#roscoe writes

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. 

To say your twin brother was absolutely infatuated with Lydia Martin would be the absolute understatement of the decade; perhaps even the century.

To say you were absolutely infatuated with Lydia Martin would be the absolute understatement of the decade; perhaps even the century. You were completely and utterly bewitched; wholly enthralled in the beauty of her -- from the glowing radiance of her skin, to the warm chocolate pools of her eyes, or her delicate smile that could brighten even the darkest of rooms.

It had never been your intention to fall in love with her, but alas, slender Aphrodite drew you to her, akin to moth to a flame. It was the sophomore year of highschool when you first truly spoke to her -- not including the few and rather fleeting interactions you shared previously -- and you found her company to be surprisingly pleasant. 

When you first knew of your brother’s crush -- or more accurately, obsession -- for her, you shook it off, expecting the girl to be yet another of the superficial, shallow Queen Bees that seemed to rule the world. But when Allison, your newly-found best friend, befriended the redhead, you inadvertently befriended her too.

And what you saw truly shocked you. Lydia was a broken, saddened soul. One that buried their emotions, locking it in a deep box and casting it away in the ocean, for the fear that those feelings --  love, happiness, joy -- would destroy her in the end. For that broken wreckage was all she had known of love, all she had seen of it was her mother who had given herself entirely to her husband, had been cheated on and abandoned to live as a broken-hearted shell of a woman. She didn’t want that. And that was all love was to her: a weakness. So she donned her impassive mask and pretended not to feel, not to care. But that was the fundamental flaw in Lydia’s ideology: she did care. She loved and felt so much, and all the emotions were hard to keep in check behind that mask, and eventually it would slip. And just by chance you were the one to see her true face.

She had broken down in the locker rooms, afraid of her future: for if she never loved, who would stay by her side? And she certainly knew that threatening and manipulating, wouldn’t do anything -- even Jackson would leave her eventually. 

By chance, or divine intervention, you were there, looking for the jacket you had accidentally left behind. When you saw her there, sobbing her heart out, you debated with yourself; hesitating whether or not to comfort her -- was it even your place? You decide to just do it: even if Lydia hadn’t been the most welcoming to you, she wasn’t not welcoming either, and no one deserved to cry alone.

“Hey, are you okay?”

She sniffled, and tried to wipe away all evidence of her tears, but nothing could erase the iridescent tear tracks staining her cheeks, because they went a lot deeper than the skin. These were the bloody tears of her heart, weeping the pain of a soul in agony. 

“I’m fine,” she tried weakly.

“Come on, Lydia. We both know that’s total bullshit.” You sat down next to her on the cool bench. And, upon seeing your stubborn expression, Lydia -- for the first time in… ever -- told someone how she really felt. 

“Lydia, I hardly even know you. But I know you’re a good person. And if I can get that by hanging out with you a few times, then it’s gotta be true.” She smiled and nodded, because you, with your understanding smile, a girl she hardly knows, were the first person to make her feel loved. She knew then, that she had found someone special.

After that night, she always lifted off that mask in front of you -- only you. No one else -- not even Jackson --  even got a glimpse of Lydia’s true heart; it was far too intimate to be shared with anyone else but you.

Before you knew it, the pair of you became inseparable. And, even when you got involved in your brother’s supernatural mess, you always made time for her. Always, and without fail.

And when she eventually found out, the pair of you were once again closer than ever. 

The night that Jennifer captured Lydia, and tried to strangle her, was probably the most terrifying night of your life. And when you saw her, crying and close to death, but alive. The relief that came crashing down on you was comparable to a tsunami -- you had no idea how you’d live without her. 

And that’s when another realisation crashed down on you like a tsunami. There was a reason why you were closer with Lydia than you had been with any other girl. There was a reason why you had such a close connection, why you couldn’t bear the thought of a life without her. You were undeniably, irrevocably, hopelessly head-over-heels in love with Lydia Martin. And you didn’t regret it one bit.

