Fic: A Pale, Dark Road (Teen Wolf) [2/?]
Title: A Pale, Dark Road
Author: Jailynn
Genre: Angst/slight AU/ general right now but will be pre-slash
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: PG-13 now
Warnings: Um, other than the fact that I changed some things that happened in the show... none really. It's unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: The show and the characters aren't mine. Please don't sue. You really will not get anything.
Feedback: Please. I'd like to know if I should continue with this or not
Word Count: 3545
=xXx=
Chapter 2: The Fever Takes Hold
=xXx=
The crime scene tape criss crosses over the door to the home. He rips it down without another thought. Looking around him, he pulls a small flashlight from the pocket of his jacket and opens the door. The pin light barely gives him enough to see by but that doesn't matter much, he knows what he's looking for. After years of hunting, the signs of werewolves are easy for him to spot.
Chris walks slowly through the home, mindful of the debris on the floor and the evidence surrounding him. The muscles of his back tighten. It was here. An alpha. A beast. A rabid dog. His lips curl down in a frown as he enters the living room. The stains on the sofa, reddish brown, show where the murder took place. He closes his eyes, inhaling the scents around him.
He doesn't have the heightened senses of the beasts he hunts, but he can imagine the way fear smells. And he imagines the poor soul that died here gave off that fragrance in waves. The frown on his face becomes deeper, more pronounced.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Chris pulls it out, placing the flashlight in his mouth, his teeth clamping firmly around it. The text message is simple, it's the one he has been waiting for: Everything's set. Home is ready to move into.
Typing back a quick response, he calls his wife, whose already packing the truck. She answers on the first ring, waiting for his call like he was waiting for the text message.
“Chris,” she greets, her voice cool even in the best of situations.
“Get Alison ready. She'll be starting her new school in the morning.” Chris takes a moment to look around him once more. “I'm leaving from the house now. I'll meet you in Beacon Hills.”
“Already on the road, darling,” his wife responds. “Alison's asleep in the seat next to me. We'll see you soon.”
=xXx=
Hours pass. The moon slowly moves across the sky, hiding behind and peeking through dusty clouds. The sounds of restless animals, wind in the trees, the sporadic groans from the teen and his own thoughts were the only noises to keep him company during the wait.
There's been barely any movement at all from the injured boy laying on the tattered cloth he calls a blanket. Derek paces by the window. He rolls his head from side to side getting more and more aggravated. He should be out there trying to find his sister's remains, instead he's playing nurse maid to some teenager who might or might not end up being a werewolf. Rage simmers hotter in his veins. This is bullshit! He thinks violently. This is complete and utter bullshit!
Moaning from behind him stops his thoughts from progressing any further. He leans his body gingerly against the crackling wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Another painful moan followed by a whimper then silence.
Unfocused brown eyes open with great effort. Derek waits for some reaction- fear, confusion, something, but only haze meets his green eyes. The boys head is dotted with perspiration. Heat rolling off the teenage body in waves that he can feel even though he is across the room. The werewolf “curse” (fuck that, the werewolf gift) fighting against the human soul, trying to dominate, trying to take over.
Derek walks over to the shaking form, another violent shiver making the young man curl in on himself to hold off the feeling of sickness. He kneels next to the boy and places a hand on the bare, injured right shoulder. Skin to skin, wolf to possible wolf, contact relaxes him enough that dark eyes roll back into his head and his breathing evens out as sleep claims him. Derek raises from his crouch and walks over to the broken and blackened windows, looking out at the forest only lit by the waning moon light.
=xXx=
Sorry I missed your call, please leave me a message and if this is Stiles, I'm probably on my way to see you now. So chill out!
Stiles rubs his hand over the crown of his head roughly a couple of times. “Scott, man, call me back.” He licks at his bottom lip. “Listen, dude, I'm sorry I left you in the woods. Just-” pause, “just call me back so I know that you're okay and didn't get eaten.”
He slides his phone shut, grips it tightly in his hand, raising his arm a couple of times to throw it, then tosses it gently to his bed. It's been almost two hours since his dad caught him in the woods and he hasn't heard from anyone. His dad is still searching. Scott isn't answering. His thoughts are moving in overdrive. He feels jumpy and unsettled like something is wrong and he doesn't know what.
