Archive of Our Own

Scott is, despite all of Stiles’ protests to the contrary, extremely adept at handling the jeep.

He knows that accelerating too fast or braking too hard is probably going to make it stall out, that it’s always a handful of degrees away from overheating, and that if the dashboard starts rattling, prodding the spot two inches to the left of the glove compartment will make it stop. It’s the kind of knowledge you get only through time and a whole lot of attention, both of which Scott’s given.

Which probably explains why, when the jeep’s engine starts sputtering right as Stiles is finally talking to him, it takes Scott completely off guard.

Stiles scrambles upright, eyes widening as the jeep continues to shake. “Dude, what’d you—”

“I didn’t do anything! It just—” Scott shakes his head, like it’ll somehow counteract the shaking jeep.

The gears whine louder, grating against his ears. 

It’s not his fault.

It can’t be, because none of the dials on the dash look out of place, and he’s been even more careful with the handling than normal, and—

The jeep shudders again, the familiar weight of guilt settling in his chest. “Stiles, can you—”

Stiles lurches forward before he can finish his sentence, body half on top of Scott and hands scrambling for purchase as he tries to get a better look. There’s nothing there that Scott can’t see for himself, but Stiles’ eyes narrow at the sight of it.

“Yeah, that’s uh—” Stiles drops back into his seat, frowning. “Yeah, we’re out of gas.”

The gas gauge isn’t even close to empty—a fact Scott doesn’t have to verify, because he’s been monitoring it expressly so this wouldn’t happen—but he double checks anyway. “It says we have half a tank?”

Guilt fills the cabin. “Yeah. Not necessarily.”

It suffocates whatever sense of equilibrium they’d managed.

Scott twists in his seat, eyes still half focused on the road, but Stiles’ gaze is fixed determinedly out the window.

The evasion clicks the answer into place. “You didn’t fix the gas gauge, did you?”

What he means is, ‘you didn’t tell me about the gas gauge.’

The answer is the same either way.

“Yeah. Not necessarily.”

Scott veers the jeep sharply off the road just in time for it to rattle to a stop.

Stiles is uncharacteristically silent beside him.

Scott breathes through his nose and watches as the arrow on the gas gauge drifts down to empty—honest, now that it’s too late.

Now that it’s dead.

Scott bites down on his frustration and pulls the keys out of the ignition. “Is the gas can still—”

A wave of grit and sand billows in through the window and down his throat.

Scott chokes.

“Oh, shit—” Stiles is coughing and swearing beside him, rolling up his window with a frantic energy Scott knows he should replicate, but—

His lungs are collapsing in on themselves. Everything crumbling away but the fire in his chest.

He wants his inhaler.

He doesn’t want his inhaler.

He needs to calm down.

He can’t breathe.

“Scott?”

Stiles’ voice filters through, but it doesn’t matter, because the sand does, too.

It burns.

It’s sand.

He can’t breathe.

It’s sand. It’s just sand, he’s not—

“Whoa, hey—”

A hand clamps around his shoulder, grounding him, and Scott takes a strangled breath.

Then Stiles is reaching across, rolling up the window Scott couldn’t manage himself.

The dust cloud is practically gone by the time Stiles gets it up—the wave was probably just dirt stirred up by their arrival—but the sound of it sealing shut unlocks something in Scott’s chest. He releases one last, painful cough before sucking in an unencumbered breath.

He pants.

Stiles retreats, and a whine forms in the back of Scott’s throat. 

He doesn’t let it out.

Instead, he carefully pries one hand off the wheel and splays it across his still-heaving chest—his shirt is damp with sweat, but at least there’s no blood this time.

He’ll heal.

Stiles is still looking at him. “You good…?”

The trailing silence is pointed, like everything with Stiles always is.

“Yeah,” Scott manages. He’s wheezing only a little, so he’s going to count that as progress. “Sorry, the sand just—startled me.”

Stiles’ expression is either concern or contempt, and that he can’t tell the difference hurts more than being sure it’s the latter.

His chest really hurts. 

Scott tilts his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes to escape it.

Another moment passes, during which the burning sensation subsides to its previous, more manageable, ache.

Stiles is still silent.

Scott should say something. Relieve the tension that’s stifling the air.

He doesn’t.

Across from him, he hears Stiles shifting in his seat, the vinyl squeaking, and then a sigh.

“All right, well. If you say so.” The undercurrent of suspicion lingers in Stiles’ voice, but at least it doesn’t feel like he’s staring anymore. “Personally, I don’t like sand. It’s all… coarse, and rough and irritating. And it gets everywhere.”

Scott cracks an eye open. It’s clearly a reference to something, but he’s too busy trying not to think about his inhaler to parse it out. “What?”

“Star Wars.”

He says it as if it explains everything.

Which. Maybe it does. “Oh.”

Stiles grabs his phone out of the cupholder and taps in his passcode. “Y’know, if we’d brought the laptop instead of the stupid history book, maybe you could’ve actually watched it.”

This time Scott has no trouble identifying the derision in Stiles’ voice, though what he has to be upset about is beyond him.

He curls his fingers around the wheel’s cracked leather, and plays along because it’s simpler. “Aren’t there like seven of them?”

“Six.” Stiles sniffs, squinting at his screen, and then flips the visor down to block out the sun. “So, the battery’d die before you finished.”

The ghost of five razor-sharp claws rakes across his chest, and Scott flinches before he can stop it.

Stiles knows the general story.

It’d come out in bits and pieces, interspersed throughout their conversation in the hospital: Theo had lured him into the library. Trapped him with a murderous Liam. And then Theo had—

He doesn’t know I’m alive.

Scott had left it at that.

Vague enough for Stiles to just assume Theo had been wrong. The truth of it didn’t matter—Stiles already thought Scott had failed him.

He doesn’t need to know the extent of what it had cost.

Scott rolls his neck, trying to ignore the discomfort building in his chest. He chances a glance at Stiles—he’s still looking at whatever app he’s pulled up on his phone, apparently done with the conversation.

Maybe done with him, too.

Let’s be honest, Stiles. Was he still really your best friend?

Stiles’ breathing had caught when Theo had asked it, the faint tendrils of anger and grief making their way up the staircase to Scott.

And then he’d moved on. The ringing silence just as tangible as the gaps in Scott’s chest.

Hollowing him out.

Scott licks his lip, beads of sweat salty against his tongue.

He shifts upright just as Stiles slumps down.

“Reception is terrible out here,” Stiles mutters.

No calls, Scott. No Stiles, no Malia, no Lydia. You’re just going to have to wait here alone for what happens—

Scott’s nails skim across his skin, just light enough to break the surface.

The jeep is unbearably hot.

“Okay, here we—oh, that’s just great.”

Scott’s eyes fly up, already-healed hands tucked away. “What?”

“There’s a gas station a mile down the road,” Stiles says. He doesn’t sound happy about it, and his fingers drum against the back of his phone before moving to slap the visor back up. He doesn’t look at Scott. “So. Figures we couldn’t have made it another sixty seconds.”

Bad timing.

Scott stares at the arrow on the dash, still pointing at empty. “You didn’t pack extra gas to go with the oil?”

“You’re hilarious.” Scott’s honestly not sure if Stiles means that as a joke, or if he’s just that tired. “I think there’s an empty canister in the back from the last time we went camping, so. It’s not as bad as it could’ve been?”

It also could’ve been a lot better, like if Scott had known to stop at the gas station they’d passed twenty minutes ago.

He keeps that to himself. 

“It’ll take at least a half an hour to get there and back,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and just barely biting back a hiss as it drags across his chest. “D’you want to come, or—”

“Uh, no.”

The sharpness in Stiles’ voice takes him off guard, and he pauses, seatbelt still dangling beside him. “‘No,’ what? You said—”

“I said there’s a canister in the back. I did not say who would be getting it.”

“Which is why I asked if you wanted to come…?”

“Oh, I’m coming.” Stiles twists in his seat to reach for the canister, but his seatbelt stops him short before he makes it halfway. He turns around to unfasten it with a muted curse. “You’re just not going.”

“I’m not—” Of all the things they could argue about right now, figuring out which of them has to take an impromptu trip through the desert is pretty far down on the list. “Are you serious?”

Stiles just grunts, busy trying to reach past the wall of oil bottles now that the seatbelt isn’t hindering him.

He’s having about as much luck as before.

Scott purses his lips and grabs his phone off the console: a quick glance confirms it doesn’t have any signal at all, as compared to Stiles’ weak one.

He slips it into his back pocket anyway. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to split up if we can’t reach each other. And it’s really not a good idea for you to go without—”

“Nope. Still wrong.” Stiles drops back into the passenger seat, apparently giving up on the canister. “As in incorrect, do not pass go, do not collect a hundred dollars. It’s my jeep, so it’s my problem.”

Scott counts to ten, carefully blunted fingers digging into his thigh.

When it’s not enough, he goes back to breathing exclusively through his nose. “It’s two hundred.”

“What?”

“You collect two hundred when you pass go in Monopoly.”

Stiles’ brow scrunches, and Scott allows himself a moment of vindictive pleasure for having the correct reference this time.

“Okay, whatever,” Stiles says, after a moment. “My point still stands—unlike you, since you clearly shouldn’t be doing anything more stressful than sitting right here.”

Scott does not stab through his khakis.

It’s true that, considering the persistent ache in his chest, two miles in the desert is going to be a special kind of hell. It’s also true that, considering how easily avoidable it was, he shouldn’t be having to consider it at all.

But mostly it’s true that the opportunity for that passed six hours ago, when Stiles decided not to tell him about the gas gauge.

Scott grabs the keys off the console and shoves them in his pocket. “I said the sand just startled me.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a whole lot more sand out there than there was in here.”

“And we don’t know what else is out there. It’s not safe—”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles’ aggression spikes, swallowing any hint of concern. “But you were totally fine with volunteering yourself to go before, right? Leave me here to turn into Rotisserie Stiles?”

“That’s not what I—the jeep’s not even spinning!”

“It’s hot and metal and I’d spin myself in circles if you made me wait here half an hour, so close enough!”