Over the course of the next year, the pair of you grew impossibly closer still -- saving each other's life on more than one occasion. And all the while, you fell more and more in love with her; sending her long and loving looks and she’d always look at you the same way. You couldn’t wait for college -- to be free of any supernatural problems and the pair of you could stop dancing around one another and finally be together.

It’s funny how quickly one’s dreams can shatter.

Your brother was erased from your memory, and you weren’t even strong enough to bring him back. But Lydia was. Because she loved him. Not you. 

And when they reunited with a passionate kiss, you felt a piece of your heart break, because that should be you, not him. When the pack went out to celebrate the victory, you had to sit there, listening to everyone congratulate them for finally getting together. Apparently everyone else could see it. Because every time you thought she was looking at you, she was looking at him. 

And with a broken heart and broken heart, you packed your bags and went off to college, desperately trying to forget the redhead with all your being. You even went on a few dates, but none of them ended in success, because no one was like Lydia. No one was like the love of your life.

Eventually Thanksgiving and Christmas rolled around, and of course Lydia was invited, and the whole time you were in absolute agony, because you needed her, not him. 

And despite how selfish and terrible it was, you prayed they’d break up by next year, because you weren’t sure if you could cope with another family gathering.

Yet another hope, ruined.

Opening the mail, seeing the invitation had you running for the bathroom, with the acrid taste of bile rising in your mouth.

Emptying your stomach in the toilet bowl, you had to laugh at yourself. A cruel, self-deprecating laugh. How pathetic were you? So hung up on a girl you physically couldn’t stand it when she was with someone else.

But nevertheless, you were in absolute miserable agony. You loved Lydia so much, you longed for her with every single fibre of your being. To hold her, to kiss her, to be with her. But you couldn’t have her. Ever.

And the worst part was, you couldn’t even hate her. She was happy, and it wasn’t her fault that her happiness brought an onslaught of absolute misery for you. You couldn’t even hate her soon-to-be husband because he was your brother. And he was happy. And you should be happy for him. You should.

***

You’d spent months trying to prepare yourself for the big day, but nothing could compare to this living hell. 

The rehearsal dinner came along and you were in your best clothes, a big smile plastered on your face desperately trying to cover-up the fact that you were dying on the inside. As the drinks were being poured, Scott pulled you out into the hallway.

“Are you okay? I can smell your pain. You’re not sick are you?” To say Scott was worried would be a severe understatement. A member of his pack, smelt like they were dying, and he really couldn’t lose another friend.

Your strenuous hold of your tears was starting to falter, and your eyes became glossy.

“I’m fine, Scott. Really,” you tried to shrug it off.

And when he caught sight of your eyes it finally made sense to him: the way your heartbeat pounded whenever she walked into a room, how fiercely protective you were of her, how your smile always widened whenever she walked into the room: you loved her.

“You can’t have her and it’s killing you inside,” he realised. At this point, tears were streaming down your cheeks, and you were too choked up for words and just nodded. Scott pulled you in for a tight hug -- it did nothing to ease the pain in your heart, but it did feel nice.

The big day came, and you felt sick to your stomach.

“You gonna be okay?” Scott asked, reassuringly squeezing your hand.

You nodded and he offered a sympathetic smile.

The music began, and you couldn’t bear to look at Lydia, afraid you’d throw up then and there because it should be you at the end of the aisle. 

A deep-seated restlessness ached in your bones, pinching at the fatigue behind your eyelids because you should be asleep. You turned to look at the glaring neon of the clock - 04:06. You really should be asleep. And yet, despite your crippling lethargy, the agitation coursing through your body would not ease so you remained wide awake. 

You were glaring at the ceiling, willing the mockingly sluggish minutes to pass just a little quicker. But alas, they did not. They lasted aeons. And with every passing eternity, the anxiety increased tenfold because it was another infinity of solitude. It was another minute without Matt.

