ask about that.

 “Good point ‘cause I have absolutely no clue. Stiles?”

“Nope, did not even cross my mind.”

“And, uh, what if whoever killed the body is still out here?” Well there he goes again, actually having a brain cell.  

“Also something I didn't think about.”

 “It's comforting to know you've planned this out with your usual attention to detail.” Scott grunted out as we climbed up a steep incline.

 “I know.”

 “Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight, huh?” Scott wheezed out, before taking a puff of his inhaler.

After waiting for Scott to catch up, we reached the top of the hill, and immediately flung ourselves to the ground because about 100 yards in front of us were the police force, flashlights, sniffer dogs and all.

“Hey, come on!” Stiles whisper-shouted before pulling both me and him up and into a mad dash across the clearing, ignoring Scott’s protests,

“Stiles! Charlie! Wait up! Guys!” 

We had just turned to see where Scott was when suddenly the dog from hell, was barking at us with a vicious ferocity. I fell to the ground from the sheer shock of it all, and felt my throat constricting at the familiarity of it all - me on the ground, and a snarling dog at my heels, threatening to rip my face off.

“Hold it right there!” The cop yelled.

“Hang on, hang on. These little delinquents belong to me,” Noah groaned once he caught sight of our faces, illuminated by the rather aggressive torches being shone right in our faces.

“Dad, how are you doing?” Stiles tried to pull the old nonchalant act.

Noah turned his gaze to me and I gave him a two-fingered salute.

“Howdy.” He nodded at me before turning toward his son again. 

“So, do you, uh, listen in to all of my phone calls?” 

“No.” He tried to sound innocent, and turned toward me and I gave a shake of my head - it didn’t work. At all. Seeing this Stiles corrected himself, “Not the boring ones.”

“Now, where's your usual partner in crime?” He glanced out toward the neighbouring trees

“Who? Scott?” He turned toward me, asking for help.

“Yeah, Scott's home. He said he wanted to get a good night's sleep for the first day back at school tomorrow. To do good at tryouts and all that jazz. So it's just us. The two of us, completely alone. Nobody else. Nobody else at all.” I begged myself to stop, but I just… couldn’t. God, I’m such a terrible liar. It was absolutely no surprise when Sheriff turned toward the trees, shining his torch looking for Scott because my excuse was oh so convincing. 

“Scott, you out there? Scott?” After no answer, (thank you Scott for hiding) he turned back to us.

“Well, young man, I'm gonna walk you back to your car. And you and I are gonna have a conversation about something called invasion of privacy.” Our awkward trio walked back to the car and when we arrived, Noah turned sternly toward Stiles.

“We’ll talk about this later. Now, what you’re gonna do is: you’re gonna drop Charlie off; then go straight back home you hear me - no detours. Nothing. Then, you and I are gonna have a discussion.” Stiles swallowed nervously and I felt myself do the same when his dad rounded on me. I guess it was my turn in the hot seat.

“While I have no doubts that my son was instrumental in your being out here tonight, I did promise Jody that I’d keep you out of trouble. I’ll let you off this time, but I will call her the next time you decide to do something stupid.”

“With all due respect, Sir. I don’t think that’s going to happen. Because if you call Jody, she will not only be on my case, but also yours for letting me get into trouble in the first place. And you and I both know she’ll whoop your ass, though I’m sure that’s something you both want,” I mumbled the last part.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I see your point. But anyway - it’s late and you both need to go home.” He nodded toward the jeep and we both got in.

“Do you think Scott will be alright out there; on his own I mean, with a potential killer on the loose.” I gnawed on the side of my nail. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

“Scotty’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. He’ll be fine, so quit worrying mother hen ‘cause I need someone to beat in try-outs tomorrow.” I chuckled at that.

“See you tomorrow.” I got out of the car and climbed the steps to my apartment. Within a couple of seconds upon entering, I was already out cold on my bed, dreading the next day to come.

***

When my alarm blared out, I barely had the strength within me to even get out of bed, but alas, with my incredible heroics I managed it.

I threw on a faded Metallica band tee and shimmied into my high-waisted jeans that were bleached and scuffed with overuse. I also threw on my tweed jacket, because I can’t go a second without making terrible fashion choices. 

In my haste to leave, I’d almost forgotten to grab my dog tags, but luckily remembered at the last second, I pressed a kiss to the faded metal and threw it around my neck. It was, after all, the only thing I had of Mom’s. I couldn’t even remember her face.

She’d been a marine, like Dad - that was actually how they met - and had been long time friends. Then, when Sam left for Stanford, Dad got overly emotional, sought her out for comfort and had a few too many drinks and what do you know; I was born. A few months later, she was killed by demons, the house set on fire. The tags (one Mom’s and the other Dad’s) are the only things I have left of them.

I shoved my bag into the passenger seat. I couldn’t help but smirk when I put the key into the ignition and revved the engine. A nice growl emanated from the engine. Holy shit, was this awesome. I patted the dash and decided on a name (I had to - it was basically a tradition now) and decided on Shane after our Lord and Savior Shane McCutcheon. 

I pulled up to the school parking lot, and parked in one of the last free spots, right next to a black Volkswagen.

I got out of the car right as the occupant of the neighbouring car did.

“I’m going to say this one time: move your rusty, pathetic excuse of a car away from mine.” Oh no, she did not just insult my car.

“Excuse me?” 

She stepped closer toward me, trying to seem intimidating but that was quite hard because even with heels, she fell 6 inches shorter than me.

“Move your car.”

“No. This is a free parking spot, and I’m allowed to use it.” I frowned, getting an increasing urge to punch the short-ass redhead in the face.

“Well, I don’t want your car near mine.”

“Why does it matter to me what you want? Let me guess: it’s ‘cause you’re better than everyone else.” I’d met so many of these people before - annoying and rude.

“Yes, I am,” she snarked.

“Wow, you’re a literal human trash bag aren’t you?” 

“Wow, you’re a literal human tree aren’t you?” She parroted. Wow. Height joke. Does she know that I have to wear men’s size 13 nikes? 

“Great insult, very original by the way.” I walked away from her then and there otherwise I’m pretty sure I would’ve decked her.  And that would not have been a good way to start a new school year.

“Hey,” I greeted the boys as they stood outside the entrance.

“Finally! Where have you been? I’ve been texting you non-stop,” Stiles blabbered in the hyperactive manner that only he could.

“Sorry, my phone was dead.”

“Get this - Scott was bitten by a wolf!” 

Oh holy fuck. 

Shit fuck no. 

My blood was running cold. This could not be happening. This was meant to be a fresh start. Away from the supernatural. And now one of my best friends was bitten. 

I swallowed down my panic - it could just be a regular wolf, or a bear, right?

“Well, we’re pretty sure it’s a wolf, because I heard a wolf howling, but it was dark so I couldn’t see much. But Stiles said wolves haven’t been in California for 60 years, but I swear to you I heard one right before I found the body.” Scott explained, excited.

I felt like I was going to throw up. A body; no wolves in California yet Scott heard a wolf howling; the full moon nearing. There was no other alternative - Scott was bitten by a werewolf. Oh, God. I was going to have to put down one of my only friends. I tried to fight the oncoming dread, with a small piece of hope - if he was bitten by a pureblood then he could learn to control it, but I’d still have to lock him up once a month. This was very not good.

I could feel the bile rising in my mouth, and I had to get out of there.

“Oh shit! I gotta go meet the Principal - new girl and all that.” I practically ran to the other entrance the Principal will meet me at just as the bell rang.

I sat on the bench and waited awkwardly as another girl sat on the bench opposite, me rooting through her bag, presumably on the phone to her mom. I only caught snippets of her conversation - something about a pen. She quickly ended the call when the principal came along.

“Sorry to keep you girls waiting. Allison Argent, Charlie Stuart,” he introduced us “Out of interest, where are you guys coming from?” Oh, god. I hate small talk.

“San Francisco.” Allison replied. I tuned the rest of the conversation out, trying to think why the name Argent sounded familiar.

“And you, Charlie?” It took  me a moment to respond, too caught up in my reprieve because I knew it, I knew the name I just couldn't figure out where.