“Stiles,” Scott growls, because this is ridiculous, “if you want to come, that’s fine. But I don’t think—”

“Correct.”

“You—”

“The map’s already on my phone, so if you’d just let me handle it—”

“Like you handled the gas gauge?”

Stiles’ lips flatten into a thin line.

It’s maybe a low blow.

Not as low as it could’ve been.

Scott exhales through his nose again. “Look, it’s not a big deal. We can just—”

“You think this is my fault.”

Yes. “No.”

Stiles scoffs.

“Or—it doesn’t matter,” Scott amends. “It’s done and we can’t change it, so—”

“I’m not the one who was driving.”

His fists clench just fast enough that his claws prick his palms instead of his pants. “I’m sorry?”

“You were driving,” Stiles says, and Scott can’t believe this. “We’ve been on the road for like four hours and hadn’t stopped for gas; what kind of mileage do you think the jeep gets? You should’ve expected it to need—”

“I expected it to not lie to me!”

It’s out of his mouth before he can process it, and Stiles’ hands go perfectly still.

Hurt floods his scent.

Scott bites his tongue to keep from walking it back.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. His voice is icy enough to freeze over the one hundred and two degree engine. “Because you always expect everything to work just fine, right?”

It slices into Scott’s chest.

Deep.

Scott turns and opens the door.

“Whoa, hey, wait—”

He leverages himself out of the jeep before Stiles can finish his sentence, chest only twinging slightly at the movement—or maybe everything else hurts too much to notice. He slams the door shut, locking down his thoughts in the process, and walks around to the back of the vehicle.

Stiles doesn’t follow.

Scott takes a second to rest his forearm against the jeep’s frame when he reaches the trunk, forehead pressed against his fist. He takes a ragged breath, and the air is hot and dry but mercifully sand-free.

He shouldn’t have said anything.

He should’ve said everything.

He misses being—

Scott licks his lips and pushes himself upright. 

Get the can, get the gas, get Kira. Nothing else matters.

He unlocks the trunk and pops open the top door.

The trunk of the jeep is a mess, as always, but he spots the canister peeking out from behind the jumper cables almost immediately. Easy enough to reach from back here.

Stiles doesn’t say anything as Scott picks it up, and Scott risks a glance at him as he straightens—Stiles’ gaze is trained carefully out the front window.

The lack of reaction is louder than anything he could’ve said or done.

Scott hovers there, trying to decide what to say—he’s the one that walked away, after all—but comes up empty.

Maybe Stiles wants to let him go alone after all.

Scott lets the trunk door fall shut, but just as it clicks, he hears Stiles’ door open, too.

Or not.

Scott drags his thumb over the pebbled surface of the can and waits by the side of the jeep for Stiles to come around. Stiles’ shoes scuff against the pavement as he approaches, letting Scott track his location even without having to look up.

He stops just a door’s width away.

“If—” Stiles hesitates, running his hand through his hair. “Look, it’s my jeep. I should’ve been paying attention to the gas, and I didn’t, so—let me fix it now.”

Scott sighs.

That’s not what his point was at all.

“Here.” He tosses the jug to Stiles, who catches it with only a little bobbling.

Stiles looks at him, then, confusion clear on his face.

“That’s a five gallon canister,” Scott says, nodding towards it. “By the time you fill it up, it’ll be forty pounds.”

Stiles shuffles the red canister around in his hands. “And?”

“And, if you go without me, you’d have to walk a full mile with it that heavy,” Scott says. “In the desert. Which might be supernatural. With no way of contacting me.”

“You think I can’t handle it.”

“I think you’d be exhausted and it’d take twice as long,” he says, and Stiles huffs. He looks like he’s going to protest further, so Scott adds, “And… maybe I don’t want to be Rotisserie Scott, either.”

It was a bad joke when Stiles tried it before, and it sounds even worse the second time around.

He’s not sure what else to say.

Stiles must be feeling the same way, though, because his expression loosens. “Maybe for the best. I doubt the jeep would pass the FDA’s standards.”

Relief washes over Scott. “I’m not sure it’d pass any—”

Stiles’ expression closes off, scent turning sour.

The joke dies in his throat. 

Stupid.

“I didn’t mean—”

“We should get going,” Stiles interrupts. Frigid once more. “Doesn’t matter who’s faster if we take forever to start.”

“I—”

There’s got to be something he can say to fix this, or at least clarify—but all Scott manages is a short nod.

It’s a laughably inadequate response.

He clears his throat and sticks to the basics. “You said it’s just down the road?”

“Um—yeah.” Stiles absentmindedly hands the canister back as he pulls out his phone. He squints at the screen. “I guess it’s—pretty much a straight line, so. We can just walk the same way we were driving.”

“Cool.”

The sun beats down overhead.

Stiles fiddles with the cracked edges of his phone case.

Scott’s chest hurts.

“Well,” Stiles says, gesturing irritably as he puts his phone back in his pocket, “after you. I guess.”

Another dumb, muted nod, and he starts off in the direction Stiles had pointed.

It’s going to be a long walk.

One of the downsides of walking in the desert—besides the blistering heat, terrible air quality, and never-ending sand—is that it provides absolutely nothing to talk about.

Scott’s not used to that being a problem. Normally, lulls in conversation happen only when they want them to—between homework, lacrosse, friends, graduation, or whatever, there’s never really a shortage of things to discuss.

Instead, silence weighs heavy between them. Oppressive and obvious as the heat.

It’d been a joke. 

No more or less than anything they’ve said a thousand times over, and yet that was all it took to shatter their tentative truce.

There’s not a single topic Scott can think of that isn’t tangled up in some complicated mess.

Stiles starts to drift to the opposite side of the road, and Scott can’t find the energy to join him. It’s not really that far—maybe thirty feet—but the distance hurts just the same.

Especially since Stiles won’t stop side-eying him every thirty seconds.

Scott’s feet drag across the pavement as he walks, not bothering to commit to lifting them all the way. It’s probably asking for another dust cloud, but he can’t seem to bring himself to care—the sweat running into his eyes and burning the raw skin at his chest is a bigger source of discomfort at this point. His shirt isn’t exactly moisture-wicking, and various sections plastering against his torso only make it worse.

He really wants to take his shirt off.

He really cannot take his shirt off.

He pulls at the fabric and winces as it unsticks.

“You could at least give it to me on the way there, you know.”

Scott pauses, hand still on his shirt. Stiles is cutting eyes at him from across the road. “What?”

“The gas can.” Stiles keeps walking, and Scott’s forced to catch up. “Also known as the only thing I’d bother asking you for at this point.”

“I—dude, you’re the one that handed it to me—”

“Yeah. And now I’m asking for it back.”

Scott takes in the heat in Stiles’ voice; the heat from the sun overhead. The heat in his chest.

Scott’s tired of burning.

He stops mid-stride. “Don’t.”

The words were spoken so quietly he’d barely heard them himself, but they’re loud enough—or maybe the absence of his footsteps is silent enough—to finally bring Stiles to a halt.

He turns fully towards Scott, hands planted on his hips. “‘Don’t,’ what?”

Scott avoids his glare in favor of the desert.

It’s as frustratingly unhelpful as it was before.

“Can you just not… do that?” he asks. “For like ten minutes?”

“What? Carry the stupid can? In ten minutes we’ll already be—”

“I’m not talking about the gas.”

Stiles pales.

Then that all-too-familiar spike of aggression hits Scott’s nostrils. “Well I sure was, so I don’t know what you’re—”

“You know what? Fine.” Scott shoves the can forward, hanging it over the pavement. “If it’s that important to you, just take it.”

Stiles’ glare deepens, eyes shifting towards the canister.

Then he stalks towards him from across the road, and Scott fights to keep from stumbling back.

Where were you? Huh? Where the hell—

Stiles stops when he’s still an arm’s length away.

He doesn’t reach for the canister.

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” he mutters.

It takes a substantial amount of willpower to keep from chucking the can at Stiles’ head.

“It’s what you said,” Scott growls. “So if you meant something different, maybe you should tell me.”

He hears Stiles’ heart stutter over that last phrase. Smells that mixture of fear and anger and contempt all writhing together in his scent.

He wishes he couldn’t.

Scott swallows past the lump in his throat, the canister growing heavier by the second.

They’re never going to fix this.

Scott lets the can drop back down to his side. “Let’s just go.”

He brushes past Stiles, ignoring the burning that’s shifted to behind his eyes.

They still have a long walk ahead of them. And then an even longer drive, and then Kira, and then Theo, and then—

Fingers close around his wrist.

Scott freezes.

He stares down at the white-knuckled grip: it’s tight, but not nearly enough to stop him if he really wants to pull away. He forces himself to inhale, then pulls his gaze away from their hands to meet Stiles’ eyes.

“It’s not… you,” Stiles says. Slowly, like he’s having to physically drag it out.

“You’re acting like it.”

Anger flashes in Stiles’ scent, hot and biting, but it’s gone before Scott can react. “Maybe that’s just a me problem.”

“You’ve kinda made it a problem for me, too.”

Stiles’ eyes dart to Scott’s chest, and he grimaces.

Scott just waits.

“We, uh. We can probably keep walking, if you want,” Stiles says. “While we talk.”

“…Okay.”

Stiles offers him a half smile, and then the hand on Scott’s wrist slips away.

It’d been hot, and sweaty, and—terrifying.

Scott wants it back.

He keeps his arms close to his chest to keep from reaching out, and walks at Stiles’ side.

Closer, at least, than they were before.

Sand crunches under their shoes as they walk, and the dust tickles at his nose. It’s almost as distracting as the hesitation that fills the air, and Scott breathes carefully to keep from aggravating—well.

Everything.

It takes another thirty feet before Stiles continues.

“I thought I could handle it.”

Scott glances over, and Stiles is once again fixated on the canister. “The gas?”

Stiles shrugs.

Scott’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with that.

He shifts the canister to his other hand, breaking Stiles’ stare. “I don’t know why you thought you had to.”

“Because it’s my—” Stiles kicks at a pebble near the edge of the road.