Moving to his computer chair, he sits down, boots up his laptop and drums his fingers against the desk. The rhythm is frantic and loud. His eyes shoot around his room, towards the window, back to his computer screen. He spins in his chair, facing the bed. He uses his feet to slide the chair over to the mattress, picks up his phone and dials the familiar number again.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three rings.
Voicemail.
Hey this is Scott. Sorry I missed your call, please leave me a message and if this is Stiles, I'm probably on my way to see you now. So chill out!
Stiles brows out a frustrated sigh and shuts his phone, tossing it back to the bed again. Spinning towards the computer once more, he pushes himself to the desk and logs onto the internet. He's too amped up to sleep. Surfing the web will hopefully occupy his mind until he hears something from someone.
=xXx=
“Drink.”
The voice is commanding. Rough. Unfamiliar. Slightly scary. Scratch that, really scary. Scott opens his eyes. It takes much more effort than it should. His body feels like a battering ram has beat him to the brink of death. Actual death. His skin feels tight and cold, but hot as well. He's just fucking uncomfortable. He can barely see. Everything is dark and shadows. The body over him in towering and merely an outline at first. Scott swallows against his dry throat.
The form in front of him starts to take shape. Male. Duh, knew that. Tall. Or at least taller than him. Maybe. Dark. Everything about him is dark. Except for his eyes which were green, moss green, and seem to glow in the barely lit room. The older man is muscular. Strong and thick. And Scott is nervous in his presence.
But the glass of water in his hand is so desirable. Pushing better judgment aside, Scott takes the glass in his shaky hand and brings it to his lips. The cool water coats his mouth, soothes his aching throat, helps the uncomfortable feeling in his body.
“Thank you,” he wheezes after he's gulped over half the liquid down.
“Welcome.” It didn't sound welcoming.
Scott looks around the room. The space appears...dead. Like life hasn't touched the walls in years. Everything is charred and burnt. Nothing is new. It seems like the perfect place for a murder or a haunted house during Halloween. He places the glass on the ground and that's when he feels the pain radiating from his shoulder. He looks at the injury and hisses. The wounds were red and deep and ...ugly. Blood seeps out, leaking down his arm.
Where is his jacket? His shirt? Why isn't he freezing?
“Where's my shirt?”
The other guy, he really needs to learn his name, points to the rolled up clothing next to the fireplace. He picks them up and winces, both from the pain in his body and the mess of his stuff. Oh his mother is going to freaking kill him.
“What happened?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. The guy doesn't seem very talkative. Nothing like Stiles, who couldn't seem to shut up.
“You were attacked.”
The word, duh, nearly slips out but somehow he manages to keep it inside. Of course he was attacked. He remembers that, vaguely, what he doesn't remember is what attacked him. Whatever it was took a giant chunk out of his shoulder. He has no idea how he's going to explain this to his mom. It's not the type of injury one would get on the lacrosse field and if he says he got it at work, well that could be bad for all involved. Turning his gaze back to the scary-big-man in front of him, he squints his eyes.
“Did you see what attacked me?”
“No.” The word is bitter. Snarled at him like he did something personally to the guy, even though he was the one that got attacked.
His mind sputters to a grinding halt. Oh. Well. Uh. He plays with some dust on the floor, drawing spirals with the tip of his index finger. Why spirals he doesn't have a clue, but it's what comes to him. “What's your name?”
“Derek.”
And we're back to one word answers.
Scott tries to stand, no easy task with only one arm, and after a couple of attempts does. The ache in his body is fading but not gone to say the least. He curls his injured arm around his bare mid-drift to cover himself in front of this virtual stranger. (That did help you while you were dying- or maybe just really badly hurt or whatever).
“Where are we?”
“My home.” Two words. Moving up in the verbal world. “You were trespassing.”
“Trespassing,” uh what?, he doesn't remember that. Scott's forehead folds into wrinkles as he tries to recall what the hell happened. Bits and pieces of the night filters through. The deer stampede. The snarling creature. Hot breath on his throat. A cold, wet nose against his skin. Teeth ripping. Darkness consuming him. He shakes his head. He can't remember crossing into someone else's property, but... he really can't say he didn't. Deciding to take this stranger's word for it, he says contritely, “Sorry.”