You heaved a sigh, your nostrils flaring. Trust you to fall head over heels for a guilty Catholic with a vigilante complex. Trust you to fall in love with a guy who didn’t care if he came home, because if he died it would be for his city. 

You weren’t quite sure what it was about this particular night that had your tensions up so high. Yes, each night you were worried, but tonight was different - you were absolutely terrified.

You heard the telltale grating squeak of the window being opened, and you ripped off the covers and raced to the living room. You almost sobbed when you saw the state he was in - your devil, all broken and beaten just for you. 

Rushing over, you immediately slung his arm around your shoulder and the pair of you hobbled over to the bathroom, you carrying the entirety of Matt’s weight. You seated him on the edge of the bathtub, before tearing through the cabinets for the first aid kit.

“What are you still doing up?” he croaked, but you didn’t respond, too focused on the task at hand. He was still looking in your vague direction for an answer, when you turned back to face him. You ignored him, and continued peeling away his blood-soaked armour.

You were a little pissed. You understood he wanted to help people, but wasn’t being an attorney for the innocent enough? If he was willing to die for his city, then why couldn’t he just live for you?

With a clinical precision, you threaded the needle and began to sew up his wounds. It was a strange romance you had. An odd little love language of Matt’s soft caresses and words when you fixed him up, and your hands, tense and cold because if you weren’t distant you were certain you’d cry, or scream. Or maybe both.

After you stitched him up, you slung his arm around your shoulder again, but this time he carried some of his own weight.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” You placed him down gently, and helped him lift his arms to put a clean shirt on. But before you could pull away again, he grabbed your wrist.

“Hey, talk to me, please,” he begged.

“I can’t. I’ve got to clean up.” A lame excuse, but you really didn’t want to deal with him right now.

“It can wait. This,” he gestured between the pair of you, “this can’t.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation.”

“What conversation?”

“The one where I beg you not to go out every night and get beaten within an inch of your life. The one where you insist you have to, for your city.” You paused as your voice began to crack, tears forming in your eyes. “The one where I’m not enough for you.”

“You are. You are more than enough for me - you’re perfect.” He grabbed at your hand again, kissing your knuckles as he gazed up in your general direction.

“How? How am I enough when you go gallivanting off into the night, and don’t give a flying fuck if you make it back to me, all while you say you love me.”

“I do this, all of this, for you. If I don’t do what I do, the streets wouldn’t be safe for you! For anybody!”

“Matt, it’s never going to be safe. You’re fighting far too hard in an endless war. A war you already commit yourself to with your normal day job.”

“It’s not endless. It will end. And I promise you, when it does, I’ll stop. For good. I won’t go looking for trouble. I promise you that.”

“You mean that?” You knew it was foolish to hope, stupid even. But you couldn’t help but give in - you needed something to believe in. Because you couldn’t go on another day if you didn’t believe that your life, your love, would amount to something. You’d go insane.

“Of course I do. You mean everything to me,” he whispered, hugging your torso from his height sitting on the bed. You nodded, and closed your eyes, relishing in the few moments of tranquillity you were gifted.

“Come on, lie down with me.”

“Okay,” you nodded, and Matt smiled in response pulling you into a quick kiss. 

He leaned back down on the bed and you climbed in next to him, careful not to aggravate his wounds which left you lying stiff next to him. Matt let out a scoff, before pulling your body flush to his.

“Is this okay? I’m not hurting you or anything?” 

Matt smiled, “Would I have let you if it did?” 

“Got a point there.”

You rested your head against his chest and let yourself just be for a minute or two; lapping up the few precious moments you had with Matt undisturbed. 

But then your head decided to think about the worst again.

“Matt?”

He hummed.

“You know how you said it would eventually end? I don’t think that’s ever gonna happen. It’s like in Doctor Who - all the aliens only ever attack London; it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist. That’s how it is for us - The Hand, the incidents, Fisk, crime. Everything happens in New York.”