It skitters a few yards ahead, and when they reach it, Scott nudges it forward with the toe of his sneakers.

He kicks it back and forth between his feet for a few steps. “Your what?”

“Fault.”

Stiles spits it out quickly, so terse Scott could almost swear he hadn’t said it.

The scowl etched across Stiles’ face assures him that he did.

Scott kicks the pebble in front of them again, watching it bounce across the gravel. “That wouldn’t have stopped me from helping.”

“You sure about that?”

“If you’d told me when it happened? Yeah.”

Stiles looks away sharply.

Maybe he’s better at getting answers out of the sand than Scott is.

“The gas gauge,” Scott tries, because it seems smaller. Safer. “Why didn’t you—that wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Why would it—”

“I told you,” Stiles snaps. He intercepts the pebble and kicks it far afield of Scott’s path. “It’s my jeep, and we needed it. And you expected me to make it work, like you always expect me to make it work, and—”

Scott snorts. A small, choked off thing that lodges halfway out of his throat.

Stiles glares at him.

“You’re not a mechanic, Stiles,” he says. It’s stupid, but he takes the time to chase after the pebble, driving it back towards the side of the road, before continuing. “I get that. And I don’t… I don’t care that the gas gauge broke, or you couldn’t fix it, or whatever.”

Scott kicks the pebble sideways, and when it rolls to a stop at Stiles’ feet, Scott stops, too.

He makes sure to catch Stiles’ eyes. “I just care that I didn’t know.”

Stiles directs his glare towards the dirt, and rolls the pebble under his shoe. 

He sighs. “You couldn’t have fixed anything.”

“I didn’t say I could.”

“Then what is the point of—”

“You!”

Stiles’ foot stills.

 “Me,” Scott fumbles. “Us. I don’t know, I just—it couldn’t have been worse than this.”

“Yeah?”

Scott gestures towards the desert with the can. “Yeah.”

Stiles exhales, running anxious fingers through his hair.

“Maybe.”

He flicks the pebble back towards Scott.

Scott spots the gas station first, the building slowly coming into focus on the horizon.

It looks…

Not promising.

Scott takes a slight lead, hoping to catch the sounds of someone moving around inside, but the only footsteps he hears are their own.

Stiles looks at him curiously as he catches up, but Scott just shrugs. The silence has at least been more contemplative than outright hostile for the past couple minutes, and if they’ve walked this far for nothing, the odds of that changing seem dangerously high.

He’s not ready to jeopardize anything just yet.

Scott slips his phone out of his back pocket, hoping there’s another station nearby, or that maybe this wasn’t the station Stiles had found. Four empty bars stare back at him instead.

Still no signal.

Scott puts it back just as Stiles pulls up sharply, apparently noticing the state of the building.

“Ah, great,” Stiles says, panting against the heat. “Abandoned.”

Scott bites his lip, but Stiles smells more like sweat than anything else.

From this distance, there’s no question in his mind that there’s no one operating the station. A closed sign hangs on the door, rocking gently back and forth on a rusted chain, and the amount of sand built up on the platform suggests no one’s tended to it in a while.

The gas prices, at least, look current.

“Maybe it’s just closed?” Scott offers.

“There a difference?”

Stiles jogs ahead before Scott can figure out how to answer that.

Scott continues toward the pumps while Stiles checks on the door, and the sound of fists banging against glass cuts through the desert quiet.

A huff of frustration follows. “Locked.”

Scott doesn’t bother responding. He’d figured that was a given.

He places the canister on the ground and tilts his head, taking in the thick, heavy chains draped around the pumps.

It seems like a lot of security for something that doesn’t work.

Carefully, he wraps both hands around a section of the chain, and snaps one of the links in two. He grimaces as he unwinds them—hopefully he can push the broken ends back together when they’re done. Then he lifts the nozzle and primes the pump a few times.

A relieved grin breaks across his face when the sickeningly sweet smell of gasoline hits his nostrils.

Finally, something is working in their favor.

Scott picks up the canister.

“You got any cash?” he calls, unscrewing the cap.

Stiles doesn’t answer.

Scott has the nozzle halfway into the can when, curdling underneath the smell of the gasoline, he catches the dark, cloying scent of dread.

Goosebumps pebble across his arms.

Something always goes wrong.

Scott sets the canister down, careful not to make too much noise, and turns.

Stiles is standing in front of the doors, hands hovering over the handles. 

They’re trembling.

Scott edges forward. “Stiles?”

He still doesn’t react, eyes locked on something just beyond the glass.

Claws and fangs fight to break the surface, but Scott pulls the shift back. He’d be able to hear it if there were someone in the building, surely: there’s nothing beyond the rustle of the pennant banners in the wind, and the sound of his own footsteps against the floor.

The rapid pounding of Stiles’ heart in his chest drowns out them all.

It takes seconds, but it feels so much longer for Scott to join him in front of the doors. Up close, he still can’t tell what’s wrong, but he keeps his hands wary at his sides. “Stiles?”

There’s another moment of silence, then Stiles’ hands fall away from the door.

He doesn’t look at Scott.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his voice reduced to a croak. “Yeah, sorry, I just…”

Stiles trails off, apparently unable to finish. Scott follows his eyeline.

A long row of wrenches hangs just inside the building.

Where’d you get that?

Scott breathes out, slowly. Hoping the gesture calms Stiles more than it’s managing to calm him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You already know.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But not from you.”

Stiles chokes back a laugh. “Yeah.”

Stiles ducks his head, fingers tapping mindless patterns against his knuckles. It’s a nervous habit Scott’s become well acquainted with over the years, and it’s comforting to recognize at least some things.

This is yours?

The thought sours in his stomach.

Hearing it from—Theo—had been bad enough, but…

Stiles needs this.

They both need this.

He nods.

He’s not sure who he’s encouraging, though, as Stiles’ eyes don’t leave the wrenches when he starts to speak.

“The jeep wouldn’t work.” Stiles’ fingers move from playing with his knuckles to twisting through his hair, lip caught briefly in his teeth. “We were at the school, and everyone else had already gone home but it—wouldn’t start. Figures, right? Damn thing never does anything it’s supposed to.”

Scott winces. “Donovan mess with it?”

“No, just... maintenance. So, my fault.”

“Stiles—”

He holds up a hand, and Scott’s protest dies.

“Just let me finish,” Stiles says. “God knows it’ll take forever otherwise.”

Scott’s chest aches at the tension in his voice, but he nods.

“Okay, so. So I get the wrench to fix whatever’s wrong this time, and it’s not bad—just some tightening here and there. Then Donovan comes out of nowhere, and he’s got this… this goddamn mouth or something in his hand. Acts like he’s trying to eat me.” Stiles licks his lips, though they don’t appear to get any wetter. “So the second I get him off, I ditch the jeep and make a break for the library.”

Scott inhales sharply, claws biting into his palms.

Stiles tenses. “What, you got a better idea?”

“No, I just—”

“The library doors lock, okay? I thought it’d be safe enough to buy me some time,” Stiles snaps. Then he wavers. “But obviously not, since the bastard gets in anyway. Starts talking shit about my dad. I was, um. Angry. But it’s like there’s much I can do about it—all hundred and sixty pounds of… nothing. So I climb the scaffolding instead, just—trying to get away. He grabs my legs before I can get up.”

The knots in Scott’s stomach twist tighter. “He was trying to kill you.”

And Scott hadn’t been there.

“…Yeah,” Stiles says. He doesn’t meet Scott’s eyes. “So there’s this pin. One… little metal pin, just holding the whole thing together. So I pull it.”

Stiles’ hands shake so badly they’re practically vibrating, and Scott wants to grab them. Stop them.

He can’t.

“The bracings come down on Donovan,” he says instead, filling in the blanks.

Stiles’ eyes dart away, and the tapping resumes, almost as fast as his pulse. “I thought they’d just hit him or something, you know? Pin him down long enough for me to get away, or… I don’t know. Something.”

Stiles hesitates again, anxiety choking his scent.

Scott should tell him to stop now. If Donovan’s down, he can guess what’s coming next. He doesn’t need to hear him say it out—

“One goes straight through him instead.”

Scott chokes. “What?”

“I know,” Stiles snaps, but he doesn’t, not at all, “I didn’t think—he was just dead and I—”

“No, stop—that’s not—”

“Let me finish—”

“No!” Scott chokes, desperately trying to wrap his mind around the dissonance. “Stiles, you don’t—you didn’t—that’s not what Theo told me at all.”

Stiles’ entire demeanor shifts at Theo’s name. “Excuse me?”

“The way he said it—you had the wrench, and you—Donovan was already down when—”

The words get stuck in his throat, just like they did that night.

He looks hopelessly at Stiles.

“What, Scott?” he demands. “When I what?”

“…When you wouldn’t stop hitting him.”

Scott thinks he might be sick. The desert blurring in and out of focus like it did that night he collapsed in the hallway.

What have they done?

Across from him, Stiles’ eyes narrow. Calculating.

Predatory.

“Me,” he says. “You think I can’t carry a goddamn gas can and yet somehow I murdered Donovan, a Chimera, with a wrench?”

“I—”

“And this came from Theo? This asshole we haven’t seen in years, who I told you was up to something? But no, if he says I murdered someone in cold blood, you’re just gonna believe him!”

“No! It wasn’t—I only believed it because you said—”

“Oh, that is so not how I remember it—”

“I asked you! The wrench—none of it made any sense, but then you didn’t deny it and—”

“How the hell was I supposed to know there was anything to deny?”

“Because you’d been acting like it!” Scott finally shouts. “You—you’d been lying to me for days, and I knew you were hiding something—”

“Why? The stupid chemosignals tell you?”

“Does it matter?” Scott snaps. “I’ve known you for years; you really think I’d need to be a werewolf to know something’s wrong?”

“Seeing as that sure didn’t help with Theo—”

“I am not talking about Theo!”

Stiles’ mouth clicks shut.

Scott’s chest heaves. Breathing. Hurting.

Maybe it’s a good thing the station is empty.