“Kansas. Been living there for four years. And before that, all over the place.”

“Well, hopefully Beacon Hills will be your last stop for a while.” He smiled before opening the door to the class, and I felt relieved when I saw Scott and Stiles - I actually knew someone!

“Class, these are our new students, Allison Argent and Charlie Stuart. Please do your best to make them feel welcome.” As he left the room, I practically booked it for the seat next to Stiles and diagonal from Scott, Allison taking the desk next to mine and behind Scott.

Scott turned around and handed Allison a pen. Holy fuck. I barely heard that conversation, and I was sitting right across from her - and he heard it in another building. He had to be a werewolf. There was no other explanation for it. Oh, fuck me.

***

After class had finished I was talking with Scott and Stiles by their lockers. Or more accurately, Stiles was talking to some girl I didn’t catch the name of, and Scott was staring at Allison whilst I was working my way through my lower lip, trying to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do. I opened my locker and grabbed my kit,

“See you guys at practice.”

I quickly got changed and pulled out the jersey with the word Stuart emblazoned on it - no number yet, that depended on how I did today and Friday.

Seeing the boys making their way onto the field I jogged to catch up with them.

“Hey,”

“Look at you - Miss Lacrosse!” 

I rolled my eyes at Stiles, “Shut it.”

“For real though, you got this Charlie.” Scott affirmed, and I felt a little more at ease. It was weird; feeling nervous about normal teenager things.

We chucked our kits down by the bleachers that were slowly filling up with people who came to watch, including Allison and Evil Miss Redhead Who I Still Don’t Know The Name Of.

“McCall!” I heard Coach yell, walking up to Scott and chucking a bunch of kit at him.

“You’re on goal.”

“I’ve never played.”

“I know. Scoring some shots will give the boys a confidence boost. It's a first-day-back thing. Get 'em energised, fired up! Plus we apparently got a new guy joining us - Charles. And we gotta give him a nice introduction.” I had tried to get a word in to tell him that I was Charlie - not Charles - and I wasn’t a dude, but I wasn’t heard.

“What about me?” Scott said.

“Try not to take any in the face.” He gave Scott a not-so-gentle slap on the face. “Let's go! Come on!”

“This is not going to end well, is it?” I asked Stiles.

“Nope.” He sighed.

I walked over and joined the line of people queuing up to take a shot. And as the whistle went, Scott fell to the floor covering his ears - he was definitely a werewolf alright. Unfortunately, that couldn’t help him when a ball was launched at his face, knocking him to the floor.

I winced as everyone laughed and some dude yelled,

“Hey, way to catch with your face, McCall!”

This was not going to end well. At all.

The next guy lined up his shot, and it was going straight in the goal until Scott caught it. Scott actually caught a fucking ball. There was a stunned silence filled with bulging eyes and freaked-out glances.

I huffed, and wolf-whistled Scott because I am a supportive friend.

The rest of the shots just kept on coming, and Scott kept on catching. He had caught five in a row without flinching. Just as I was about to step up, to take my shot, the team asshole shoved his way in front of me to shoot. There was a tense silence as he lined up his shot, and then… Scott caught it. I let out a laugh and heard Stiles doing the same. 

Now, it was my turn to shoot. I picked up my ball with the net, and took a little run up and aimed my throw. Using as much energy as I could, I whipped my arm back and sent the ball hurtling through the air and straight into the net. Everyone looked as surprised as I felt - even Scott. Guess I was quite alright and this thing after all.

^^^

A little ways away, perched on the ice-cold metal of the bleachers, Lydia and Allison sat, watching the tryouts. After seeing ‘Stuart’ get goal after goal when no one else could, Alison turned to Lydia.

“Who is Stuart? Is he like the star player or something?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him around before. But he certainly is good. Nice ass too,” Lydia commented.

^^^

After tryouts, Coach called me over,

“Hey, new guy!”

I pulled my sweaty helmet off my head.

“New girl, even.” He corrected himself.

“You ever play lacrosse before? Because that form was perfect.”

“No, never before.” He looked shocked at the new information,

“Well congrats, you’re on the team - no need to come to the first elimination, ‘cause you’re in. Here’s your jersey.” He chucked the offending item at me, and I pulled away to see the number 27. Nice.

***

Stiles and Scott had invited me to the preserve to help them look for Scott’s inhaler, but I declined. Why? Because I needed to figure out what the fuck to do about the werewolf situation.

To start off with, I didn’t even know if Scott was going to be a pureblood or a feral yet, meaning I had to find some discreet way of pressing a hunk of silver to his flesh (silver only burned/wounded ferals, whilst wolfsbane did the same but for purebloods).

And then, I had to find out how on Earth to lock Scott up on Friday because there was no way he was going to believe me until after he shifted.

Oh, fuck. This was not going to be fun.

***

Friday rolled around and I had managed to brush a bit of silver on Scott’s skin as I walked past him and nothing happened. Which was one bit of good news; it means I won’t have to kill Scott.

The first elimination went well with Scott also making the cut along with me. I was about to start dinner when I got a frantic SOS text from Stiles that had me jumping in Shane and racing to his house.

“Hey…” I had to take a breath to pant, “what’s up?”

“Great, now that you’re here, I can start to explain,” Stiles started.

“Is this about the body? Did they find out who did it?” Scott questioned.

“No, they’re still questioning people - even Derek Hale.”

“Who?” I asked, turning toward Scott, perched on the bed.

“Oh, he’s the creepy guy in the woods who found my inhaler. His family all burned to death like 10 years ago.”

“Well, that’s lovely.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t about that. Remember that joke from the other day? Yeah, not a joke anymore. The wolf - the bite in the woods. I started doing all this reading.” Stiles stood up, gesticulating wildly to convey his urgency at the situation.

“Do you even know why a wolf howls?”

“Should I?” Scott asked.

“It’s a signal, okay. When a wolf’s alone, it howls  to signal its location to the rest of the pack. So if you heard a wolf howling, that means others could have been nearby. Maybe even a whole pack of them?”

“A whole pack of wolves?”

“No, he means werewolves.” I added - no point hiding the truth now.

“Seriously? He’s got you in on this, too? Why are you guys wasting my time with this? You know I’m picking up Allison in an hour.” Oh yeah, that’s right. I totally forgot about the party tonight, and Scott’s date.

“We both saw you on the field today, Scott. Okay, what you did wasn’t amazing, all right? It was impossible.” 

“Yeah, so I made a good shot.”

“No, you made an incredible shot, I mean- The way you moved, your speed, your reflexes. Y'know, People can't just suddenly do that overnight. And there's the vision and the senses, and don't even think I don't notice that you don't need your inhaler anymore.” I remained silent in their argument. Having known them for a week, I didn’t really feel like it was my place to interrupt. That and I was trying to figure out how to casually slide in the whole truth-is-out-there bombshell.

 “Okay! Dude, I can't think about this now. We'll talk tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?! What? No! The full moon's tonight. Don't you get it?” 

“What are you trying to do? I just made first line. I got a date with a girl who I can't believe wants to go out with me, and everything in my life is somehow perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?” Scott stood up, getting increasingly angry by the second.  

“I'm trying to help. You're cursed, Scott. You know, and it's not just the moon will cause you to physically change. It also just so happens to be when your bloodlust will be at its peak.”

“Bloodlust?”

“Yeah, the uncontrollable urge to kill,” I added.

“I'm already starting to feel an urge to kill, Stiles,” he ground out.

Stiles pulled out a lore book, “You gotta hear this. ‘The change can be caused by anger or anything that raises your pulse.’ All right? I haven't seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does. You gotta cancel this date. I'm gonna call her right now.” Stiles stood up and walked over to Scott’s bag.

 “What are you doing?”

 “I'm cancelling the date.” Stiles grabbed the phone.

 “No, give it to me!” Scott yelled before grabbing Stiles and shoving him against the wall. Hard. With a fist raised.

Scott’s body relaxed, “I'm sorry. I gotta go get ready for that party. I'm sorry.” And stumbled out the room.