“Where are you going with this?” you could detect the slight apprehension in his voice, he was probably worried the argument would continue.

“You said you’d give up the suit when you’ve stopped everything, you’re gonna be like 90 when that happens.” You giggled at the image, focusing on the hilarity of it, rather than the fact that Matt wouldn’t live to 90 if he kept going at this rate. That you’d die, old and alone.

“Why not? Stick does it.” Matt chuckled.

“Just picture it: Daredevil is discovered to be blind pensioner,” you said, reading out the imaginary headline, laughing all the while as Matt joined in. Once it ceased, it was eerily quiet as the inevitable truth smacked you in the face. Matt was going to die. And it could be any day. Maybe even tomorrow.

“I will do it. I will stop it. I promise you,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“How about we both call in sick and just cuddle?” he proposed.

“Okay,” you agreed with a half-smile trying to swallow the dread and enjoy the moment, despite the ever-dwindling time you had left with the love of your life.

It was a strange romance you had. An odd love language of numbered kisses and stolen moments in a staged ignorance of the counter on Matt’s life.

Tags: -

 Panting, you sink to the ground, gun having just clattered to the ground beside you. The clank a gavel, adjourning this case where you were judge, jury and executioner. A court session where you had made the wrong fucking decision.

 Your body began to wrack with sobs, and you raised your hand to cover your mouth; some irrational part of you was fearful that some deputy would come bursting around the corner, gun in hand, before locking you up. For murder.

Alas, no one came. And that was almost worse. You had taken a life, the most cardinal sin, and you were now going to get away with it. You pulled your hand away from your mouth, and saw that it was splattered in blood. His blood. The same crimson that was now pooling beneath his cold, lifeless body.

 You hugged your knees to your chest. And began to rock, eyes unfocused. Because what was in front of you didn’t matter. The body beside you did. Its glassy eyes gazing, unblinking at you. Mocking you. Because every time you closed your eyes, it repeated over and over in your head. Again, and again.

 His fangs elongated from his lips, a blood lust in his orange eyes.

 God, he was just a kid. An experiment. It wasn’t his fault.

 And yet, you still killed him.

And there it was again. You, the bullet and him. His head snapping back, his body crumpling in on itself. And you, just... standing there.

All this time, stopping the monsters invading Beacon Hills, never once did you think the beast would rear its ugly head from within.

 ***

 You weren’t aware of how long you were sitting there. All you knew was that it was beginning to get cold in the tunnels, yet you didn’t once move to rub your arms in an attempt to ward off the goosebumps dancing over your skin. After all, you deserved it. You deserved everything you had coming. Murderer.

 His blood had now reached your shoes, staining the rubber soles red. And you nearly lost it again.

 “Y/N? Where are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, I had to track your phone.” It was Stiles.

 Thank God. You had feared that Scott would be the one to find you. And then he would shun you, like he had done to Stiles. You then dared to let yourself think that maybe you would be alright, that maybe, just maybe… Stiles would understand.

 “Y/N? Holy shit!” He exclaimed upon setting his sights on the scene before you.

 “Y/N?” This time it came out quiet, cautious as he saw the broken expression on your face. He squatted down in front of you, hands rubbing along the sides of your arms.

 “Shit, you’re freezing.”

 Then it all came tumbling out in a stream of sobs.

 “I… I didn’t mean to. He was just… there. And he was coming toward me, and I-I just shot him, Stiles. I killed him because I was too afraid to die. Stiles… you can’t. You can’t tell Scott. You can’t-” you stuttered out.

 “Hey, hey, hey it’s okay. I’m not going to tell Scott.” He reassured you.

 Your hands were still shaking relentlessly. They just wouldn’t stop. They couldn’t.