“What were you doing out in these woods that late at night anyway?” That's the first over three words, complete sentence Derek's spoken since he woke up. Scott opens and closes his mouth over and over unsure of what to say. The sound of his phone going off stops him from having to say anything. Derek rolls his eyes, obviously aggravated by the device. “That damn thing has been going off all night.”
Scott takes the phone out of his pocket and looks at the caller id. Stiles. Relief floods through him, although he can't pinpoint why. Before he can answer it, the call goes to voicemail. Turning his back on Derek, probably not a brilliant move he's sure, he calls his voicemail.
You have five unheard messages the automated voice tells him. First unheard message
Scott, I hope you got out of there okay. Call me. Calm Stiles. He presses seven to erase it.
Second unheard message
It's been an hour. Are you lost? Don't you have GPS on that phone of yours? Dude, always go east.. or west or follow the stream... Just call me okay? Not as calm, but not frantic Stiles. Scott deletes that too.
Third unheard message
Scott, man, call me back. Listen, dude, I'm sorry I left you in the woods. Just- just call me back so I know that you're okay and didn't get eaten. Worried Stiles... not a good sign.
Fourth unheard message
Lions, tigers and bears, which ate you dude? Actually I don't think lions or tigers live in our woods considering we live in northern California and not where those animals are normally found, but bears- we have those. It's a real possibility that you could have been turned into bear food. Just let me know you're alive, man! Ah now that's the Stiles he knows.
Fifth unheard message
It's four in the morning, do you know where your best friend is? Good because I sure as hell don't! Dad came home an hour ago. No body was found in the woods yet. Which means you weren't found either. So at least I know you aren't in jail. Still wondering about the bear thing though.
End of messages. Check erased messages.
Scott shuts his phone then dials Stiles' number quickly. His friend answers on the first ring. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Uh,” Scott looks at Derek. “Long story. I'll tell you later.”
“Well just tell me this, how did you get out of the woods?”
“I didn't,” he stops, “not really. Something happened. I was bit by...I have no clue. But I'm alright. I need to get ready for school. I'll see you there.” He hangs up before Stiles can ask anymore questions. Derek arches his thick eyebrow. “I know you said that you didn't see what attacked me, but do you have any idea what kind of animal it could have been? I'm sure I'm probably going to need some type of shot or something. Rabies, you know.”
Derek rolls his shoulders, “A wolf.” The older man turns on his heel and says, “You don't need to worry about a shot. You won't get rabies.”
“How do you know,” Scott asks, pulling his destroyed shirt over his head gingerly. “I mean it was wild. It could be diseased as well.”
Derek's eyes him over his shoulder. “Trust me. Rabies is the last thing you need to worry about.” He opens the door then pulls on his black leather jacket and waits for Scott. “I'll drive you home.”
And he goes against his better judgment and lets this stranger take him home.
=xXx=
“So let me see,” Stiles says as they walk up the path toward their high school. Scott pulls his shirt and the bandage down his shoulder. The wound, now clean, still hurt like a bitch. “Well,” his friend licks his lips. “It's not as bad as it could be.”
“It was worse this morning,” Scott comments as he puts everything back in place on his body. “I'm just lucky the wolf didn't grab a hold of my throat instead of my shoulder.”
“Ah,” Stiles jumps from foot to foot, “about that, it couldn't have been a wolf.”
“And you know this how exactly.”
“There haven't been wolves in those woods for years, decades even.” He grins in that manic way of his. “But if it was a wolf, we'll know soon enough.”
“How,” Scott asks as he moves his backpack higher on his uninjured shoulder.
“Well the full moon is in three days,” the mischievous glint in his best friend's brown eyes is nearly blinding. “If you start howling at it and turning into a half man half beast, we'll know that you were attacked by a wolf.” His left eyebrow raises playfully. “A werewolf.” Then he howls loud enough to attract the attention of anyone within hearing distance.
“Shut it, Stiles,” he lightly punches his friend in the stomach, a blush heating his cheeks as he looks around at all the students looking at them. Stiles laughs at his discomfort. “You suck you know that.”
Stiles shrugs, his grin never leaving his face. Together they walk into the school unaware of the eyes on them as they do.