“You okay?” I asked Stiles.

“Yeah, Charlie I’m fine.”

“You might want to sit down, ‘cause there’s something I need to tell you.”

And then I unloaded it all on him - my dad, my brothers, hunting, dying, heaven, hell, angels, demons, Lucifer, Amara, God - all of it. My entire life story.

“Woah.”

“Yeah.”

“So, Scott should be fine, right? Like you tested him with silver?”

“Well, he’s a pureblood so it should be easier for him to control the shift, but it’ll be no walk in the park.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair.

“Hey, Charlie.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He offered me a slight smile that I returned.

“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologise.”

“Yeah, but it still doesn’t make it okay.” He then pulled me into a hug I didn’t realise I needed.

“Come on, we should head to the party.”

“Yeah, I just need to head home and get changed. I’ll meet you there.”

I went home, quickly changed into a Hawaiian shirt and some shorts and grabbed my leather jacket before heading to the party.

“Hey,” I greeted Stiles, who handed me a cup with some form of alcohol that I quickly downed. It had been a stressful week.

I looked at Stiles who was staring at me, “What?”

“That was straight vodka.”

“You know me, fucked-up childhood, should you be surprised?”

“Guess not.” He laughed, taking a sip before looking in a direction. I followed his gaze to the bitchy redhead that insulted my car, and the dickhead from the team, practically humping on a column.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me you have a crush on the walking, talking human trash-bag.” I groaned.

“Maybe. And her name is Lydia.”

“Come on, Stiles. You deserve someone much better than that.”

Stiles’ response was cut short as Scott came stumbling through the hallway.

“Scott, are you alright?” He didn’t respond and just pushed past us. I quickly discarded my cup to the side, and began to chase after Scott, finding his car squealing down the street. 

I was just about to get in my car when Stiles stopped me,

“If you think I’m letting you drive with an ounce of alcohol in your blood, then think again.”

“Fine, Mom.” I rolled my eyes before getting in his jeep.

We arrived at Scott’s house and raced up the stairs, being met with a closed bedroom door.

“Go away!” 

“Scott, it’s us. Let us in - Charlie can help.”

“No! Listen, you gotta find Allison.” 

“She's fine, all right? I saw her get a ride from the party. She's totally fine, all right?” I yelled, having seen her leave with a guy in a leather jacket.

 “No, I think I know who it is”. 

“You just let me in. We can try-”

“It's Derek. Derek Hale is the werewolf. He's the one that bit me. He's the one that killed the girl in the woods.”

“Scott, Derek's the one who drove Allison from the party.”

“Oh, fuck.” I turned and sprinted down the stairs and out the house. 

With brakes squealing, we pulled up to the Argent house.

Stiles knocked on the door, which opened to reveal a mean Karen-looking middle-aged woman.

“Hi, Mrs. Argent. Um… you have no idea who I am. I'm a friend of your daughter's. Uh.. look, this is gonna sound kind of crazy, um... really crazy, actually. You know what? Crazy doesn't even describe-” Stiles rambled before being cut off.

“Allison! It's for you.” Peering over her shoulder, I turned to see Allison standing there; alive and in one complete piece thank god.

“Is this your jacket?” I fumbled for an excuse, holding up my leather jacket.

“No?”

“Oh, well. What a shame. Bye!” We quickly turned and ran back to the jeep. Now, to find Scott.

***

We had been searching all night, in and around the preserve. We were just calling it quits when I saw a mad half-naked man walking down the street.

“Stiles, that’s him - it’s Scott.” I pointed to said meandering man.

We pulled over and Scott clambered in, and I handed him my leather jacket to keep him warm. 

It was there that Stiles and I unloaded him on the lovely memories of my childhood to catch him up.

“You know what actually worries me the most?” Scott said.

“If you say Allison, I'm gonna punch you in the head,” Stiles said.

“I second that. After all that I just told you, that’s what you’re concerned about?”

“I’m not worried that you’re gonna hurt me, if that’s what you’re asking. I trust you - you’re a good person. It’s just that she probably hates me now.”

 “Ugh. I doubt that. But you might want to come up with a pretty amazing apology. Or, you know, you could just tell her the truth and revel in the awesomeness of the fact that you're a frickin' werewolf.” Scott’s face twisted into a forlorn expression.

“Hey,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder, “we’ll get through this. Okay, you’re not doing this alone. Besides, if we have to, we can chain you up once a month.”

“What she said.”

Despite the situation, I actually felt confident that we could do this. That we were going to be alright.

***

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The weekend had come and gone with little to no interruptions. And by no interruptions I mean Derek hasn’t come to kill us all… yet. Which was good because I had Chemistry homework to hand in and if I didn’t, I’m pretty sure Harris would drag me up from the depths of hell just to berate me.

Scott and Stiles were waiting for me by the front doors to the school when I arrived. 

“What’s up?” I asked and then Scott started to tell us about his nightmare last night. A totally normal and totally rational nightmare where he made out with Allison on the school bus at night, wolfed-out and attacked her. You know, just totally normal teenage problems. 

“So you killed her?” Stiles opens the door. 

“I don't know. I just woke up. And I was sweating like crazy, and I couldn't breathe. I've never had a dream where I woke up like that before,” Scott explains, looking at the pair of us. 

“Really? I have. Usually ends a little differently,” Stiles comments nonchalantly which is, of course, what everyone does when giving way too much detail about their perversions to the wrong people.

“Gross.” I settle on the simpler reply, because if I give it too much thought, I’d get images. Horrifying images; ones I’d need bleach eyedrops for. Or maybe I’d just carve out my own eyes entirely. That’d work too.

“A, I meant I've never had a dream that felt that real, and B, never give me that much detail about you in bed again.” Scott shares my sentiment.

Stiles huffs out a breath, “Noted. Let me take a guess here-” Stiles began to decode Scott’s dream. 

“No, I know: you think it has something to do with me going out with Allison tomorrow, like I'm gonna lose control and rip her throat out.”

“No, of course not.” Stiles states unconvincingly.

“Yes, that’s exactly what he thinks.” I correct, “But don’t worry dreams are essentially just simulations the brain puts us through -- worse case scenarios, like... zombie apocalypses, all our loved ones dying horribly. Our brain does it so we’re prepared when it does actually happen. Not to mention, we dream about things that worry us. Which means that-”

“I’m worried I’m going to kill Allison.”

“Yeah, even on an unconscious level. But don’t worry: you’re gonna be fine. I mean, so far, I think you’ve handled it amazingly.” I offer a smile. Because I am a supportive friend. And also the fact that if Scott got too stressed then he would snap easier and might shift and kill us, but mainly because I’m a good friend. 

Stiles continues my pep talk by adding: “You know, it's not like there's a lycanthropy for beginners class you can take or anything.”

“Yeah, not a class, but maybe a teacher,” Scott suggests. 

“Who, Derek?” I punch Scott in the arm at unfortunately -- well, more like fortunately, because he deserves it for being an absolute idiot -- the same time as Stiles clips him around the head.

“Are you perhaps forgetting the part where we got him locked up? Or the fact that he threatened to kill you if you played the game, which you did? Or the fact that both of these combined gives someone like him enough motive to want to murder us all one by one? I’m talking stringing us up, tearing off our skin one chunk of flesh at a time agonisingly slowly to send us off to a tortuous eternal sleep? Or-”

“Okay, Charlie. We get it.” Scott interrupts my tirade of exactly why I’ve been so jumpy lately, “but chasing her, dragging her to the back of the bus, it felt so real.”

“How real?” 

“Like it actually happened.”

We reach the end of the corridor and open the outside door and holy mother of all fuck. The back door to the school bus has been ripped off its hinges and lies in a twisted state of mangled metal. And not to mention, there’s blood. Everywhere. It coats the seat, the door, the ground. Everything. Looks like that dream wasn’t just a dream.

“I think it did.”

Scott turned right back into the hallway and immediately unlocked his phone, typing frantically to I imagine Allison. He’s obviously starting to freak out as he starts to breathe faster and faster, verging on hyperventilating. Not that I blame him. He more than likely just killed his girlfriend. Whose Dad is a hunter, who will probably kill Scott for killing her. And maybe us too. Is it possible to get premature grey hairs this early in life?