 He gently cupped your face. “Hey, hey.” He made eye-contact with you, “It’s all going to be okay.” You were then pulled into his warm embrace, and you started to sob again.

 “Please forgive me, Stiles. I-” you cried into his shoulder.

 “Of course I forgive you. You wanna know why? It’s not your fault. It was just self-defence. And I know that it doesn’t make it any easier, but it wasn’t your fault.” He pulled away from the hug, and smiled weakly at you. All you did was stare dumbly, and nod, a numb spreading through your veins.

 “Now come on, let’s get you home.” He pulled you up, eyes still on you, concerned.

 “But what about?” You gestured to the boy, the word body catching in your throat, choking you with guilt once again.

 “It’s fine. Parrish will take care of it. We should probably get out of here before he turns up.” He grabbed your hand, and pulled you with him to his jeep.

 ***

The whole ride back to his house, you had remained silent, your eyes fixated on a non-existent spot in the distance; the gunshot sounding over, and over, and over again. A looped, limitless limbo.

 You stood in his shower, staring as the blood swirled down the drain.

 It is true, what they say. That blood is thicker than water. You could still feel its taint clinging to your skin, even after you had stood under the pelting water for quite some time - you weren’t quite sure exactly how long you had been standing beneath the stream, but it was long enough for your fingers to prune up.

You hissed slightly as you wrapped the towel around your raw, reddening skin. You had set the temperature to the highest possible setting to try and thaw the numbing cold in your chest. You regretted it now.

Walking out of the ensuite bathroom your eyes fell on him. Stiles. He was still here for you despite everything. He was perfect, and God, did you not deserve him.

“I… er put these in the dryer for you. I know you like warm clothes after a shower.” He smiled softly, handing you a pair of his sweats and your favourite hoodie of his. They wholly engulfed you, but you still loved wearing them. You always felt safe, and you needed that now more than ever. 

“Thank you.” The first coherent words to leave your lips since the… incident.

As soon as you were donned in his clothes, he immediately pulled you tightly against his firm chest, and you had never felt safer.

I sighed, finally biting the bullet and chucking my jeans in the trash. After the events of Friday night, I had spent practically the whole of yesterday and today desperately trying to scrub the dumpster juice and Derek goo -- because of course, it splashed onto me -- and yet to no avail, my favourite jeans are ruined. I was about to go and wallow in my despair when my phone buzzed; it was a message from Stiles.

my dad says to invite you to come out to dinner tonight. 

we’re not going anywhere fancy. It’s just the patrol car and takeout.

im sorry this was all his idea. 

I sigh and set about putting clothes on that aren’t my sweats, which I’d been living in, looking at my recovering shiner in the mirror, it's not too bad, so I can't be bothered to cover it up. I’m ready just as Stiles knocks on the door. I open it and see his apologetic face.

“I’m sorry this is so embarrassing.”

“Eh,” I shrug, “Not your fault. I’m sure if my parents were still alive they would’ve something embarrassing.”

“And thanks for killing the mood,” he says as we descend the stairs.

“You see, I hear sarcasm, but you should really be grateful seeing as I just killed your embarrassed mood.”

“Ha ha ha -- hilarious.”

I open the backdoor of the patrol car and greet Stiles’ dad when I get in, “Sheriff.”

“Charlie, nice to see you again,” he returns.

We spend the next few minutes engaged in awkward small talk until we pull up to the drive through and order our food. Noah pulls up and puts the car in park, handing us our bagged dinner and it’s then that I realise I haven’t eaten all day and begin to tear into the bag and stuff my face.

It’s between mouthfuls of food that I ask, “So, what’s brought this on?” gesturing with my fingers to this whole awkward and messy situation.

“I just wanted to see how you’re getting on. These years of your life are big ones, and moving cross country into a whole new situation, hasn’t made it easy in you. So I just wanted you to know that I’m here for you.”