=xXx=
Class starts. The teacher talks about what the year will bring. Stiles tries to pay attention, really he does, but the teacher's droning on and on soon has him looking around the room, doodling on his notebook (his drawing of a scared Jackson- and the stick figure, anime looking person is Jackson- being chased by a chicken made him grin pretty hard) and glance out the large windows. His left leg bounces under the desk and he taps his pen against the edge of his notebook as his eyes moving from place to place.
A figure in the distance, on the outskirts of the school's property, by the woods, catches his attention. He squints his eyes, trying to make out details, but he's too far away to really see much. Somehow he knows, though, the figure is looking back at him and that sends a shiver down his spine.
The bell ringing pulls him back to class and Stiles shakes the unease from his body. He leans down and grabs his backpack from under the chair and slides his books into his arms before looking back towards the window again. The black figure is gone, only the tree line can be seen. Stiles blinks his eyes quickly a few times and stares at the spot again. Nothing.
Maybe it was his imagination.
Maybe it was lack of sleep.
Maybe he shouldn't have taken so much adderall to make up for the lack of sleep and hours of worrying.
Shrugging it off, Stiles bleeds into the student body moving through the halls and walks to his next class, already forgetting about the incident in the classroom in anticipation of his next one. Lydia Martin should be in this one. His grin is wide and happy as he enters the room, scoping out the lay-out, picking the perfect seat with careful consideration. He chooses one close to the back, but not in the back row, close to the window- because the class will get boring, they all do- and places his stuff down on the desk.
=xXx=
“I've lost my inhaler,” Scott tells him as they stand by their lockers before lunch. “It fell out in the woods when I was being chased.”
Stiles looks around the door of his locker and nods, “We'll go look after school.”
Scott nods back at him then his entire body stills. Stiles waves his hand in front of his friend's face. No reaction. He follows his eyes to see what has captured his best friend's attention and sees a beautiful brunette standing next to the even more beautiful Lydia.
“Who's that,” Scott breathes, or rather inhales, sharply.
“No clue,” Stiles pulls his last book out of his locker and shuts the door. Scott jumps, wincing and covering the ear that was closest to the metal. “You okay?”
“Huh,” Scott doesn't look away from the new girl. “Huh, oh yeah. Um, we need to-”
“Get to lunch so you can get some napkins to wipe that drool off your chin?”
His friend turns his gaze to Stiles and self-consciously wipes at his face. The urge to laugh is too strong to be denied. Scott pushes against his shoulder hard. “Ass.”
That just makes him laugh harder. Both of them look back at the girls behind them and both frown when Jackson walks up to the females. Stiles sighs as Lydia snuggles into the lacrosse captain's body, wrapping around him like a vine does a tree. Her cherry lips pulling into a grin a second before she presses them to Jackson's mouth. Stiles forces his eyes away. No need to torture himself with the display.
“She's coming this way,” Scott whispers.
“Uh-huh, so,” Stiles shrugs ready to go see what sickness inducing food the school cafeteria had for them today. He is hoping for the chicken fingers- those actually tasted like what they are supposed to. He starts walking toward the lunch room when he notices his friend tense up next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Scott mouth something. “What?”
“Alison,” Scott says with a far off look in his eye. “Her name is Alison.”
“How do you know that?”
His friend finally makes eye contact with him again. “She told Jackson. Her name is Alison Argent.” A confused expression settles on the fellow teen's face. “Didn't you hear her say it? She said it pretty clearly.”
Before he can say anything else, the girl- Alison- walks by and Scott follows her with his eyes like a puppy in a store window hoping the person walking by will stop and pick them. If he had a tail, it would surely be wagging. Stiles almost feels sorry for him. Beautiful people stay with beautiful people, it's the way of life.
Jackson wraps his arm around both girls as they pass completely by Scott and Stiles, smirking at them as he does it. A low growl rumbles through his friend, catching Stiles off guard. The noise coming from his friend is anything but human and sends a chill throughout his body. A small voice whispers in the back of his mind, but it's too quiet to be really heard over the roaring hunger in his stomach. Slapping Scott on the shoulder, he leads him into the cafeteria, already talking about whatever pops into his mind. Letting the tiny voice of worry fade into the background.