“She's probably fine,” I lie through my ass. 

“She's not answering my texts, Charlie.” As we walked down the halls I tried scanning the crowds for the face of the girl I hardly know but seems really nice even though her dad might, and probably will considering the current predicament, kill us.  

“It could just be a coincidence, all right? A seriously amazing coincidence.” 

“Just help me find her, okay? Do you see her?” I’m still scanning through the crowds frantically but come up with nothing. Scott turns the corner and we lose him in the crowd preparing to get to class.

“You think she’s dead?” Stiles asks.

“Probably,” I reply, because let’s face it: all the facts point towards it, and with my luck lately, she’s dead and the scene somehow has Scott’s prints all over it and he gets arrested.

“Great.”

A collective groan then sounds around us at the announcement that school is still on over the tinny PA system, but I don’t pay attention to it as I catch sight of Scott talking to a very much alive Allison. Which is quite a relief.

“Stiles,” I point toward the couple.

“Well that’s a relief.”

“Yeah, no shit.” 

We make our way into the chemistry lab to begin the hour-long period in hell with Mr. Harris. And, unlike the vast majority of people around, I’ve actually spent time in hell to compare this to, and trust me, this is worse. Far worse. 

I take my seat next to Stiles and Scott takes his on the bench diagonally left to ours. Given the fact that Allison is -- surprisingly -- alive, it does beg the question: whose blood was it?

“Maybe it was my blood on the door,” Scott suggests, turning back to face us.

“Could have been animal blood. You know, maybe you caught a rabbit or something,” Stiles adds his theory. 

“And did what?” 

“Cuddled it’s dead corpse like a care bear? You probably ate it, dumbass.” I mean, what else would he have done? He really was an idiot. 

“Raw?” Scott looked mortified. 

“No, you stopped to bake it in a little werewolf oven. I don't know, you're the one who can't remember anything,” Stiles continues our tag-teaming of Scott.

“Mr. Stilinksi, if that's your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while. I think you and Mr. McCall and Miss Stuart would benefit from a little distance, yes?” The dickwad of a teacher calls us out from the front of the class. Which is very annoying because we have about a million and one other things to worry about other than his stupid chemsitry diagrams and little sadistic tests. Asshole.

“No.” Stiles answers, Mr. Dickwad rolls his eyes and gestures for Scott and Stiles to move into different seats, leaving me there alone. Stranded.

“Let me know if the separation anxiety gets to be too much.” Well, at least I know which stairway he’s using when he dies, and it isn’t the one to heaven. 

“Hey, I think they found something!” A girl from the front calls out, and the whole class rushes to the side window where we can see the crime scene. An ambulance has its doors open, waiting for the arrival of the stretcher which is -- of course -- occupied, and being wheeled by the paramedics.

“That's not a rabbit.” No shit, Scott.

The guy bolts upright all of a sudden, screaming. A scream that the class matches with our collective yelp. Looking away from the unsettling scene, I see Scott backing away in absolute terror of what he’s done. My stomach twists as I remember the last time I felt like that: the blood of the Stynes coating my face, hands and clothes. 

But that was in the past, and like Scott I couldn’t control it, but I can sure as hell try and help him.   

“Okay. This is good, this is good. He got up, he's not dead. Dead guys can't do that,” Stiles beats me to it. 

“Stiles -- I did that.”

***

By the time lunch came around, Scott had worked himself up into a hysteria and was convinced he needed to go to Derek for help. Which was a terrible idea because I’m 90% certain that Derek’s idea of help involves murder. Our collective murder.

“But dreams aren't memories. Something else could have happened,” I suggest.

“Then it wasn't a dream. But something did happen last night, and I can't remember what.” Scott frowns.

I put my tray on the cafeteria table and take my seat opposite Scott and next to Stiles.

“What makes you so sure that Derek even has all the answers?” Stiles inputs.

“I never said all, but he might have more than Charlie, no offense,” Scott quickly adds when seeing my offended expression.

“Full offense taken. Without me, you two losers would both be dead. But still, why Derek?”

“Because during the full moon he wasn't changed. He was in total control while I was running around in the middle of the night attacking some totally innocent guy,” Scott worries.

“You don't know that.” 

“I don't not know it. I can't go out with Allison. I have to cancel,” Scott starts to spiral so I try to reassure:

“No, you're not cancelling, okay? You can't just cancel your entire life. Besides, I’ve dealt with a lot worse. And by a lot I mean, I had the oldest, unbreakable curse in existence, but here I am before you: cured. If I could figure that out, trust me, this is a walk in the park; we'll figure this out.” I smile, a walk in the park where someone is trying to murder us at every turn, but still, a walk in the park nonetheless.

“Figure what out?” A voice pipes up and a form settles next to Scott. And of course, of course, it’s the walking talking Trashbag.

“Just, uh, homework,” Scott stammers out. 

“Yeah.” Stiles turns to me and whispers, “Why is she sitting with us?” 

“The hell if I know, but if I did know, I’d immediately get it as far away as possible from us.” As Trashbag continues to sit with us, a flood of people -- her clique presumably -- sit around our table. Which is extremely weird because nobody comes to sit at our table. Ever. 

Allison joins us, along with Jackson and Danny and a few people I don’t know the names of -- not that I care; in fact, I’d rather not know. 

“Get up.” Resident asshole Jackson demands to some guy.

“How come you never ask Danny to get up?” He moans.  

“Because I don't stare at his girlfriend's coin slot,” Danny sasses back. Jackson shoves said guy out of the seat and sits down. 

“So I hear they're saying it's some type of animal attack. Probably a cougar,” Danny brings up the local gossip. 

“I heard mountain lion.”

“A cougar is a mountain lion,” Trashbag states confidently before adding an unconvincing “Isn't it?” 

So Trashbag is not only annoying, but annoyingly smart and pretends to be dumb. With annoying terrible acting. Fun. 

“Who cares? The guy's probably some homeless tweaker who's gonna die anyway,” Jackson states awfully dismissively, like a human life doesn’t matter.

“Well, aren’t you a joy to be around.” I smile; sarcastically, of course. 

“Actually, I just found out who it is. Check it out,” Stiles holds out his phone which is playing a news report. 

The Sheriff's department won't speculate on details of the incident but confirmed the victim, Garrison Meyers, did survive the attack. Meyers was taken to a local hospital where he remains in critical condition. 

“I know this guy.” Fuck. Nobody else knows who this guy is; nobody but Scott. Which for sure means he’s the one who did it.  

“You do?” 

“Yeah, when I used to take the bus back when I lived with my dad. He was the driver.”

Trashbag interrupts: “Can we talk about something slightly more fun, please? Like, oh, where are we going tomorrow night? You said you and Scott were hanging out tomorrow night, right?” I have to cough to suppress my groan at how absolutely cringe-worthy this whole situation is turning out. First, Scott and Allison’s date turns into hanging out, then, it’s hanging out with the douchebags of the millennium.  

“Um, we were thinking of what we were gonna do,” Allison awkwardly states. 

“Well, I am not sitting home again watching lacrosse videos, so if the four of us are hanging out, we are doing something fun,” Trashbag says whilst everyone else involved in the hang out looks increasingly alarmed. 

“Hanging out?” Scott asks Allison who is awkwardly sipping on her water. “Like, the four of us? Do you wanna hang out, like us and them?” Stiles and I both physically cringe watching the whole situation, and I’m pretty sure I taste bile.

“Yeah, I guess. Sounds fun,” Allison says in a way that conveys that this is very unlike her idea of fun. Or anything remotely close to the notion of fun.

“You know what else sounds fun? Stabbing myself in the face with this fork,” Jackson states, grabbing said implement.

“Oh, I volunteer. Maybe I could even give your eyeball a bit of a massage? Or maybe even give the back of your brain a little scratch? That sound like fun to you?” I jab. Honestly I was so sick of these people I couldn’t take it anymore.