“We were all going through—a lot,” Scott says, gritting his teeth. “I get that. And I thought I was giving you space, but clearly I was wrong. Okay? I should’ve confronted you, made you talk, and I’m sorry. But this—Stiles, why? Why wouldn’t you tell me in the first place?”

Stiles glowers at that, but Scott doesn’t back down. 

They’ve put this off long enough.

Then Stiles’ expression crumbles. “Because you believed it.”

Scott nearly slices through his cheek with his teeth. “I just said—”

“No, I mean—” Stiles cuts off, growling in frustration. “You—we’ve been through all this shit together and you’ve—you know me better than anyone else. Right? And you… You believed I could be a murderer.”

“You’re still talking about—”

“No, I’m not. Because you were right.”

For a split second, all Scott can think is that Stiles is about to confess to some other horrible secret, but it’s not nervousness he’s sensing in the swirl of emotions around Stiles.

It’s just defeat.

“Okay,” he says, taking a steeling breath and hoping that this time, Stiles will make sense, “explain that to me.”

Stiles’ foot taps against the concrete, buying time and stirring up the sand. 

Scott does his best not to react.

“Donovan,” Stiles says eventually. His voice carries the same sense of defeat as his expression. “He, uh—I told you he wouldn’t stop talking about my dad. And… you know how I get about my dad.”

Scott tenses.

He nods.

“Yeah, well. Donovan wouldn’t shut up, and I just… I hated him, Scott,” Stiles says. “I hated him so much, and… The way I was holding that wrench—I might’ve really tried something. If I’d had the chance. So, I guess Theo got that part right.”

Scott flinches at Theo’s name. “That doesn’t mean—”

 “Oh, we haven’t even gotten to the best part yet,” Stiles scoffs. “Because after it… happened, I—there was blood everywhere, Scott. This silver stuff mixing in. And you know what I thought? There’s a six foot pole jammed into his chest, and I just thought… good.”

The self-hatred in Stiles’ voice is so strong it’s paralyzing. “So you… When you didn’t tell me, it’s because you thought you—that it made you—”

“It didn’t make me anything,” Stiles snaps, anger sharp in his voice. “I’m just not a good person. Okay? Do you need it spelled out for you? Because I haven’t been for a long time. Not since—since the last time I impaled someone.”

Scott’s hand is on his stomach before he’s realized it’s moved.

Stiles glances at it.

A miserable approximation of a smile passes over Stiles’ face. “But I guess you already knew that.”

Scott’s hand fists in his shirt.

What he knows is the memory of Stiles’ eyes boring into him that night, sharp as the sword in his abdomen. Cold and dark and gleeful as agony spasmed through his body with the slightest twist of the blade.

Stiles’ eyes don’t look anything like that now.

“No,” Scott says. “No, I don’t.”

“What more do you need to hear?” Stiles snarls, gesturing at the wrenches. “That I liked it? Enjoyed seeing him dead? Because I did. I did, Scott, and you know exactly what that sounds like.”

“I think it sounds normal.”

Stiles’ eyes snap up to meet his. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m not joking. Anyone would’ve—”

“What? Killed him? I think we both know that’s not—”

“No,” Scott interjects, a firm edge to his voice. “Anyone would’ve been angry.”

A muscle in Stiles’ jaw jumps, and Scott knows he’s hit a nerve.

“That’s what this is about, right?” Scott presses. “Because—I know the difference. Just because you were angry doesn’t mean—”

“I wasn’t just angry, Scott, I liked it!”

Scott snaps his mouth shut, jaw cracking.

Stiles barks out a laugh. “You know what—never mind. What would you know about it? Any of it? Everyone who’s ever tried… God. I was so scared when she had you.”

Scott blinks. “What’re you—”

“Kate.”

Scott inhales sharply.

The dust tastes like wolfsbane.

“Argent said—” Stiles pauses, licking at his lips— “they all said—that’s not something you’re supposed to come back from. But you did. And Kira—you had to have been fighting Kate the whole time if she survived that. None of us should’ve walked out of there alive, but you just… God. It’s like you’re fucking incorruptible.”

“That’s not—I didn’t—”

Scott remembers screaming when he went under.

Screaming when he came out.

The dust is still trapped in his mouth, poisoning everything.

Some of us are human.

“That’s not what happened,” he manages.

“The morgue begs to differ,” Stiles says, and Scott flinches at the certainty. “But that’s when I figured it out.”

“I really don’t think—”

“You got possessed and you still didn’t kill anyone, Scott! But I can’t—I’m not even possessed anymore, and I’m still just like—”

“Me!”

It feels like a roar coming out, even though his voice breaks in the middle.

Stiles steps back at the force of it.

That’s not what Scott wants at all.

“Stiles, just—listen, okay?” he begs. “I’m not—I’ve never—”

Stiles looks at him, eyes wide but still somehow shuttered, and Scott’s throat closes up.

He doesn’t know how they got here.

Doesn’t know how Stiles can look at himself and only see It, but look at Scott and not see that—how close he’s come to—

His teeth bite through his tongue.

Blood mixes in with the sand.

It’s better, somehow. Tangible.

Scott swallows, grit debriding his throat on the way down. His fangs recede as quickly as they’d appeared.

“Look, just…” Scott sighs, working his jaw back and forth.

It’s easier to talk when there’s something in his hands.

He tilts his head towards the pump. “Help me?”

For one long breath, Stiles looks like he’s going to refuse.

Instead, he nods.

Scott scoops up the can as soon as they reach it, waiting expectantly as Stiles pulls the nozzle out of the pump. The click of the mechanism turning on is deafening, and then the gas splashes freely into the canister.

Stiles’ fingers rap against the metal, urging Scott to speak. There’s so much and yet nothing at all that Scott wants to say, and the enormity of it all is suffocating.

Like a skull.

It’s as good a place to start as any.

“Everything I did is kind of… fuzzy,” Scott says, scraping his thumb across the ridges of his nails. “Just her, and then… these bits and pieces in between.”

Stiles’ heart skips a beat, loud and clear even over the hum of the gas pump. “You’ve never talked about it.”

“Neither have you.”

Stiles huffs at that, a wry admission of their faults.

The slightest bit of tension lifts from his shoulders.

“When I—when Kate forced the skull on me, I was scared. Terrified, actually,” Scott says. The sadistic gleam in Kate’s eyes is easy to remember: leering over him as he’s helpless, tied. Alone. “But I wasn’t… just scared. I was angry. Like—really, really angry.”

“Well, no shit, Scott. She was—”

“Let me finish.”

Irritation bleeds into Stiles’ scent, but it’s tempered by a wave of genuine curiosity. After a moment, Stiles flicks his fingers out, motioning for Scott to go ahead, then resumes his tapping—angrier, this time.

But not at Scott.

“When Kate took over, it wasn’t like…” Scott runs his tongue over his teeth, careful not to irritate the muscle fibers that’ve just knit back together. “She didn’t change how I felt. I was angry when she was forcing it on, and then after—it was like I just stayed angry. There was more of it, maybe, but all just me. Even when she had me attack Kira I couldn’t stop feeling like that, and… maybe something was different in the parts I can’t remember, but in what I do? I didn’t want to stop. I was angry, and it felt—it felt good. To not have to be scared for once, or just—bottle everything up.”

Hot, biting shame mingles in with the smell of the gasoline. Scott risks a glance up—not fully sure if it’s his, or Stiles’.

Probably both.

Stiles looks away first. “But you still stopped.”

“I was stopped,” Scott corrects. “But that’s not—what happened to me was different, and I get that. But I know how intoxicating that anger is. And… how awful that makes you feel when it’s over.”

Stiles purses his lips. “What makes you think it’s over.”

The question is deadly sharp, cutting to places Scott doesn’t want to think about. He’s been wrong about things being over before. Especially when he wanted them to be.

The flayed muscle in his chest throbs.

Then the automatic gauge on the gas pump clicks off, the clang of the mechanism jarring against the desert.

Scott looks down, surprised, and Stiles does too—as if they’d both forgotten what they were doing. Stiles recovers first, pulling the nozzle out to check the fill line, and apparently satisfied, fits the dispenser back into the station.

Scott squats down to screws the cap on, using the feel of the plastic twisting under his hands to ground him.

This is about Stiles.

Not Scott’s mistakes.

He takes a lungful of air, drowning out his own insecurities, in favor of the emotions in Stiles’ scent.

Anxiety. Anger. Fear.

Regret.

Scott focuses on that last one and stands, bracing his arm against the pump just a few inches away from Stiles’ restless fingers. “Do you still like it?”

Stiles squints at him. “What?”

“Donovan’s death.”

Stiles flinches.

His fingers splay out on the pump, one by one.

Counting.

“…I don’t know,” Stiles says, and his voice shakes from the honesty in it. “If I had to do it again—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Stiles bites down on his lip.

Hard enough for Scott to hear his pulse thundering through it.

“Maybe,” Stiles hedges, after another cycle of counting. “Yes. Or—I don’t know; I already told you—”

“That you liked it, I know,” Scott says. He pauses, just long enough to make up his mind. “So why do you smell miserable?”

Stiles’ fingers snatch up into fists. “Can you stop it with the chemosignals?”

“You—Stiles, I literally can’t do that unless I just stop—”

Scott chokes. Sentence stuck halfway.

Stiles shoots him a weird look.

“—breathing,” Scott finishes, and it only comes out a little strangled. His lungs expand carefully, not wanting to disturb either his chest, or the memories dangerously close to the surface. “You’re missing the point.”

“You haven’t made a point.”

“Stiles,” Scott growls, and Stiles falls mulishly silent.

Scott sighs.

He understands the urge to deflect.

“Yes. Okay? I can smell how you feel, and it’s a little overwhelming sometimes,” Scott says, giving up on pretense. “But I can see it, and hear it, too, and—like I said before—that’s not because I’m a werewolf. You’re miserable. That’s nothing like what the Nogitsune would’ve—”

“Don’t,” Stiles snaps. He pushes away from the pump, stumbling a few feet backwards. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m saying it because you’re thinking it.”