=xXx=
Author: Jailynn
Genre: Angst/slight AU/ general right now but will be pre-slash
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: PG-13 now
Warnings: Um, other than the fact that I changed some things that happened in the show... none really. It's unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: The show and the characters aren't mine. Please don't sue. You really will not get anything.
Feedback: Please. I'd like to know if I should continue with this or not
Word Count: 3545
=xXx=
Chapter 2: The Fever Takes Hold
=xXx=
The crime scene tape criss crosses over the door to the home. He rips it down without another thought. Looking around him, he pulls a small flashlight from the pocket of his jacket and opens the door. The pin light barely gives him enough to see by but that doesn't matter much, he knows what he's looking for. After years of hunting, the signs of werewolves are easy for him to spot.
Chris walks slowly through the home, mindful of the debris on the floor and the evidence surrounding him. The muscles of his back tighten. It was here. An alpha. A beast. A rabid dog. His lips curl down in a frown as he enters the living room. The stains on the sofa, reddish brown, show where the murder took place. He closes his eyes, inhaling the scents around him.
He doesn't have the heightened senses of the beasts he hunts, but he can imagine the way fear smells. And he imagines the poor soul that died here gave off that fragrance in waves. The frown on his face becomes deeper, more pronounced.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Chris pulls it out, placing the flashlight in his mouth, his teeth clamping firmly around it. The text message is simple, it's the one he has been waiting for: Everything's set. Home is ready to move into.
Typing back a quick response, he calls his wife, whose already packing the truck. She answers on the first ring, waiting for his call like he was waiting for the text message.
“Chris,” she greets, her voice cool even in the best of situations.
“Get Alison ready. She'll be starting her new school in the morning.” Chris takes a moment to look around him once more. “I'm leaving from the house now. I'll meet you in Beacon Hills.”
“Already on the road, darling,” his wife responds. “Alison's asleep in the seat next to me. We'll see you soon.”
=xXx=
Hours pass. The moon slowly moves across the sky, hiding behind and peeking through dusty clouds. The sounds of restless animals, wind in the trees, the sporadic groans from the teen and his own thoughts were the only noises to keep him company during the wait.
There's been barely any movement at all from the injured boy laying on the tattered cloth he calls a blanket. Derek paces by the window. He rolls his head from side to side getting more and more aggravated. He should be out there trying to find his sister's remains, instead he's playing nurse maid to some teenager who might or might not end up being a werewolf. Rage simmers hotter in his veins. This is bullshit! He thinks violently. This is complete and utter bullshit!
Moaning from behind him stops his thoughts from progressing any further. He leans his body gingerly against the crackling wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Another painful moan followed by a whimper then silence.
Unfocused brown eyes open with great effort. Derek waits for some reaction- fear, confusion, something, but only haze meets his green eyes. The boys head is dotted with perspiration. Heat rolling off the teenage body in waves that he can feel even though he is across the room. The werewolf “curse” (fuck that, the werewolf gift) fighting against the human soul, trying to dominate, trying to take over.
Derek walks over to the shaking form, another violent shiver making the young man curl in on himself to hold off the feeling of sickness. He kneels next to the boy and places a hand on the bare, injured right shoulder. Skin to skin, wolf to possible wolf, contact relaxes him enough that dark eyes roll back into his head and his breathing evens out as sleep claims him. Derek raises from his crouch and walks over to the broken and blackened windows, looking out at the forest only lit by the waning moon light.
=xXx=
Sorry I missed your call, please leave me a message and if this is Stiles, I'm probably on my way to see you now. So chill out!
Stiles rubs his hand over the crown of his head roughly a couple of times. “Scott, man, call me back.” He licks at his bottom lip. “Listen, dude, I'm sorry I left you in the woods. Just-” pause, “just call me back so I know that you're okay and didn't get eaten.”
He slides his phone shut, grips it tightly in his hand, raising his arm a couple of times to throw it, then tosses it gently to his bed. It's been almost two hours since his dad caught him in the woods and he hasn't heard from anyone. His dad is still searching. Scott isn't answering. His thoughts are moving in overdrive. He feels jumpy and unsettled like something is wrong and he doesn't know what.