Piping up was apparently the absolute worst thing to do as Allison seems to take in mine and Stiles’ presence. 

“Do you two want to join us?” she offers with a pleading look.

“Us two? We’re not a couple. No, no, no,” Stiles attempts to get us out of this sticky situation.

“Why not? You’d make a cute couple,” Allison continues.

“Well, for starters he has a penis which is quite the issue for me,” I state.

“Wait, you’re gay?” Danny asks from the other side of Stiles and I nod, “I knew it! My gaydar is impeccable.” He high-fives me. At least I have one sympathetic person in the enemy’s ranks.

“Oh, you guys can still come, but as friends,” Allison tries again, and I notice Scott begging me with his eyes. I guess it would be easier for them to have us there.

I huff, “Sure.” Allison mouths a ‘Thank You’ to which I nod.

“How 'bout bowling? You love to bowl,” Trashbag states with enthusiasm. 

“Yeah, with actual competition,” he complains.

Allison rises to the bait, “How do you know we're not actual competition?” She turns to Scott, “You can bowl right?” 

“Sort of,”

“Is it sort of, or yes?” Shithead aggravates.

“Yes. In fact, I'm a great bowler,” Scott states with such conviction that I would’ve believed him if I didn’t see his face. That was most definitely his lying face.

*** 

Unfortunately the rest of my classes I’m in by myself, without any Scott or Stiles to talk to, so I have to wait until school ends.

“You're a terrible bowler!” Stiles exclaims upon setting his sights on Scott and confirming my suspicions. Not that they were really suspicions because I pretty much knew that Scott was lying.

“I know! I'm such an idiot,” he whines.

“God, it was like watching a car wreck. I mean, first it turned into the whole group date thing. And then out of nowhere comes that phrase.” 

“Hang out,” I seeth -- it’d been the source of many-annoyance in my love-life.  

“You don't hang out with hot girls, okay? It's like death. Once it's hanging out, you might as well be her gay best friend. You and Danny can start hanging out,” Stiles continues.

“How is this happening? I either killed a guy or I didn't,” Scott continues on an incompletely related note to what Stiles just said.

“I don't think Danny likes me very much,” Stiles continued his side of the one-sided conversation that they were both having simultaneously. 

“I ask Allison on a date, and now we're hanging out.” 

“Am I not attractive to gay guys?” 

“I make first line, and the team captain wants to destroy me, and now...now I'm gonna be late for work. Oh, Charlie. I gave Allison your phone number, she wants to hang out with you before we all go bowling tonight.” Oh great.

“Wait, Scott, you didn't -- am I attractive to gay guy -- you didn't answer my question,” Stiles yells after a retreating Scott.

He turns to me, “Am I attractive to gay girls?”

I mentally face-palm. “Say that sentence again, but slower.”

“Got it,” he realises.

***

My phone buzzed,

talked to Derek. he told me what to do. so Stiles and I are going to the bus. meet you at the bowling alley.

what? why can’t I come?

i promised Allison that you’d help her get dressed cuz Lydia’s there

whyyyyy???? Scott pleaseeeee she’s my mortal enemy and i don’t wanna

please

fine. you owe me. big time. 

My phone buzzed again, this time it was from Allison, it was just a message telling me her address, and to not worry about bringing any sets of clothes with me because Lydia wouldn’t like anything I wore anyway, so not to worry. See, that’s why I like Allison. She’s honest in a nice way.

And maybe, if it was originally meant to be a hangout with me, Scott, Stiles and Allison, I’d actually enjoy it. But it was Trashbag that I had a problem with. She was practically a cyborg with no human emotions.

^^^

Allison checked her phone to see a message from Charlie saying that she was on her way as Lydia entered her bedroom.

“Lydia, about tonight? Could you try to at least be civil with Charlie?” The girl tried an attempt at peace.

“Why?”

“She seems really nice and she’s also my boyfriend’s best friend.”

“Fine, but civil means I can make thinly-veiled jibes right?”

Allison rolled her eyes -- there’d be no peace with the Queen Bee.

“Thickly-veiled threats,” she countered. Lydia sighed, and nodded. She was not going to enjoy hanging out with the talking Tree. For starters: she was rude, annoying, had a terrible dress sense, and actually seemed to see past her charade of being brainless. But, she ponders, she guesses she can manage it for one night. But only for Allison.

^^^

I took a deep breath before rapping on the door to the Argent home and tried -- extremely hard -- not to think about the fact that I’m willingly walking into the lion’s den.

Thankfully, it’s Allison who opens up the door.

“Hey! Come on in, I love your outfit, very 90s!” Allison welcomed me in. I looked down at my clothes -- it was true, it was quite 90s; I was wearing a pair of plaid trousers, one leg of which was a black plaid pattern and the other red, I’d also put on my graphic star wars tee and doc martens. Yeah, I’m that kind of girl.

As we walk up the stairs, Allison turns to me,

“I’ve asked Lydia to be decently civil, if that’s possible for her,” she chuckles and then continues, “thanks so much for doing this. Lydia is nice, just… not when Jackson’s around, especially when Jackson’s around Scott. And besides, it’s gonna be nice to get to know each other.”

“Yeah, it will be.” I smile back.

We enter Allison’s room and it has a very cosy feel to it. 

Taking the path of civility, I acknowledge Trashbag, “Lydia.”

“Tree,” she returns.

Allison shoots Trashbag a glare, “What? It’s just our nicknames for one another? Totally civil.” 

When Allison’s look doesn’t let up she sighs, and rolls her eyes, “Charlie.”

This is going to be great.

Allison opens her closet door to reveal a rail that’s almost full already. Sure is roomy in there, if only the closet I spent so much of my life in was half as big. 

Once Allison has sifted through some of the various dresses, she pulls out a brown dress that has patches of lighter brown on it.

Now, I’m not going to claim myself a fashion expert, but that dress is frankly puke-ugly.

“Mmm, pass,” Trashbag says.

“Not that I’d ever thought I’d agree with Lydia, but yeah, pass.”

She pulls out another garish atrocity,

“Pass,” Trashbag sighs, before standing up and walking over to the closet, 

“Let me see. Pass. Pass. Uh, pass on all of it. Allison, respect for your taste is, uh, dwindling by the second.” Trashbag is brutal, sliding through the entirety of Allison’s wardrobe before pulling out a black, sequined dress that’s more to her taste, “This.”

Allison walks over to the mirror and holds it up against her body, not that I’d be caught dead in a dress, but she’d look cute in it.

The door to Allison’s bedroom opens up and her fucking dad walks in. I almost choke on my own saliva, because holy fuck if he recognises me, I am dead, so very very dead. Not that he’d have any reason to recognise me, seeing as the last time he worked with my Dad I was three, but still the fear is very strong.

“Dad, hello?” Allison asks, shooting him what-the-hell-are-you-doing eyes that go hand-in-hand with my oh-dear-lord-of-fuck-please-don’t-recognise-me. 

“Right. I'm sorry. I completely forgot to knock,” he dismisses, like it’s a normal thing. Which it’s not.

“Hi, Mr. Argent,” Trashbag flirtily greets with lying down on Allison’s bed. God, does she have standards or is she really just that Trashy?  

“Dad, do you need something? 

“I wanted to tell you that you'll be staying in tonight.” I’m not complaining -- there are far better things I have to do than hang out with Trashbag and her piece of shit boyfriend.

“What? I'm going out with my friends tonight.”

“Not when some animal out there is attacking people.” 

“Dad, dad, I'm-uh-”

“It's out of my hands. There's a curfew. No one's allowed out past 9:30 P.M.” Allison is crestfallen and throws the dress down on her bed. 

Before leaving the room, her dad notes her expression and adds “Hey, no more arguing.”  

“Someone's daddy's little girl,” Trashbag taunts. 

Allison takes a moment of hesitation, “Sometimes. But not tonight.” 

She goes over to the window and prises it open before climbing onto the roof.

“What are you doing?” I ask, utterly bewildered. She goes to the edge of the roof and flips off of it. Allison didn’t appear to know anything about the supernatural, so maybe her parents had been training her without her knowledge. 