“Yeah?” Stiles laughs, verging on hysteria. “And you don’t think there’s a reason for that? I remember what it felt like when it—”

“You think I don’t?”

It stops Stiles in his tracks.

Scott’s careful to keep his hands still this time, but Stiles’ eyes flick down just the same.

Stiles swallows. “You—”

“Me,” Scott cuts in. He licks his lips, tasting blood that isn’t there. “It—I remember it, too. How much it enjoyed everything. I remember how bad it hurt, and how the more it took, the more it just got off on it. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

Stiles pales, weight shifting forward like he wants to move closer. “Scott…”

“It’s okay,” Scott says. “I’m not—my point is, the Nogitsune wasn’t complicated. Just cruel. It would’ve killed Donovan—murdered him, not just an accident or self-defense or anything—and loved it. And I don’t think that’s you.”

Stiles exhales—just shy of a scoff, but without the heat from before.

He looks away.

“When it was in my head…” Stiles shrugs, picking at the skin around the base of his thumbnail. “Everything felt so good, Scott. It was like I had all this power, I was finally in control, and it… I don’t know. I wanted more of it.”

“But you weren’t in control.”

“You tell yourself that about being a Berserker?”

Instead of answering, Scott just arches his eyebrows.

Waiting.

Stiles wilts.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, the dryness of the desert counteracted by the moisture in his eyes. Whatever progress he’d made, Scott’s losing him again. “I definitely was with Donovan, so—”

Scott lunges past the pumps, dropping the gas can in his haste to grab Stiles’ wrist. 

Stiles goes completely still.

Pulse pounding under Scott’s fingertips.

Scott draws himself directly into Stiles’ space like he’s wanted to for the past few weeks, and waits until Stiles turns fully towards him. Then he waits again until Stiles makes eye contact.

“It wasn’t,” Scott says, “your fault.”

“It felt—”

“Doesn’t matter. What happened was self-defense—he was attacking you. He would’ve killed you.” Scott’s voice cracks around the edges, because it’s far too easy to imagine.

Stiles, forced to the ground. Blood soaking into the carpet.

Not waking up.

Stiles is shaking his head. “I should’ve found another way. You would’ve, you know you would’ve, so I—”

“I don’t care.”

It’s blunt—and far more selfish than he wants to admit—but it’s also totally, entirely true.

Stiles’ jaw actually falls open. “But—”

“No,” Scott says. Fractionally tightening his grip. “You’re alive, Stiles. That’s—yeah, I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I would’ve been there. But considering the alternative? Stiles, I’d choose you every time.”

Shock floods Stiles’ scent, bright and overwhelming.

Washing out the shame.

“You’re not a monster, Stiles,” Scott says, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “You never were.”

“Then what am I?”

The question takes Scott off guard.

Stiles is a thousand things. Intelligent. Funny. Blunt. Aggressively loyal, recklessly brave, insensitive and caring and callous and good all at the same time.

None of them seem big enough. Or separate enough from all the thousand little mistakes and wounds they’ve made.

Stiles is still looking at him, miserable, a hopeful desperation to his scent.

Stiles is looking at him.

It clicks into place.

We kinda broke up, too.

Stiles isn’t asking who he is in general. He’s asking who he is to Scott.

And there’s only one answer to that.

Scott looks Stiles in the eye, and thinks of rain and staircases and gasoline cans.

“You’re my best friend.”

Stiles’ scent turns flat, and for a moment Scott is terrified he’s miscalculated—Stiles had never answered Theo’s question.

Maybe his friendship isn’t something Stiles wants anymore.

But then the tension in Stiles’ muscles loosens, the sharp edges around his eyes smoothing out.

Stiles clears his throat.

“Yeah?” he asks. Tentative.

Scott nearly sags in relief. “Yeah.”

The tears that’d been collecting in the corners of Stiles’ eyes slip out, and he pulls out of Scott’s grip to brush them away.

Scott gives him a moment to recover, then shrugs, a half-shy smile on his lips. “Besides. You didn’t even intend the way it happened.”

Stiles ugly snorts. “You’re not wrong about that.”

He can’t help but grin wider: it’s not much, all things considered.

But it’s progress.

“My dad, he, uh…” Stiles sniffs, wiping his hands on his pants. “He said I’m not really gonna feel okay until I make up for it.”

Scott frowns. “I’m not sure it works like that.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, though once again without heat. “You got some psychology experience I don’t know about?”

“No. Just guilt.”

“Fair point,” Stiles mutters. There’s an edge to it Scott’s not sure what to make of, but he moves on before Scott can puzzle it out. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like I need to do something, but… I don’t even know where to begin.”

Scott chews at his lip, considering.

Then it comes to him.

He tilts his head. “How about twenty dollars?”

“…What?”

“Price of gas.”

There’s another beat, then Scott smirks as understanding dawns on Stiles’ face.

“You asshole,” Stiles grumps, but he’s smiling as he digs for his wallet.

It’s the best thing Scott’s seen in weeks.

While Stiles fishes for the bill, Scott turns back to grab the gas can. He’d dropped it a good two feet, but thankfully, the only damage is a slight dent in the top right corner: it’d been strong enough to survive the fall.

By the time he comes back, can in hand, Stiles is already wedging the correct bill between the doors.

Scott falters.

The long row of wrenches still hangs just beyond them, sunlight reflecting off the metal.

“The blood,” he blurts out, startling Stiles. Opening the conversation back up is maybe a risk, but he can’t let go of it now that it’s occurred to him. “You said the jeep—I smelled it on you. Before. Did Donovan…?”

“Oh. Um… Yeah.” Stiles straightens, the bill properly secured. “Donovan sort of decided my shoulder made a nice snack, with his mouth… hand. Thing.”

“What?”

Instead of answering directly, Stiles pulls the edge of his right sleeve up to reveal a round, puckered scar at the top of his shoulder. “It was the first thing he did.”

Instinctively, Scott reaches towards the mark, but stops the second Stiles tenses. “Sorry—is it okay if I—I mean—”

Stiles hesitates, so Scott lowers his hand.

But then Stiles nods, tension draining out of him. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay.”

Slowly, just in case he changes his mind halfway, Scott rests his hand over Stiles’ shoulder—careful not to put too much pressure on the damaged tissue. It’s warm to the touch, and slick with sweat, but no more than he’d have expected from standing in the desert heat. Up close, he can see that the scar is made up of two concentric rings—each one a perforated line of jagged teeth marks—with a red, scabbed mass of skin making up the middle. Scott’s thumb sweeps over the shallow indentations, feather-light, until he’s resting over the center divot. It’s at once barely even a hair’s breadth deep, yet cavernous under his touch.

He swallows, tracing the abraded edges. “I could’ve lost you.”

“It wasn’t fun,” Stiles admits. He shrugs under his hand, the diffidence in the gesture belied by the tone of his voice. “Actually, uh. I was kinda more concerned I was gonna lose you over it, by the end there. Metaphorically.”

Scott’s hand spasms.

There’s too many things he can say to that.

Instead, Scott shakes his head, keeping his thumb anchored as his gaze drifts up to meet Stiles’. “Does it hurt?”

Stiles looks curiously settled. “Not right now.”

Scott gives Stiles’ shoulder a gentle squeeze—a few inches down from the injury—and runs his thumb over the scar one more time, just to reassure himself it’s healing over. 

He lets his hand fall away. “If it changes—you’ll tell me?”

“I’m good,” Stiles says easily. “But—yeah. I’ll let you know. First thing.”

The lack of hesitation speaks volumes. “Okay.”

Stiles rolls his sleeve back down, covering the scar, then glances up at the sun. Scott follows his gaze—it’s drifted significantly since they left the jeep.

Stiles heaves a sigh. “C’mon. We should get back on the road.”

Scott nods, resisting the urge to touch Stiles again.

He gestures for him to go ahead, eyes lingering on the spot where Stiles’ scar is as he passes.

And if Scott’s chest aches a little at the thought—

Well.

It’ll heal.

The sun beats down just as fiercely as ever on the way back, and without the shade from the gas station’s awning—paltry as it’d been—sweat quickly drenches Scott’s clothes, pasting his shirt to the bandage at his chest and smothering the wound.

It’s silly, but he’d thought the heat would be—less, somehow. Not as oppressive, now that they’d cleared the air between them.

It’s almost worse.

Scott closes his eyes against the sun, but it does nothing to stop the memories playing on loop in his head. 

I need to talk to you about something. It’s not really about me, but… it’s something I probably should have told you a long time ago.

Theo had sounded so sincere when he’d said it.

Scott had known they’d all been hiding things from him—especially Stiles—but he’d told himself that whatever it was could keep. But then days passed, and people were dying, and still no one would talk to him, and…

Theo had been the only one offering.

Now he knows why.

Dust tickles at the back of his throat, and he buries a cough in his fist.

The tension doesn’t let up.

He drops his hand back down to his side, forcing it not to linger at his chest.

Five more minutes.

That’s all it would’ve taken to realize their stories were different, and maybe if they had, everything else would’ve been different, too. How many other lies had Theo told him? His pack?

How many more are going to get hurt because of it?

The memory of Liam’s rage and the burn of claws against flesh sears through him.

We can’t protect anyone.

He coughs again, harsher.

“You okay?”

Scott blinks, the disconnect between his surroundings and the memories he’d been lost in taking a moment to resolve.

Stiles is staring at him with an expression just shy of concerned, and he forces a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“It’s just, uh,” Stiles frowns at him, with a tone that suggests it should be obvious, “you’re breathing really loud. Like, audibly loud. Which is a little weird, since I’m… not supposed to hear that.”

It takes Scott a moment to realize it’s true, and then another to realize the tightness in his chest has an old familiarity to it.

What if you have an asthma attack again? What are we gonna do?

Scott forces his chest to expand normally, or at least as normally as his injury will allow. Aside from whatever happened in the jeep, he hasn’t had an attack since—

“It’s nothing.” He clamps down on the urge to cough again. “I’m fine.”

Stiles doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t say anything further.