Moving to his computer chair, he sits down, boots up his laptop and drums his fingers against the desk. The rhythm is frantic and loud. His eyes shoot around his room, towards the window, back to his computer screen. He spins in his chair, facing the bed. He uses his feet to slide the chair over to the mattress, picks up his phone and dials the familiar number again.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three rings.
Voicemail.
Hey this is Scott. Sorry I missed your call, please leave me a message and if this is Stiles, I'm probably on my way to see you now. So chill out!
Stiles brows out a frustrated sigh and shuts his phone, tossing it back to the bed again. Spinning towards the computer once more, he pushes himself to the desk and logs onto the internet. He's too amped up to sleep. Surfing the web will hopefully occupy his mind until he hears something from someone.
=xXx=
“Drink.”
The voice is commanding. Rough. Unfamiliar. Slightly scary. Scratch that, really scary. Scott opens his eyes. It takes much more effort than it should. His body feels like a battering ram has beat him to the brink of death. Actual death. His skin feels tight and cold, but hot as well. He's just fucking uncomfortable. He can barely see. Everything is dark and shadows. The body over him in towering and merely an outline at first. Scott swallows against his dry throat.
The form in front of him starts to take shape. Male. Duh, knew that. Tall. Or at least taller than him. Maybe. Dark. Everything about him is dark. Except for his eyes which were green, moss green, and seem to glow in the barely lit room. The older man is muscular. Strong and thick. And Scott is nervous in his presence.
But the glass of water in his hand is so desirable. Pushing better judgment aside, Scott takes the glass in his shaky hand and brings it to his lips. The cool water coats his mouth, soothes his aching throat, helps the uncomfortable feeling in his body.
“Thank you,” he wheezes after he's gulped over half the liquid down.
“Welcome.” It didn't sound welcoming.
Scott looks around the room. The space appears...dead. Like life hasn't touched the walls in years. Everything is charred and burnt. Nothing is new. It seems like the perfect place for a murder or a haunted house during Halloween. He places the glass on the ground and that's when he feels the pain radiating from his shoulder. He looks at the injury and hisses. The wounds were red and deep and ...ugly. Blood seeps out, leaking down his arm.
Where is his jacket? His shirt? Why isn't he freezing?
“Where's my shirt?”
The other guy, he really needs to learn his name, points to the rolled up clothing next to the fireplace. He picks them up and winces, both from the pain in his body and the mess of his stuff. Oh his mother is going to freaking kill him.
“What happened?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. The guy doesn't seem very talkative. Nothing like Stiles, who couldn't seem to shut up.
“You were attacked.”
The word, duh, nearly slips out but somehow he manages to keep it inside. Of course he was attacked. He remembers that, vaguely, what he doesn't remember is what attacked him. Whatever it was took a giant chunk out of his shoulder. He has no idea how he's going to explain this to his mom. It's not the type of injury one would get on the lacrosse field and if he says he got it at work, well that could be bad for all involved. Turning his gaze back to the scary-big-man in front of him, he squints his eyes.
“Did you see what attacked me?”
“No.” The word is bitter. Snarled at him like he did something personally to the guy, even though he was the one that got attacked.
His mind sputters to a grinding halt. Oh. Well. Uh. He plays with some dust on the floor, drawing spirals with the tip of his index finger. Why spirals he doesn't have a clue, but it's what comes to him. “What's your name?”
“Derek.”
And we're back to one word answers.
Scott tries to stand, no easy task with only one arm, and after a couple of attempts does. The ache in his body is fading but not gone to say the least. He curls his injured arm around his bare mid-drift to cover himself in front of this virtual stranger. (That did help you while you were dying- or maybe just really badly hurt or whatever).
“Where are we?”
“My home.” Two words. Moving up in the verbal world. “You were trespassing.”
“Trespassing,” uh what?, he doesn't remember that. Scott's forehead folds into wrinkles as he tries to recall what the hell happened. Bits and pieces of the night filters through. The deer stampede. The snarling creature. Hot breath on his throat. A cold, wet nose against his skin. Teeth ripping. Darkness consuming him. He shakes his head. He can't remember crossing into someone else's property, but... he really can't say he didn't. Deciding to take this stranger's word for it, he says contritely, “Sorry.”