“Eight years gymnastics,” she explains and solidifies my theory, “Are you coming?” I laugh and climb out onto the roof, I squat down on the edge and dive off, landing in a forward roll, and spring up to my feet.

Allison quirks an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation, I sigh and offer “Parkour.” 

“I'll take the stairs,” Trashbag snarkily remarks.

***

We all took my car and drove to the bowling alley and I parked her right next to Stiles’ jeep. A few moments later a Porsche rolls up and Jackson gets out. Because of course Jackson has a Porsche. Trashbag saunters over to him, and they engage in a disgusting public makeout.

I turn to see Scott and Stiles, behind us also disgusted at the sight.

“Do they, do they have to do that here?” Scott’s face is screwed up.

“I know, it’s like two of the slime fish slapping each other in the mouths,” I groan. Allison laughs, and covers it up poorly with a cough.

“We should, um, get going,” she points toward the alley. As they get in, and start to set everything up, I turn to Stiles.

“How did it go?”

“Well, Scott wasn’t the one to attack him, so that’s good in the non-maiming sense,” he shrugs.

“Well if it wasn’t Scott, then who was it?”

“Derek, well, at least that’s what Scott thinks. He was too busy trying to protect the guy, to see the face, but he saw another pair of eyes,” he explains.

“Derek? Why would he help Scott figure out that he was the murderer? That makes no sense.”

“Beats me,” he shrugged.

“You looking forward to our own personal slice of hell?” I change the conversation.

“Are you seriously asking me that question?”

“Good point.” It was obvious -- no one could enjoy this. Except for maybe Trashbag and Shithead who’ll probably get kicks out of making the rest of us totally miserable.

“You ever bowl before?” he asks, looking through the balls in the rack to make his selection.

“A few times. The last was when I was 11, I snuck out to go with some friends. I got caught though; got grounded for three months.” I pick up a green ball, and it feels about the right weight. Guess this lucky ball is going to get the honour of being fingered by me.

“Three months? Are you kidding me?”

“Well, in a world where one is prone to demon kidnappings, disappearing for three hours is the greatest offence one can do.” I walk over to our seats and Stiles follows me over.

“I know, but still three months? That’s a bit excessive.”

“Trust me, until you’ve met my brothers you won’t know the true definition of excessive,” I laugh, and the expression is totally wiped off my face when I glimpse Shithead excessively -- seeing as that’s our word of the day -- fondle Trashbag as he ‘helps’ her bowl. 

She misses the first time, her ball ending in the gutter. Her second shot, Shithead helps her again and she gets three pins.

“I'm so bad at this,” Trashbag says, which is the absolute understatement of the year.

It’s my turn next and I manage to get a spare -- eight pins the first bowl and two the second.

“Not bad for someone who hasn’t done this in five years,” Stiles commends me with a high-five.

Next up is Allison and she manages to impressively get a strike.

“Somebody brought their A game,” Trashbag comments.  

“Good job.”

Jackson goes up next and -- of course -- gets a strike and a big stroke to his ever-growing ego.

“You're up, McCall.” Both Shithead and Trashbag send Scott a matching douchebag glare. Out of my peripheral vision I see Scott start to nervously fidget; Scott’s a fucking awful bowler, and Jackson -- who I think we can all agree is our arch nemesis, except for maybe Derek -- has gotten a strike. Which means that if Scott fails -- which he is going to -- Shithead is going to rub it in all of our faces.

“You can do it, Scott,” Allison reassures.

Scott stands up and grabs the ball making his way nervously to the lane,

“Oh, I can’t watch,” Stiles remarks from behind me, burying his face in my jacket in an attempt to block out the absolute painful experience we both know is coming. Because unlike Lydia, Scott doesn’t have a nice ass to excuse from the fact he is a shit bowler.

He lobs the ball and it goes straight into the gutter. And Shithead immediately starts laughing, pointing mockingly at Scott.

“Jackson? Mind shutting up?” Allison defends her boyfriend -- man, is she a keeper. 

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just flashing back to the words "I'm a great bowler."”

“And I’m flashing back to me offering to scratch your brains out, which I’m more than happy to oblige right now.” I make a move to go for Jackson but Stiles pulls me back, shaking his head.

Allison tries to hide a smile, and counters Shithead, “Maybe he just needs a little warm-up.” 

“Yeah, maybe he just needs the kiddy bumpers,” Shithead mocks and the pair burst out laughing obnoxiously. 

“Just... just aim for the middle,” Allison advises Scott.

“How about you aim for anything except for the gutter?” 

“How about you aim for the mortuary?” I counter because I have never wanted to murder someone so bad in my whole entire life. Stiles sends me a glare that wavers on a smile -- AKA stop it even though it’s funny.

I can practically see Scott bristle with anxiety, before he pulls back and launches the ball. It goes straight down the middle of the lane, and I start to feel hopeful… right as it ends up in the gutter. Again. 

Stiles winces, “Oh, god. I can’t even watch.”

“I know, it’s like a trainwreck before my eyes,” I say to Stiles, ignoring Jackson’s further jibes at Scott. However, Scott isn’t focussed on Jackson, he’s looking at us, glaring. Oh, that’s right. Werewolf hearing. He just heard everything we just said. Oops.

***

The next two rounds pass in the same please-God-just-let-me-die-already fashion, with Scott missing every single time while Stiles and I do quite well. I manage to score another spare, and Scott sends me a half-serious glare but I pay it no mind. Sorry, Scott but you dragging us here is big enough of a favour already; I’m not gonna suck for you -- not to mention, pretending to be terrible at bowling is quite hard to do.

Scott goes up again, but this time Allison goes up with him and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is, it works. Because Scott, Scott gets a strike. And another. And another. And another. Until he’s racked up six straight strikes in a row.

Allison takes the moment to unabashedly gloat -- and I’m all here for it.

“That is seriously amazing. Jackson, uh, how many strikes is that?” 

“It's six. In a row,” he grinds out.

“And how many have you got?” Stiles asks beside me. Jackson doesn’t answer, and chooses to instead glare at us. Is the Shithead butt-hurt because he only got three strikes? I think so. 

“Something just clicked, I guess,” Scott offers.

“Maybe it's natural talent,” Allison compliments.

“I could use some natural talent. You mind helping me out this time, Scott?” Trashbag flirty asks and I find myself once again asking if she even has standards. Because Jesus Christ -- he has a girlfriend, your supposed best friend, and she is sitting. Right. There. 

“No, you're good. Go for it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she huffs and grabs her ball. 

“Hey, I'll help,” her boyfriend offers.

“How about I just try this on my own?” She lines up her shot, and the ball sails smoothly down the lane and gets all the pins. Interesting.

“I think I'm getting the hang of it,” she unconvincingly says, as if her talent dropped into her hands magically out of thin air.

“That was sort of perfect form,” Allison says. 

“Was it?” Trashbag asks even though she knows it is.

“Maybe you should stop pretending to suck just for his benefit,” I add. 

“Trust me, I do plenty of sucking just for his benefit.” And that was way too much information; I might need those bleach eyedrops after all. 

The rest of us went through our last round and then the game ended -- Scott first, Jackson second (take that, bitch), Stiles and I tied third, Allison fourth, and Lydia fifth.

Allison’s getting a ride with Scott, and Trashbag and Shithead are leaving together, which leaves me blissfully alone on the car journey home. Well, for about five minutes, at least.

My phone starts to frantically buzz, and I -- absolutely breaking the law, but who cares at this point -- answer it.

“Yeah?”

“Charlie, you need to get to Scott’s house like now!”

“What? Why?”

“The guy on the bus, he’s dead.”

“Oh shit.” I hang up and do a quick U-turn -- not like there’s anyone here to stop me anyways.

I gun it down the roads and pull up the same time that Stiles does.

“Come on, let’s go,” he beckons me away from the front door because who would use that?

“You okay to climb that?” He asks, pointing towards Scott’s window.

“Yeah. But just a question, do you ever use the front door around here?”

“Sometimes,” I quirk an eyebrow at his answer, and he rolls his eyes and adds, “practically never, okay?” And he sets off climbing up the trellis, and I follow him. The climb is surprisingly easy.