They walk a few more yards in silence, the gas can knocking almost hypnotically against his thigh.

Scott wishes it would stop.

He’s no sooner thought that than his body betrays him with another rasping cough, and Stiles flinches almost as violently as Scott does.

“Okay,” Stiles says, turning towards him, “what’s wrong with—”

“It’s nothing,” Scott repeats, though he has to force it around another cough. “It’s just the heat, or the sand, or—something. Bad air quality.”

Stiles’ breathing hitches, far more deliberate than the ones stopping up his own. “Was it the air quality back in Beacon Hills?”

There’s an attentiveness there that almost makes Scott want to tell him everything. They were honest about how they felt earlier and it went okay, so maybe—

Every time I feel like I should do something about it, I find myself reaching for my inhaler.

He’d told Theo that, one day at the clinic. Then Theo had tossed him poison because of it.

His thoughts are too dangerous.

He keeps walking. “Something like that.”

The ache in his chest continues to build, but it’s not like anything can be done about it. It’s just another five minutes back to the jeep, and he can keep breathing until then.

And if he can’t…

The gas can is so, so heavy.

“Maybe you should use your inhaler.”

Scott would sigh if he had the breath to spare. “I broke it.”

“You did what?”

“Theo poisoned it,” he says, deliberately curt. They don’t have time for this. “Wolfsbane.”

The wave of fear and anger from Stiles takes him off guard. “I’m going to kill him.”

The pain in Scott’s chest flares.

They’re dangerously close to topics he’s not ready to discuss. “I guess.”

Stiles doesn’t get the memo.

“Okay, so—is that why your asthma’s back?” The stench of anger gets stronger as Stiles speaks. “Because the wolfsbane might—”

“No.” Scott knows this is just what Stiles does when he’s anxious, but he’s really not in the mood for theorizing. “Liam got the first one out of my locker, and it looked fine when one of the Doctors…”

He trails off, wheezing as he does.

Stiles looks at him.

“…It broke, too,” he finishes. Somewhat lamely.

His chest hurts.

“What about—”

“Mom got the replacement out of the hospital’s storage. So unless Theo poisoned all of them, it was fine.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Stiles mutters, but Scott’s still thinking about the hospital.

The feel of the Doctor’s hand around his throat, strangling. How it was almost pointless, since his lungs were doing just fine at killing him on their own.

Just struggling to breathe while Malia and his mom had to fight the Doctor off for him.

He’d been so useless.

“It was my fault,” he whispers, and Stiles looks up sharply. “What happened at—the hospital. I was supposed to find Josh, but I had an asthma attack and I couldn’t… I just laid there.”

He’d failed Josh, just like he’d failed all the other chimeras. Kira. Stiles.

He was going to get them all killed.

Beside him, Stiles’ pulse is rabbiting in a way Scott doesn’t quite understand, but maybe it’s just now hitting him how badly Scott’s screwed up.

“I…” Stiles hesitates, and the nervousness in his bearing is suddenly so potent it feels like the Donovan conversation all over again. “There’s something you should know.”

A thousand different terrible things rush through Scott’s mind.

He stops so he can focus all his attention on Stiles. “What is it?”

Stiles shifts nervously from foot to foot. The nausea from before returns.

“The, uh.” Stiles looks down at his fingers, then spits it out all in a rush. “The Doctors didn’t kill Josh.”

Scott nearly crushes the canister’s handle. “What?”

“That night—at the hospital. It wasn’t the Doctors.”

“You said it was.”

“I know.”

“You both—”

Scott stops.

Josh’s body had been laid out, throat slashed open, when he’d finally seen it.

Stiles and Theo on the other side.

“You lied to me,” he says. He’s shaking. He can’t stop shaking. “You and—you said I trusted him—”

“I didn’t, but—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that—”

“Because he said he’d tell you about Donovan!”

“What?”

“He—” Stiles jams his hands into his pockets, but not before Scott catches how they’re trembling. “It was self-defense. Josh was trying to kill us, and Theo—he just—”

Now you have to kill me yourself.

Scott’s chest stutters.

He backtracks. Replays what Stiles had said.

No.

“So you—you knew Theo knew about Donovan,” he manages.

“Yeah.”

“And you couldn’t tell me about Theo because you couldn’t tell me about yourself.”

“…Yeah.”

“And you don’t see a problem with that?”

“I—you didn’t need to—”

“I needed to know!” Scott explodes, gesturing furiously with the can. “I—god, Stiles. You thought covering up two counts of self-defense was more important than Theo wanting to lie about it? If it really was self-defense, why would he—”

“I told you he was suspicious before—”

“You were paranoid before! This was—we could’ve—”

“What? What would’ve been any different?” Stiles demands, stepping into his space. “I screwed up, I know, but Josh was already dead. And in case you forgot, he didn’t even stay that way because he’s wandering around with Theo right now, so—”

“You think just because he’s alive now it doesn’t matter?”

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes, and Scott’s trying to pay attention, he is, but—

“You think he wasn’t terrified?” he asks. “That it didn’t still hurt?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Because it does,” Scott says, and his chest is screaming at him but he doesn’t care, “it hurts, Stiles. And it—you just want it to stop, but that’s terrifying, too, and it’s not like it even matters what you want because—because—”

He runs out of air.

The fear on Stiles’ face makes everything that much more real. “What… What’re you saying, Scott?”

His lower lip trembles. Throat tightening.

“It sucks when Theo kills you,” he says. “It really… fucking sucks.”

The wheezing stops.

Stiles stares at him. “You—you said he tried to kill you.”

I should’ve stayed. I should’ve made sure.

Scott swallows. “Yeah.”

“Ye—Jesus, Scott, yeah? I thought you—I mean, you didn’t—”

“Stay dead,” Scott says. “I know.”

Horror and denial twist in Stiles’ scent. “What happened?”

Scott shakes his head. This is—it’s—he shouldn’t have said anything. He can’t say anything.

Too late.

Scott holds the gas can a little tighter.

“Theo locked me in the library,” he says, dully reciting the part Stiles already knows. “Liam tried to kill me, and when that didn’t work, Theo tried. …That time it worked.”

It’s the most stripped down version he can manage, but impossibly, Stiles looks even paler than he’d been at the sight of the wrenches. “How are you—I mean—”

“Mom.”

He half expects Stiles to crack a joke at that—Super Nurse Mama McCall—but Stiles just swallows. Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

His eyes flick to Scott’s chest. “So your…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and Scott doesn’t either.

Stiles reaches towards him.

Theo’s claws are in his chest.

Scott stumbles backwards, nearly dropping the can in his haste to get away.

Shredding his lungs. Perforating his heart.

“No. No, don’t—don’t touch it—”

So much blood.

Stiles’ hands immediately retreat. “Okay, okay—sorry—I won’t, but—”

“No,” Scott says. He holds his free arm protectively around his chest. “I don’t—it’s fine.”

“You keep saying that—”

“I said no—”

“—when it’s clearly not, and—”

“It doesn’t matter!”

Stiles clenches his jaw, teeth grinding together.

Scott curls his fingers tighter around the handle of the canister, leaning in to the weight until it drags him down. 

Keeps him from floating away.

All at once he’s so very, very tired. 

“I don’t know why it’s not healing,” Scott says, the words almost blurring together. “It’s just—not. There’s nothing we can do about it, so I need you to just… Let it go. Please.”

Stiles looks like he’s about to topple over.

Or maybe, that he thinks Scott is.

“Scott, I… you’re…” Stiles gives up, gesturing helplessly at his face.

Scott doesn’t understand.

Then he brings his hand to his own face, and he’s surprised when it comes away wet.

He hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

Scott closes his hand into a fist, hiding away the evidence.

“Scott…”

It’s too much.

Scott turns and walks away.

He doesn’t have a plan, and even if he did, it wouldn’t stand up to a barrage from Stiles. He just can’t do this. Not right now. Not ever. Not when it’s—he’s—

Stiles falls in step beside him.

Not talking, but just—staring.

Laughably, Scott’s asthma seems to have quieted down entirely after his outburst.

It just makes Stiles’ darting glances that much louder.

“What,” Scott finally snaps.

Stiles’ hands flex at his side, like he’s trying to stop himself from reaching for something.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I—that’s fine,” Stiles says. Voice quiet. “But I—can you at least let me carry it?”

Scott’s grip tightens reflexively around the handle.

“I know,” Stiles says, hands visible and placating. “I know, I know, I know. You can carry it just fine on your own, and I’ll just slow us down, and then I’ll just be exhausted because it’s really heavy when it’s—it’s full.”

Scott frowns. “What’re you…?”

“Trying not to argue,” Stiles says, sighing. “I just… Maybe I don’t want you to be exhausted, either.”

The pressure wrapped around his chest isn’t asthma anymore.

He doesn’t know what it is.

I’ll read it, too.

“Please,” Stiles says. “If you don’t want me to carry it myself, maybe we could… I don’t know. The handle’s big enough for both of us.”

Scott gnaws at the corner of his lip, looking down at the canister.

Breathes in.

Lets his chest expand as far as he dares.

The sincerity in Stiles’ scent blocks out the allure of the gasoline’s.

“Okay.”

Stiles reaches for the canister, and just like that, some of the weight goes away.

Scott stares at it, almost lost without it holding him down.

Unanchored.

“I’ll drive when we get back to the jeep,” Stiles says, though Scott’s only half-listening. “You can just—you should get some rest.”

Scott nods, unable to shake off the growing numbness.

Then Stiles’ hand is nudging up against his on the handle, and it’s still a little frightening.

But at least it stays.

It’s dark out by the time Scott’s eyes drift back open.

Goosebumps pebble across his arms, and he shivers instinctively—now that the sun’s set, the once-blistering heat has turned into a numbing chill.

Like bleeding out.

He shrinks away from the open window.

Exhaustion clings to his limbs, and Scott exhales slowly. If he concentrates, he can smell the ammonia-like stench coming from the raw flesh underneath the bandage.

It’s far too easy to concentrate.