I find myself squinting at the very-not-Noah-like words coming out of his mouth, I turn to see that Stiles has a similar expression on his face. I wasn’t the only one. It was then that I put two and two together.

“Jody asked you to, didn’t she?”

He neglects to reply -- which gives me the all the answer I needed -- and rifles through his bag.

“Mm. Did they forget my curly fries?”

“You're not supposed to eat fries, especially the curly ones,” Stiles argues.

“Well, I'm carrying a lethal weapon. If I want the curly fries, I will have the curly fries.” 

“If you think getting rid of contractions in all your sentences makes your argument any more legitimate, you are wrong.” I can’t help but snicker at Stiles’ reply, and was about to interject too when the scanner goes off.

“Unit one, do you copy?”

Stiles reaches over to press the intercom buzzer when his dad slaps his hand away, and shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Sorry.” 

“Unit one, copy.” 

“Got a report of a possible 187.” 187… that’s- 

“Murder?” Stiles and I both chorus.

Noah sends me a disturbed look, “How do you... You know what, scratch that, I don’t want to know.”

He pulls out and drives toward the movie store where the murder happened, and I have to resist the urge to sing Video Killed The Radio Star because that would be insensitive.

He commands for the pair of us to remain in the car once we arrive. I huff out a breath, already bored, and look out of the window at our surroundings. An ambulance has been called and both Lydia and Jackson are sitting in the back of it, because apparently the universe has decided that I can’t get enough of them.

“What an asshole,” I mutter when Jackson starts to aggressively argue with Noah, and Stiles and I share a look before we both get out -- I could never listen to authority figures anyway.

Jackson starts to straight-up yell in Noah’s face and I feel the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face -- well, more than I usually do at least.

“Oh, whoa, is that a dead body?” Stiles pipes up when he sees the stretcher.

“To quote your own words back at you: no, it’s a body of water, dumbass,” I say right as I catch a glimpse of Sheriff’s perturbed expression and Stiles and I immediately shrink back into the car.

It’s about a half hour sitting on my ass twiddling my thumbs, when Sheriff comes and drives us home, and it’s when I finally settle down in my bed that I realise how tired I am -- I just can’t catch a break can I?

***

Having chemistry first period honestly makes me want to get drop-kicked into the sun, and the torture hasn’t even properly begun yet. 

I take my seat next to Stiles and Harris begins.

“Just a friendly reminder: parent teacher conferences are tonight. Students below a "C" average are required to attend. I won't name you, because the shame and self-disgust should be more than enough punishment.” He halts at our desk and glares pointedly at Stiles. Rude.

I raise my hand in the air.

“Yes, Miss Stuart,” he glowers like the miserable bastard he is.

“What if your entire family is dead and you’re an emancipated teen. Who turns up then?”

“Your grades are perfectly fine, Miss Stuart. It is not a requirement for you, or anybody else to go.” Thank the mother of all fucks.

Before he leaves our desk, he asks: “Has anyone seen Scott McCall?” 

Which makes me realise that I haven’t seen Scott today which is very unusual. I look over to Stiles to see if he knows, but he is more occupied with highlighting practically all of his textbook.

The door opens and Jackson walks in, Harris walks over and places a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. 

“Hey, Jackson. If you need to leave early for any reason, you let me know.” Go figure -- the asshole teacher is nice to the asshole student. 

“Everyone, start reading chapter nine. Mr. Stilinski... try putting the highlighter down between paragraphs. It's chemistry, not a coloring book.” Harris remarks and Stiles and I share a mutual look of disdain. He spits the lid from his mouth into the air and catches it, before turning to me.

“Your whole family isn’t dead,” he says about my earlier statement.

“My brothers are dead to me, so same difference.” I shrug.

Stiles nods before turning to Danny who sits on the bench in front of us. 

“Hey, Danny. Can I ask you a question?” 

“No.” 

“Well, I'm going to anyway. Um, did Lydia show up in your homeroom today?” I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes -- he could do so much better than a walking, talking trashbag. 