“Just another question: why not the front door?”

“Because it’ll be locked at this hour.”

“Makes sense.” I shrug.

Stiles gets through the window and rolls onto Scott’s bed, and I am just about to follow suit, when a woman in pajamas comes screaming at us with a baseball bat. Obviously, being the hardened teen that I am, I scream. Very loudly. In my state of shock, I begin to lose my grip and almost go tumbling to the ground, but luckily Stiles manages to grab a hold of my arm just in time. 

“Stiles, what the hell are you doing here? And who the hell is that?” She yells, and it’s then I realise that she’s Scott’s mom which makes sense.

“Oh, I’m Charlie. I’m a new friend. it’s lovely to meet you,” I stick my hand out, and lean as far forward in the room as I can, which is considerably hard considering I’m still hanging out the window.

She awkwardly shakes it, and asks, “The gay one?”

I pull myself into the room fully and groan, “Is that all I am? The token gay character in this story?” But before anyone can answer me, Scott walks in.

“Can you please tell your friends to use the front door?” 

“But we lock the front door. They wouldn't be able to get in.” Exactly our point. 

“Yeah, exactly. And, by the way, do any of you care that there's a police-enforced curfew?” 

“No,” we chorus. 

“No. All right then. Well, you know what? That's about enough parenting for me for one night, so good night,” she makes a swift exit from the room, chucking the baseball bat on Scott’s bed. 

“What?” 

“My dad left for the hospital 15 minutes ago. It's the bus driver. They said he succumbed to his wounds.” 

“Succumbed?” 

“Scott, he's dead,” I clarify. He tightens his jaw, and a steely look overcomes his face and before we know it, he’s running out the door. So much for discussing a plan together.

***

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My knee jerks up and down as I see the teacher walk down the line of desks, handing back the test papers, but my attention is drawn to my left when Stiles leans forward and taps Scott on his shoulder.

“If Derek isn't the Alpha, if he's not the one who bit you, then who did?” Stiles asks. Wait, Derek’s not an alpha?

“Since when wasn’t Derek an Alpha?” I voice my thoughts.

“Wait, you know what an Alpha is?” Scott turns to me.

“Yeah, it’s the leader of the pack, the one with the ability to turn humans with a bite.”

Stiles and Scott share an exasperated look with one another, before Scott turns to me,

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“Well, I thought Derek was the one who turned you. Besides, everyone knows the role of an alpha in a wolf pack.”

“Not everyone, Charlie. Just you,” Stiles pauses and re-iterates, “And, back to my question: who bit you Scott?”

“I don't know,” Scott grumbles.

“Did the Alpha kill the bus driver?” 

“I don't know,” Scott says moodily, obviously growing frustrated with Stiles’ onslaught of questions. 

“Does Allison's dad know about the-”

“I don't know!” He finally snaps. My attention is drawn to the test paper that lands on my desk -- A-, looks like I won’t be failing history this year. I look over and Stiles has got an A and Scott… has an angry red D-. Ouch. 

“Dude, you need to study more. That was a joke. Scott, it's one test. You're gonna make it up. Do you want help studying?” Stiles offers.

“No. I'm studying with Allison after school today.” 

“Attaboy.” I offer my hand up for a high-five -- we all know what ‘studying’ means.

“We're just studying.” My high-five is promptly ignored, and I must admit, my feelings are hurt.

“Uh, no, you're not. Just studying isn’t just studying.” 

“It’s not?” He looks bewildered.

“Scott, I lost my virginity ‘just studying’.” I add for clarification, because if he wastes this glorious opportunity, then he’s a bigger moron than I thought he was. 

“Exactly, and if I'm forced to live vicariously through you; if you go to her house today and squander that colossal opportunity, I swear to God I'll have you de-balled,” Stiles adds.

“Okay. Just, stop with the questions, guys.” 

“Done. No more questions. No more talk about the Alpha or Derek. Especially Derek -- who still scares me.”

***

After history I’m making my way to Shane when I see Stiles’ jeep squeal to a halt in the middle of the parking lot with a leather-clad Gru-look-a-like standing in front of it -- Derek. 

As I’m running toward the jeep Derek collapses on the ground, and car horns start sounding behind us at the hold-up.

“What are you doing here?” Scott asks, squatting down beside Derek, who, now that I think about it isn’t looking too hot -- his skin has a sickly, sweaty pallor to it.

“I was shot,” the man groans.

“He's not looking so good, dude,” Stiles says.

“Why aren't you healing?” It’s as Scott asks this that I realise why he looks so sick -- he’s dying. 

I squat down to get a further look at his condition, “It was wolfsbane, wasn’t it?”

“How do you know?” He looks at me.

“Because that’s the exact type of magic bullet I’d use.”

“Wait, wait. That's what she meant when she said you had 48 hours,” Scott pipes up. 

“What? Who? Who said 48 hours?” The injured man asks.

“The one who shot you.” 

I do the calculations in my head, “48 hours, that’s definitely wolfsbane then.”

Derek suddenly cries out in pain, holding his head. When he opens his eyes again they keep flashing to the shade of werewolf blue. 

“What are you doing? Stop that!” Scott panics.

“I'm trying to tell you, I can't!”

“Derek, get up!” 

“Help me put him in Stiles’ car,” Scott says and I go to help chuck the -- surprisingly -- heavy guy in the front seat of the jeep. 

“I need you to find out what kind of bullet they used,” Derek orders Scott through the car window. 

“But Charlie already figured it out -- it’s wolfsbane.”

“Because, idiot, there are many types of wolfsbane and I need you to find out which,” he seethes.

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” 

“'Cause she's an Argent. She's with them.” 

“Why should I help you?” 

“Because you need me.” 

“Fine. I'll try. Hey, get him out of here,” Scott says to Stiles and me, and I huff, rolling my eyes while clambering into the backseat. 

“I hate you for this so much,” Stiles says, before flooring the gas pedal and we’re out of the parking lot.

***

The next 10 minutes are among the most awkward 10 minutes I have ever had in a car; including the car journey here with Jody, and the multiple times I’d been stuck in an insufferable silence because Sam and Dean were arguing.

I pulled my phone out and sent a message to Scott

you found it yet?

A bit soon, I know, I just can’t wait to get out of this car. My phone buzzes,

need more time 

I sigh, because of course this is right where I want to be during my weekdays. 

“Hey, try not to bleed out on my seats, okay? We're almost there,” Stiles breaks the silence, gesturing toward a decaying Derek who honestly looks dead. 

“Almost where?” 

“Your house,” Stiles states the obvious. 

“What? No, you can't take me there.”

“I can't take you to your own house?” 

“Not when I can't protect myself.” 

“That’s your own fault for living in a structurally inept house,” I butt in and Derek shoots me one of his death glares.

Stiles pull over and shuts the engine off. 

“All right. What happens if Scott doesn't find your little magic bullet? Hmm? Are you dying?” 

“Yes,” I answer at the same time as Derek answers ‘Not yet.’ He sighs and explains further:

“I have a last resort.” 

“What do you mean? What last resort?” 

Derek then lifts his sleeve up to reveal the bullet wound, to which -- of course -- Stiles freaks out: “Oh, my God. What is that? Oh, is that contagious? You know what, you should probably just get out.”

“Relax, it’s not that bad. A little infected maybe, but I’ve seen worse,” I shrug.

“Where?” Stiles exclaims.

“Oh, this one time-”

Derek, obviously annoyed by my little anecdote interrupts me and growls,  

“Start the car. Now.” 

“I don't think you should be barking orders with the way you look, okay? In fact, I think if I wanted to, I could probably drag your little werewolf ass out into the middle of the road and leave you for dead.” Yeah, incapacitated or not, it’s obvious who’ll win between the two. And it’s not Stiles.

“Start the car, or I'm gonna rip her throat out, then yours. With my teeth.” 

There’s a brief moment when the pair glare at each other, before Stiles concedes and starts the jeep up, pulling out onto the road again.