He searches for anything else to latch onto on the inhale. The muscles in his back and neck, cramped from sleeping hunched over. The way the jeep rattles and clangs across the uneven ground. Even the neon green numbers blinking back at him on the dashboard.

Nothing catches.

Not even the gauges are real enough—the arrow on the fuel tank points to full, but it could just as easily be near-empty. There’s no way to tell.

He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

Scott blinks numbly at the dials.

Then the sharp tang of salt water hits his nose.

Scott turns just in time to see Stiles drag his arm across his face.

He’s crying.

Adrenaline rushes through him.

“Stiles?” he asks, struggling upright. “What’s wrong?”

The sniffing stops.

Stiles won’t meet his eyes.

Scott’s grip on the armrests tightens as he leans forward. “Stiles…?”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, a little wetly. He wipes at his nose. “Sorry, I—I didn’t realize you were awake. Everything’s fine.”

It’s not a lie, exactly, but it’s definitely not the truth.

Scott eases himself back down, watching Stiles as he does.

Stiles hadn’t tried to wake him, so it’s unlikely it’s something new.

An old hurt.

“Is… this about your dad?” Scott asks, hazarding a guess. “I know it was—but Mom said he was recovering really well when—”

“Scott—no,” Stiles interrupts. “That’s not… He’s fine.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like Scott should just know.

He’s so tired of being left out of the loop. “Then what?”

Stiles drums his fingers against the steering wheel, each tiny pat echoing in Scott’s ears.

Then he sniffs again, eyes resolutely forward. “You died, Scott.”

Simple.

Straightforward.

No one’s said it out loud before.

“Okay,” Scott finds himself saying, with the same numbness. “So?”

Stiles’ lips purse together in that familiar, irritated line, and Scott braces for a fight. “So. Not okay.”

Anger flares in Scott’s chest, and it hurts. Deep as the claw marks in his chest.

It’s warm.

Scott wants more of it. Almost eager for the barbed words and scathing looks he knows Stiles can come up with.

But Stiles just drags his shoulder across his face, determinedly quiet.

Scott can’t think of a single thing to say that he actually wants to say.

He twists around and pulls viciously at the window handle, shutting out the frigid night air.

Then there’s only the inside of the jeep. Stiles’ damp sleeve, Scott’s dry shirt, Stiles’ scar and Scott’s wound and Stiles’ tears and Scott’s—

The light from the clock on the dashboard distracts him.

It says it’s eight-thirty.

It’s not—the jeep’s been losing time for a few months now, so that means it’s much closer to ten—and the thought irritates Scott further.

He’s been asleep for almost six hours.

“You could’ve woken me,” he growls.

He hadn’t cared a few minutes ago. The clock had just been numbers.

But now it’s not—it’s not okay.

Stiles’ eyes slide over to his, infuriatingly passive. “What for?”

“Driving?” he says. Making sure he says it like it’s obvious. “We said we’d switch off—”

“Every four hours,” Stiles interrupts. He looks at him, then returns his attention to the road. “I figured if you were still asleep, you probably needed it.”

“I’m awake now.”

“Sure are.”

“Then let me—”

“You missed your shift, Scotty,” Stiles says, adjusting the rearview mirror. “So why don’t you just… go back to sleep. Maybe you’ll have better luck in a couple hours.”

Stiles’ voice is obstinately level.

Scott wants to claw at it.

“Pull over,” he snaps. “I’m fine with driving the extra two hours.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stiles—”

“Still nope.”

“I said I’m—”

“Fine,” Stiles finishes. The jeep’s speed doesn’t change. “…I know.”

Scott slinks deeper into his seat.

He could force it, maybe. Rip open the door. Jump out. Wait for Stiles to give up.

He doesn’t know what he’d do after that.

It’s getting colder.

Stiles clears his throat. “Since you’re awake, though, you should probably know your mom texted.”

Scott looks up. “Mom?”

“Yeah. Apparently you haven’t been answering her texts.”

“Because somebody didn’t wake me up.”

“I mean before that.”

He hesitates over that, struggling to parse out why it matters. Then he gives up, sliding his phone out of his pocket.

“I didn’t have reception,” Scott says, clicking the lock button. The screen stays dark. “…And it might be dead.”

Stiles’ hands squeeze the steering wheel, tight enough to hear even over the engine. “Yeah. That’s pretty much what I said.”

There’s an unspoken question there, but Scott ignores it.

Mom hasn’t wanted to talk about it, either.

It scares her.

Then the anger he’d been nursing resurges, because talk is all Stiles ever wants to do when he’s scared.

Just not to him.

“So,” he says, only half succeeding at keeping the hurt out of his voice, “what’d you ask her?”

“Nothing.”

“You—” Scott pauses. “What?”

“You asked me not to.” Stiles’ fingers tap against the wheel, eyes flicking away. “So I didn’t.”

In all the time they’ve been friends, Scott has never known Stiles to pass up on the chance to get new information—even if Scott wanted him to.

Usually especially if Scott wanted him to.

“…Thanks.”

Stiles offers a half-smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not a problem.”

Silence falls over them, punctuated every so often by the jeep rattling over a cracked section of the asphalt. Scott pulls the charger out of the console and plugs it in, the last, fragile vestige of heat leaving as he waits for his phone to turn on.

Stiles is watching him out of the corner of his eye, just subtle enough to pretend he isn’t. Just obvious enough to make it clear he is.

Scott wants to disappear under the weight of it.

The screen turns on.

As promised, there are over a dozen text messages from his mom: all some vague variation on ‘how’re you doing.’ 

He knows what he’s supposed to type. What she wants to hear. It’s what they all want to hear, and it’s—it is true. Sometimes.

His fingers hover over the keyboard.

He puts the phone down without replying.

Stiles is still not-watching.

“Do you want…” Stiles hesitates, licking at his lips. “You wanna talk about anything?”

Yes.

No.

“Like what?”

Stiles works his jaw back and forth, clearly struggling with something.

Then he sighs, shrugging helplessly. “Sand?”

“Sand?”

“I dunno. It’s been a popular topic so far.”

Scott snorts at that, even though it turns into a groan when it pulls at his chest. 

Fear bursts sharp and cold in Stiles’ scent, and then as quickly as it’d come, it’s gone.

Buried under the sand.

Scott’s amusement slips away with it, and he drops his head back against the headrest. “Maybe later.”

Out the window, the star-filled sky looms over them. Moon hanging large even as it wanes.

Tonight isn’t going to be good.

It makes him uneasy. The skin and muscle of his chest burning while the rest of him ices over.

He wonders if Theo ever felt it at all.

He’s halfway to his phone before he’s fully processed what he’s doing.

He snatches his hand back to his chest.

Stupid.

He hasn’t even deleted Theo’s number from his contacts. Text messages, either.

no problem :) was the last one Theo’d sent.

And then he—

“I talked to him a lot,” Scott confesses.

Sudden enough that Stiles startles beside him.

Stiles’ brow creases, but before Scott can clarify, a muted aggression threads through the jeep. “Okay.”

 “I know it was stupid,” Scott rushes to add. “I—he was just—there, and…”

He picks at the frayed edges of the vinyl seats, unsure of how to finish.

Stiles picks it up for him. “…And no one else was.”

For better or worse.

Scott bites his lip.

He tastes blood, briefly: just long enough to register it before the skin heals back. “I should’ve known better.”

“He should’ve been better.”

Venomous.

Scott shrinks away. 

Stiles isn’t—him. He knows that.

But Scott is still Scott, and that might be just as dangerous.

He should’ve kept his mouth shut.

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles slams on the brakes.

“Stiles!”

The jeep veers sharply off the road, Scott nearly smashing into the side door when it tilts on its wheels. It hovers there for one precarious second, then crashes back down in a violent, shuddering stop.

Dust billows around them, the closed windows keeping it out of the jeep.

Scott releases his death grip on the armrest, struggling to calm his breathing. “What—why did you—are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Stiles laughs: a miserable, choked sound.

He takes the keys out of the ignition and drops them on the console, gesturing vaguely in Scott’s direction. “That.”

“What—”

“You died, Scott.”

It knocks the air out of his lungs. 

He recoils. “I—”

“He used you,” Stiles says. “He killed you, and you’re still the one sitting here trying to apologize.”

“Stiles, I…” It’s too much, too fast; the jeep flooding with Stiles’ anger. “I’m—”

“Please don’t say you’re sorry for that, either.”

Scott crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the dash, eyes burning.

He’d wanted to be angry.

Now that the opportunity’s finally here, he just…

Can’t.

“…I am, though,” he says, when the silence becomes too much. “Sorry.”

Stiles sighs, folding his arms over the jeep’s steering wheel.

“I know,” he says. He rests his forehead against his arms, hiding his face. “That’s why it’s so messed up.”

He says it so softly. Sincerely.

Scott can’t take it. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”

“Scott, would you just—” Stiles’ teeth grind together, sanding down the molars.

Scott’s expecting anger, or at least frustration, to accompany the sound.

Stiles just smells sad.

“Is this vengeance?” Stiles mutters, dragging his hands through his hair. Then he raises his head to prop his chin on the back of his hands, staring out at the desert. He sighs. “Look… I know you don’t want to talk about it. And god knows, usually I’m first in line when it comes to avoiding this shit. But… I’m kinda feeling like you might need to.”

You need your pack, Scott.

He’s still bleeding from the last time he’d tried.

Stripped down. Vulnerable.

Easy to tear into.

“…Theo said that, too,” Scott says. Barely audible.

“Okay. So—so he’s an asshole. But I’m…” Stiles falters, shoulders drooping. “A different asshole. Better. Or at least… trying to be.”

Scott scrapes his nails across his palms, harder than he should. Not breaking skin quite yet.

Stiles is sincere—everything about him.

It’s not all that different from how Theo had acted.

But Stiles hadn’t asked his mom. Stiles had backed down when he asked.

He’s trying.

Scott owes it to him to try, too.

He closes his eyes, forcing his hands to unclench. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Stiles says. “Or—nothing. Anything. Just… whatever you want, man.”