“No.” 

“Can I ask you another question?” 

“Answer's still no.” 

“Does anyone know what happened to her and Jackson last night?” 

“He wouldn't tell me.” 

“But he's your best friend... One more question.” 

Danny looks very annoyed, “What?” 

“Do you find me attractive?” Stiles has just passed the line of socially acceptable conversational topics and I find myself cringing. Throughout his interrogation, he’s leant further and further forward each question, so much so that I can tell the legs on his stool are about to go. I reach forward and kick the metal leg sending Stiles crashing forward. Danny sends me a look of thanks and I nod -- us gays gotta stick together. 

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” I smirk right as Stiles reaches over and pulls my stool leg, sending me crashing down right next to him.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he retorts, smirking at me.

***

By the time 2nd period is over and Scott still hasn’t turned up or responded to any of our messages, I give up and call him.

“What?” Scott answers like he’s annoyed -- sorry for making sure you weren’t murdered.

“Finally, you dickwad! Have you been getting any of our texts?” I ask. 

“Yeah, like all 9 million of them.”

“Did you ever think about, I don’t know, answering them?”

“No.”

“Thanks, next time we think you’ve been murdered by a killer alpha werewolf, we just won’t call.” As I’m talking Stiles gives me an exasperated look, and gesture for me to get to the point.

“Do you not know what’s happening over here? Trashbag’s nowhere to be seen -- though, I can’t say I’m a little bit glad about that -- Jackson looks like he’s about to constantly shit himself and there’s another dead person. So, it would be much appreciated if you got your little werewolf ass down here to do something about it.”

“Like what?” 

“Something -- anything!” 

“Okay, I'll deal with it later.” And then he hangs up. 

“What just happened?”

“That little werewolf bitch hung up on me.”

“Great.”

***

“You sure you need me there. I can’t just wait in the car?” I plead with Stiles as we pull up to the Martin residence, which is understandably the last place I want to go. He had insisted we come here to check up on Lydia, as well as figuring out what the fuck is going on.

“Yes -- why do you have such a problem with Lydia anyway?” he asks as we make our way up the driveway.

“Where to begin? She’s rude, she believes that everyone is below her, she’s manipulative, has no PDA-boundaries whatsoever -- have you seen her and Jackson? They practically hump by the lockers -- and, she’s a terrible actress.”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“You know, the really annoying -- and totally unbelievable -- dumb act she has on just to stroke Jackson’s ego. It’s so obvious.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I knock against the door to the house and a middle-aged woman opens it up.

“Can I help you two?”

“Yeah, I’m Stiles and this is Charlie; we’re here to see Lydia. To check up on her after the whole… you know,” Stiles explains.

“We brought cookies,” I pass the tin over to the woman as she lets us through and guides us up the stairs. 

She opens the door, “Honey, there's a Stiles and Charlie here to see you.”  

The room is -- unsurprisingly -- drowning in an array of all shades of pink. Lydia is splayed out on her bed, in a royal blue nightgown which is uncomfortably flattering to her body.

“What the hell is a "Stiles"?” I poorly hide my snicker with a cough, and Stiles glares at me. 

“She took a little something to ease her nerves. You can... you can go in.” She smiles and leaves.

“I wish you’d let me poison the cookies,” I sigh.

“Charlie, seriously?”

“What? It would make our lives significantly easier.”

“What are you doing here?” she breaks up our little huddle before Stiles can retort. 

“We’re just making sure you’re okay.” 

“Why?” she asks, smacking her lips in a total daze. Is she stoned? She pats the space beside her on the bed, and Stiles pushes me forward so I reluctantly take a seat, sandwiched between the pair of them. 

“Because we’re worried about you.”

“How are you feeling?” I ask, because as much as I despise Lydia, she’s still a human and I have to at least be nice to her. Occasionally. Like, once in a blue moon.