“What were you doing out in these woods that late at night anyway?” That's the first over three words, complete sentence Derek's spoken since he woke up. Scott opens and closes his mouth over and over unsure of what to say. The sound of his phone going off stops him from having to say anything. Derek rolls his eyes, obviously aggravated by the device. “That damn thing has been going off all night.”
Scott takes the phone out of his pocket and looks at the caller id. Stiles. Relief floods through him, although he can't pinpoint why. Before he can answer it, the call goes to voicemail. Turning his back on Derek, probably not a brilliant move he's sure, he calls his voicemail.
You have five unheard messages the automated voice tells him. First unheard message
Scott, I hope you got out of there okay. Call me. Calm Stiles. He presses seven to erase it.
Second unheard message
It's been an hour. Are you lost? Don't you have GPS on that phone of yours? Dude, always go east.. or west or follow the stream... Just call me okay? Not as calm, but not frantic Stiles. Scott deletes that too.
Third unheard message
Scott, man, call me back. Listen, dude, I'm sorry I left you in the woods. Just- just call me back so I know that you're okay and didn't get eaten. Worried Stiles... not a good sign.
Fourth unheard message
Lions, tigers and bears, which ate you dude? Actually I don't think lions or tigers live in our woods considering we live in northern California and not where those animals are normally found, but bears- we have those. It's a real possibility that you could have been turned into bear food. Just let me know you're alive, man! Ah now that's the Stiles he knows.
Fifth unheard message
It's four in the morning, do you know where your best friend is? Good because I sure as hell don't! Dad came home an hour ago. No body was found in the woods yet. Which means you weren't found either. So at least I know you aren't in jail. Still wondering about the bear thing though.
End of messages. Check erased messages.
Scott shuts his phone then dials Stiles' number quickly. His friend answers on the first ring. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Uh,” Scott looks at Derek. “Long story. I'll tell you later.”
“Well just tell me this, how did you get out of the woods?”
“I didn't,” he stops, “not really. Something happened. I was bit by...I have no clue. But I'm alright. I need to get ready for school. I'll see you there.” He hangs up before Stiles can ask anymore questions. Derek arches his thick eyebrow. “I know you said that you didn't see what attacked me, but do you have any idea what kind of animal it could have been? I'm sure I'm probably going to need some type of shot or something. Rabies, you know.”
Derek rolls his shoulders, “A wolf.” The older man turns on his heel and says, “You don't need to worry about a shot. You won't get rabies.”
“How do you know,” Scott asks, pulling his destroyed shirt over his head gingerly. “I mean it was wild. It could be diseased as well.”
Derek's eyes him over his shoulder. “Trust me. Rabies is the last thing you need to worry about.” He opens the door then pulls on his black leather jacket and waits for Scott. “I'll drive you home.”
And he goes against his better judgment and lets this stranger take him home.
=xXx=
“So let me see,” Stiles says as they walk up the path toward their high school. Scott pulls his shirt and the bandage down his shoulder. The wound, now clean, still hurt like a bitch. “Well,” his friend licks his lips. “It's not as bad as it could be.”
“It was worse this morning,” Scott comments as he puts everything back in place on his body. “I'm just lucky the wolf didn't grab a hold of my throat instead of my shoulder.”
“Ah,” Stiles jumps from foot to foot, “about that, it couldn't have been a wolf.”
“And you know this how exactly.”
“There haven't been wolves in those woods for years, decades even.” He grins in that manic way of his. “But if it was a wolf, we'll know soon enough.”
“How,” Scott asks as he moves his backpack higher on his uninjured shoulder.
“Well the full moon is in three days,” the mischievous glint in his best friend's brown eyes is nearly blinding. “If you start howling at it and turning into a half man half beast, we'll know that you were attacked by a wolf.” His left eyebrow raises playfully. “A werewolf.” Then he howls loud enough to attract the attention of anyone within hearing distance.
“Shut it, Stiles,” he lightly punches his friend in the stomach, a blush heating his cheeks as he looks around at all the students looking at them. Stiles laughs at his discomfort. “You suck you know that.”
Stiles shrugs, his grin never leaving his face. Together they walk into the school unaware of the eyes on them as they do.