***

My butt was uncomfortably numb. Not numb like sore, or cramping -- I passed Cramptown over two hours ago -- but as in: so-numb-that-if-someone-were-to-magically-appear-and-stab-me-in-my-anus-right-now-I-wouldn't-feel-a-thing numb.

“You know what? Screw this, I’m calling him,” Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket, sighing heavily, and I agree with him. I’m hungry, I’m tired, I’m bored and my butt is so numb.

As soon as Scott answers, Stiles starts to rant, “What am I supposed to do with him?” I lean forward and put my ear right next to Stiles’ to hear his response.

“Take him somewhere. Anywhere!” 

“And, by the way, he's starting to smell,” Stiles complains and Derek shoots us a dirty look, and I can’t help but stick my tongue out at him, as childish as it is -- we’re doing him a massive favour and he’s just being a massive a-hole about it.

“Like what?”

“Like death!” I interject. 

“Okay, take him to the animal clinic.” 

“What about your boss?” 

“He's gone by now. There's a spare key in the box behind the dumpster.”

“Well that’s an efficient security measure. I’m never taking my dog there,” I add drily.

“Charlie, you don’t even have a dog!”

“I know, but if I did, I certainly wouldn’t bring it there,” I complain. Derek then rolls his eyes and snatches Stiles’ phone out his hand.

“Did you find it?” He demands. 

I’m not close enough to hear what Scott is saying, but I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere along the lines of why he can’t find it judging by Derek’s response:

“Look, if you don't find it, then I'm dead, all right?” 

There’s a slight pause, “Then think about this. The Alpha called you out against your will. He's gonna do it again. Next time you either kill with him or you get killed. So if you wanna stay alive, then you need me. Find the bullet.”

He hangs up, and we’re left in awkward silence once again.

***

“Got it!” I yell after having to be the unfortunate one to forage behind the dumpster to get the clinic key. I toss the keys to Stiles and wipe my hand down on my jeans which will most likely be going in the bin -- that sticky dumpster juice will be difficult as fuck to get out.

Stiles opens the door to the storeroom and Derek stumbles in, collapsing onto bags of dog food like it’s some sort of bean bag.

“Does Northern blue monkshood mean anything to either of you?” Stiles pipes up, after having gotten a message from Scott. 

“It's a reasonably rare form of wolfsbane. He’s gonna have to bring the bullet,” I explain, biting down on my finger nail.  

“Why?” 

“'Cause I'm gonna die without it.”

We make our way to the examination room, and I switch on the light while Derek strips off his shirt and lays his arm out on the table.

And oh sweet mother of fuck is it disgusting. The skin around the bulletwound has puckered and has an infected look to it, not to mention all the veins have started to turn black, carrying the toxin through his blood -- his poor condition makes a lot more sense now. 

“Okay. You know, that really doesn't look like anything some echinacea and a good night of sleep couldn't take care of,” Stiles says, looking very grossed-out, and I have to remind myself that it’s not normal to have seen so many stab wounds and bullet holes at my age.

“When the infection reaches my heart, it'll kill me,” the werewolf pants.

“Positivity just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?” Stiles snarks. 

“If he doesn't get here with the bullet in time... last resort.” He rifles through the cabinets, looking for something. 

“Which is?” 

“You're gonna cut off my arm,” Derek casually produces a bone saw. Fun. 

Stiles picks up the bone saw, and quickly turns it on, before dropping it onto the table in fright, and between gags, says, “Oh, my God.”

Derek sighs, “Change of plan,” he turns to me and slides the bonesaw over in my direction, “you’re cutting off my arm.”

I heave a sigh, this really isn’t what I pictured happening when I came to Beacon Hills.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” I shrug.

“Are the pair of you insane?” Stiles wildly throws his hands in the air.

“No, why would we be?”

Stiles gives me an exasperated look, “What if he bleeds to death, huh? 

“He’ll heal. You’ll heal right?” I ask Derek, suddenly unsure because if it doesn’t heal and he does bleed to death then we’ll have to bury the body. And I’m really not in the mood today.

“It'll heal if it works,” he says, wrapping a strip of twine around his bicep to serve as a tourniquet. 

“Well that’s reassuring,” I quip. 

“What? What are you doing?” Stiles asks as Derek starts to hunch over, and he pukes black gunky goo. Everywhere. And I have to resist the urge to throw up too, because -- dear God -- it reeks. 

“Holy God, what the hell is that?” Stiles yells.

 “It's my body trying to heal itself,” Derek groans.

“Well, it's not doing a very good job of it.”

“No shit, Stiles! The guy is dying!” 

“Now. You gotta do it now.” Derek looks at me, and I have to physically psyche myself up -- this is not going to be nice.

“Oh God, I can’t watch!” Stiles groans, I take in a shaky breath and line up the saw right below the tourniquet, and just as I’m about to do it, I hear Scott yelling our names.

“Scott?” Stiles asks as he rounds the corner, and I have never been more glad to see that nerd in my life.  

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks upon seeing me with the bonesaw.  

“Oh, you just prevented a lifetime of nightmares,” Stiles huffs in relief. 

“Did you get it?” Scott nods and passes the bullet over to Derek. 

“What are you gonna do with it?” 

“I'm gonna… I'm gonna…” before he can finish his sentence, Derek collapses to the ground, sending the bullet flying.

“No. No, no, no, no!” Scott yells, diving after the bullet.

Stiles and I immediately go over to Derek who is -- worryingly -- looking devoid of all life.

“Derek. Derek, come on, wake up. Scott, what the hell are we gonna do?” Stiles asks, while slapping Derek in the face. 

“I don't know! I can't reach it!”

“He's not waking up!” I yell, starting to panic.

“I think he's dying. I think he's dead!” 

“Just hold on! Come on. Oh! I got it! I got it!” Scott yells, the bullet now between his fingers.

“Please don't kill me for this,” Stiles says, raising his fist to punch Derek’s face, but I catch his arm before he does. 

“We don’t need to do that -- I know what to do!” 

Scott chucks me the bullet and I smash it harshly on the floor -- breaking it apart to get to the crushed wolfsbane inside of it. Once the flakes are all out, I grab my lighter and set the plant on fire, the remnants smoking -- activated.

“Now this is gonna hurt like a bitch,” I sweep the smouldered remains into my hand and jam the powder into the bullet wound. 

Derek shoots up, screaming in pain and flings his arm out, punching me in the face as he continues to scream and flail. I feel hands gripping my arms, pulling me away from the man writhing on the floor, and I turn and nod my thanks to Scott and Stiles. 

My face is sore, and I can already feel it swelling -- that’s gonna be fun to cover up tomorrow.

As Derek’s screaming, the blackness in his veins begin to retract and the bullet wound heals over, like nothing was there in the first place.

“That was... awesome! Yes!” Stiles yells and fist pumps the air.

“You done?” I ask. 

“Are you okay?” Scott turns to Derek.

“Well, except for the agonizing pain.”

“I'm guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health,” Stiles comments and Derek senda yet another of his death glares -- I think they must be a very common symptom of being in his company. 

“And the death glare, too,” I add, to which he sends -- surprise surprise -- another death glare.

“Okay, we saved your life, which means you're gonna leave us alone, you got that? And if you don't, I'm gonna go back to Allison's dad, and I'm gonna tell him everything-” Scott starts before  Derek interrupts.  

“You're gonna trust them? You think they can help you?” 

“Well, why not? They're a lot freaking nicer than you are!” 

“I can show you exactly how nice they are.”

“What do you mean?”

Derek leaves to stalk out the room, but pauses right beside the freezer, pulling out an ice pack and chucking it at me.

“You saved my life -- pretty good, for a Winchester.” And with that, him and Scott are gone, leaving me and Stiles standing by ourselves in the clinic with me pressing the ice to my swollen jaw.

“I think that’s the closest you’re ever going to an apology from Derek,” Stiles smirks.

“You know what? I think you’re right.” I laugh.

***

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A/N: Any likes, reblogs or comments are greatly appreciated and often summon my muse. Sorry there weren’t any interactions between Charlie and Lydia, it’s just how the episode turned out. 

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