“I feel,” she sits up and leans uncomfortably close into my personal space, as in, I can actually feel her breath on my face. Gross. “fantastic.” 

Wondering what the hell she is doing, I catch a glimpse of the prescription drugs on her dresser. So, she is stoned. 

“I bet you can't say, "I saw Suzy sitting in a shoe-shine shop" ten times fast.” I dare her.

She quirks an eyebrow at me, “I saw Shuzy… I shaw... I saw…” she trails off, staring into the distance, like she’s remembering something. 

“What? Lydia, what did you see?” Stiles asks.

“Something.” 

“Something like… like a mountain lion?” 

“A mountain lion.” 

“Are you sure you saw a mountain lion, or are you just saying that because that's what the police told you?” 

“A mountain lion.”

Spotting the giraffe plush on her dresser, I grab it and hold it up, “What’s this?”

“A mountain lion.” 

“She is so stoned.” 

It’s then that she drapes herself across my lap, I try to peel her off but she has latched herself onto my leg rather tightly.

“Stiles… get it off.”

“Do you have any idea how lucky you are right now?” Stiles whisper-shouts but still helps me pry her off my leg.

Just as I’m about to escape she grabs my wrist and yanks me back next to her again.

“You should stay more often,” she slides her hand up my thigh, and I look over to Stiles.

“Help.”

Before Stiles can come to my rescue, she starts to caress my face with her hands, pulling me very close to her. And I feel very confused -- because on the one hand a pretty girl looks like she’s about to kiss me, on the other hand, she is a walking trash bag.

“Please... Jackson, I want you.” Oh God, someone get me out of here.

She’s just starting to pucker her lips when Stiles manages to push her off of me, and she lands on her bed like a sack of rocks -- totally zoned out.

“And… we're done here.” 

“I feel like I need to drown in holy water,” I remark just as Lydia’s phone goes off.

“It's a text. I don't know how to-” Stiles grabs her phone, talking to the unconscious Lydia. He trails off when a video starts to automatically play -- it’s of Lydia in the video store car park right as the mountain lion bursts through the window. Except it’s not a mountain lion. It’s the alpha.

***

After the whole awkward escapade, we drove back to Stiles’ house to discuss a certain video.

Stiles calls Scott for the umpteenth time: “Hey, it's me again. Look, we found something, and we don't know what to do, okay? So if you could turn your phone on right now, that'd be great. Or else I'll set Charlie on you. Do you understand me? She’ll kill you. And I'm too upset to come up with a witty description about how exactly she’s gonna torture you before she kills you, but she’ll do it, okay? I'm gonna—ugh! Goodbye.” Stiles flings himself down in the chair. And jumps when he sees his dad in the door frame. “God.” 

“Please tell me I'm gonna hear good news at this parent/teacher thing tonight.” 

Stiles winces, “Depends on how you define ‘good news’.” 

“I define it as you getting straight A's with no behavioral issues.”

“You might wanna rethink that definition.” 

“Nuff said.” 

Stiles sighs, “I guess we have to delete the video -- can’t have anyone finding it.”

“Yeah, we don’t really have a choice. If that video gets out...” The bleak beep sounding from the device

“Well I better be going,” I mutter.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

***

I’d just about finished with dinner when I get a call from Stiles.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Can you pick us up from the hospital?” Panic shoots through me.

“Why? What’s wrong?” 

“We’re fine. It’s just at the conference, an actual mountain lion turned up, and it was a whole situation. My dad got hit by a car -- he’s okay though, just some bruised ribs. And Scott could’ve prevented it, but he didn’t. Hence why I’m calling you -- we rode in the ambulance here and don’t have a ride home.”

“Oh my god, yeah. I’m on my way.”

***

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A/N: It turned out a bit short because of how the episode was written. If you want to be tagged just send an ask. Any likes, reblogs or comments are greatly appreciated and fuel my muse!

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