=xXx=
Class starts. The teacher talks about what the year will bring. Stiles tries to pay attention, really he does, but the teacher's droning on and on soon has him looking around the room, doodling on his notebook (his drawing of a scared Jackson- and the stick figure, anime looking person is Jackson- being chased by a chicken made him grin pretty hard) and glance out the large windows. His left leg bounces under the desk and he taps his pen against the edge of his notebook as his eyes moving from place to place.
A figure in the distance, on the outskirts of the school's property, by the woods, catches his attention. He squints his eyes, trying to make out details, but he's too far away to really see much. Somehow he knows, though, the figure is looking back at him and that sends a shiver down his spine.
The bell ringing pulls him back to class and Stiles shakes the unease from his body. He leans down and grabs his backpack from under the chair and slides his books into his arms before looking back towards the window again. The black figure is gone, only the tree line can be seen. Stiles blinks his eyes quickly a few times and stares at the spot again. Nothing.
Maybe it was his imagination.
Maybe it was lack of sleep.
Maybe he shouldn't have taken so much adderall to make up for the lack of sleep and hours of worrying.
Shrugging it off, Stiles bleeds into the student body moving through the halls and walks to his next class, already forgetting about the incident in the classroom in anticipation of his next one. Lydia Martin should be in this one. His grin is wide and happy as he enters the room, scoping out the lay-out, picking the perfect seat with careful consideration. He chooses one close to the back, but not in the back row, close to the window- because the class will get boring, they all do- and places his stuff down on the desk.
=xXx=
“I've lost my inhaler,” Scott tells him as they stand by their lockers before lunch. “It fell out in the woods when I was being chased.”
Stiles looks around the door of his locker and nods, “We'll go look after school.”
Scott nods back at him then his entire body stills. Stiles waves his hand in front of his friend's face. No reaction. He follows his eyes to see what has captured his best friend's attention and sees a beautiful brunette standing next to the even more beautiful Lydia.
“Who's that,” Scott breathes, or rather inhales, sharply.
“No clue,” Stiles pulls his last book out of his locker and shuts the door. Scott jumps, wincing and covering the ear that was closest to the metal. “You okay?”
“Huh,” Scott doesn't look away from the new girl. “Huh, oh yeah. Um, we need to-”
“Get to lunch so you can get some napkins to wipe that drool off your chin?”
His friend turns his gaze to Stiles and self-consciously wipes at his face. The urge to laugh is too strong to be denied. Scott pushes against his shoulder hard. “Ass.”
That just makes him laugh harder. Both of them look back at the girls behind them and both frown when Jackson walks up to the females. Stiles sighs as Lydia snuggles into the lacrosse captain's body, wrapping around him like a vine does a tree. Her cherry lips pulling into a grin a second before she presses them to Jackson's mouth. Stiles forces his eyes away. No need to torture himself with the display.
“She's coming this way,” Scott whispers.
“Uh-huh, so,” Stiles shrugs ready to go see what sickness inducing food the school cafeteria had for them today. He is hoping for the chicken fingers- those actually tasted like what they are supposed to. He starts walking toward the lunch room when he notices his friend tense up next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Scott mouth something. “What?”
“Alison,” Scott says with a far off look in his eye. “Her name is Alison.”
“How do you know that?”
His friend finally makes eye contact with him again. “She told Jackson. Her name is Alison Argent.” A confused expression settles on the fellow teen's face. “Didn't you hear her say it? She said it pretty clearly.”
Before he can say anything else, the girl- Alison- walks by and Scott follows her with his eyes like a puppy in a store window hoping the person walking by will stop and pick them. If he had a tail, it would surely be wagging. Stiles almost feels sorry for him. Beautiful people stay with beautiful people, it's the way of life.
Jackson wraps his arm around both girls as they pass completely by Scott and Stiles, smirking at them as he does it. A low growl rumbles through his friend, catching Stiles off guard. The noise coming from his friend is anything but human and sends a chill throughout his body. A small voice whispers in the back of his mind, but it's too quiet to be really heard over the roaring hunger in his stomach. Slapping Scott on the shoulder, he leads him into the cafeteria, already talking about whatever pops into his mind. Letting the tiny voice of worry fade into the background.
=xXx=