Scott’s lip catches between his teeth. He’s not—

What he wants is—

He opens his eyes again.

The moon stares back. 

He lets his senses slip out of focus, everything turned dull and blurry around the edges. Safer.

Numb.

“Theo wanted my power,” he says mechanically. “He tried to get Liam to do it, and Liam got… close.”

His claws had been everywhere. Ripping into Scott’s arms. His stomach.

He’d really thought Liam would stop—that despite everything, he didn’t really want to kill him.

That’s what you don’t get, Scott.

“How close is… close?” Stiles asks, after a moment. Maybe remembering the times Scott had stalked him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Scott says, because it doesn’t. It was always going to end the same. “Theo showed up pretty soon after Liam left. Threw Mason into a table.”

Seriously? You couldn’t have waited five minutes?

Theo had been so angry. Claws buried knuckle-deep in his chest.

Scott had welcomed the numbness then, too.

“Why did he…” Stiles swallows. “What did he want?”

“Nothing. He couldn’t… it wasn’t about that anymore. He’d already lost. This was just…”

The ghost of Theo’s breath, whispering against the back of his neck.

They’re still mine.

“…He needed to make sure I lost, too.”

Anger and grief swirl around Stiles, but Scott barely notices them.

He’d lost long before Theo showed up.

Theo knew it, too.

Stiles inhales, dragging Scott’s thoughts back down into the jeep. “How long?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Scott only knows because Mason kept saying it on the way to the car, and he hadn’t been able to figure out how to tell him it was okay. Fifteen minutes is just five minutes, three times over. Technically the shortest amount of time he’s been dead.

He hadn’t been able to figure out how to tell him it felt longer, either.

The jeep is unearthly silent.

“What was…” Stiles trails off. “Did you see it again?”

Scott doesn’t have to ask for clarification. “No.”

He wonders, idly, if it would’ve been better. The Nemeton, sprawled out before him, roots ready to receive in the cold white room. Alluring. Hungry.

Unwilling to let him go.

Scott swallows past the tightness in his throat. “It was just… I don’t know. Empty.”

“Like when you’re asleep?” Stiles asks. “Before the dreams start?”

“Maybe.”

It’s almost funny. All this time he’d been so scared of Stiles finding out, but now that he does, it’s just…

He doesn’t feel anything at all.

Stiles’ hands are white-knuckled against his arms.

“After Jennifer—before it—” Stiles hesitates. “I got these dreams. There was this… thing, on the other side of the door, and I knew I had to… But it wouldn’t let me wake up. Like I was paralyzed.”

“Drowning,” Scott says. He remembers.

“Yeah.” Stiles sounds so weirdly hopeful. “So was it…?”

“No.”

Stiles’ brow twists, distraught.

Scott doesn’t know how to make it make sense.

Maybe it just doesn’t.

“It wasn’t anything, Stiles,” he says hopelessly. “Anything at all.”

He doesn’t realize he’s screwed up until Stiles starts to straighten out. Shadow taking up more space than he does.

Scott pulls his knees to his chest to make room for it.

“Scott,” Stiles says, eyes darting to his chest and chemosignals slipping between fear and panic, “are you—because when Derek—”

Scott tucks himself smaller.

This was a bad idea.

“…You know why you’re not healing, don’t you,” Stiles says.

“I am healing.”

“Scott—”

“I am,” he repeats. “Everything… everything else healed.”

“Everything—okay, dude, ‘everything else’ is still not ‘everything,’” Stiles says. “Especially when it… when you…”

Stiles gives up, staring meaningfully at his chest. 

Scott’s suddenly cognizant of just how thin the air is in the jeep.

He shouldn’t have closed the window.

“Would you believe me if I said I’m fine?” Scott asks. He unbuckles his seatbelt, the extra resistance against his chest too much.

“No.” Stiles’ eyes following the seatbelt’s path. “But that’s nothing new.”

“Then why does it matter?” Scott snaps. “None of this is new—we did it before with the ice, and then I—with Kira—so it’s not like this is the first time I’ve—”

He breaks off, chest tight.

Stiles’ eyes are huge.

“Scott,” he says, pleading, “you can’t even say it.”

That’s not true. He can.

“I—”

His throat closes up.

Five more minutes.

He has to keep talking.

Five more minutes.

He can’t breathe.

Five more—

Scott throws open the door and falls out the side of the jeep.

“Scott, wait—”

He barely registers the sound of Stiles scrambling out behind him, too focused on one foot crashing in front of the other.

He has to get away.

He has to turn around.

He has to—

He falls to his knees, gasping. Black spots dancing in his eyes.

All I can think about, is how good am I going to be if I can’t even breathe?

He kneels in the sand, struggling to drag air into his lungs.

Lungs that had stopped.

He feels more than hears it when Stiles comes up behind him, stopping just a few feet away. Waiting for him to—he doesn’t even know.

He doesn’t know anything.

“Scott…?”

He shakes his head at nothing, still panting.

It sounds so loud and out of place in the empty desert.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles continues, inching closer. “I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Scott nearly laughs at the absurdity of it.

Stiles isn’t the one that’s fucked everything up.

He sinks his claws deep into the sand, a thousand tiny grains digging into his skin, and thinks, I’m okay.

He says, “I couldn’t breathe.”

Stiles stops moving.

“Even before he—there was so much,” Scott says. “Not enough. It was all falling apart and I’m the one that’s supposed to protect you guys, but I couldn’t stop any of it. Not Tracy, not Josh, Corey, Hayden, Beth, Lucas—and all of you were struggling, and—I don’t even know why I believed him. I should’ve known it wasn’t true, or been more careful, but I couldn’t breathe and he said he’d help but he was—when he came to—he had his claws out and I just stood there. Letting him, like I let him do everything else.”

You sound like you’re trying to apologize.

He’d been so incredibly stupid.

“It was my fault,” he says, chest heaving. Hurting. “All of it. I knew something was coming, something was going to happen, and I just—I didn’t want it to happen like this. I’m the one who’s constantly putting you guys in danger, risking your lives, but you—you’re the ones that—”

Scott breaks off, unable to finish.

Unable to look Stiles in the eye.

Unable to do anything.

He stares down at his hands, covered in sand and grit.

Stiles’ had been covered in blood.

“It should’ve been me,” he says.

Stiles sucks in a breath.

I came here hoping to find a pack. I wasn’t planning on watching one fall apart.

Desert wind whistles in Scott’s ears, cold and unforgiving, and he waits for Stiles to get back in the jeep. Drive away. Leave him.

Instead, Stiles’ sneakers step in front of him, white stripes and half-tied laces blocking out the desert.

“Scott…” he says, kneeling down just a few inches away, “it was you.”

It takes a second to wrap his head around what Stiles is saying.

Then he backs away, shaking his head frantically. “Donovan—”

“Didn’t have anything to do with you.”

That’s not—this isn’t how it goes. “You said—”

“I know. I say a lot of stupid shit when I’m angry.”

“But I trusted him!”

“Yeah, and you weren’t the only one! But—Scott, it doesn’t even matter. You could’ve been the worst person ever and everything that Theo did—that Theo did to you—would still be on him. Not you.” Stiles’ gaze drops to Scott’s chest, mouth twisting in a way that makes Scott want to run. “It… really, really shouldn’t be on you.”

It sets the muscles in his chest on fire.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to think about it.

“You don’t—I made so many mistakes,” Scott says, trying to divert. “People got hurt. People got killed—”

“One of which was you.”

“I’m not talking about me—”

“I know,” Stiles snaps. Then he groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I just… I think you should.”

Scott’s eyes dart away.

Miles and miles of sand, and there’s nowhere to hide.

Scott scrambles to his feet.

“Whoa, hey—”

“We should go,” Scott says. Fast, like it’ll make up for how hard he’s shaking. “We’ve been gone—the jeep—”

“Can wait.” Stiles stands, too, though he doesn’t try to come any closer.

Scott still feels hunted. “But it—”

“Scott. Is anyone even remotely near here?”

“…No.”

“Then it’s okay,” Stiles says. “The jeep can survive a few more minutes without us.”

Scott hovers there, unsure of how to respond.

He’s freezing.

He’s on fire.

Stiles is waiting for him.

We all go to school, pretending like nothing’s happened. But everyone seems to know.

“What?” Scott chokes out, though he’s dreading the answer.

Stiles licks nervously at his lips, eyes darting down to Scott’s chest before coming back up.

Sure enough, he says: “Can I see it?”

Scott thumbs at the end of his shirt, right where the buttons meet. “You’ve seen it before.”

Just once, briefly—when Stiles came to Scott’s room, the video on his phone his version of an olive branch. Scott had been putting on his third shirt of the day, his chest having bled through the previous two.

Stiles hadn’t said much. Scott hadn’t wanted him to; too ashamed at the thought of Stiles realizing how messed up he’d been.

It’s only gotten worse since then.

He must have been quiet for too long, because suddenly he registers Stiles is talking again. “Please, Scott. Just… Please.”

The request is sincere, like he’ll let it go if Scott really wants him to.

Scott doesn’t know what he really wants.

“Why?” he finally asks.

“It helped,” Stiles says. He reaches up, almost mindlessly, to massage at his shoulder—right above the scar. “Me. When we talked. And I… I want to help you, too. If you’ll let me.”

You said you can find the clues that I can’t.

Scott watches Stiles, cautious. Stiles’ expression is open in a way he rarely allows—every emotion playing out on his face, without deflection. Fear. Regret. Longing. All laid out, bare for the world to see.

Trusting him.

One tiny, fragile tendril of warmth curls in Scott’s chest, different from the numbness, different from the blistering heat.

He wants—

More of it.

Scott shudders, and inhales slowly.

He starts to unbutton his shirt.

It’s harder than it has any right to be. Fingers slipping off the buttons, fabric bunching under his hands. Having to try twice on every one like he’s five years old again, because his hands won’t stop shaking long enough to grip them properly. Any second, he’s sure Stiles is going to snap at him for being too slow, because he is. Stupidly, clumsily slow.

Stiles’ heart is rabbit-fast in comparison.

The last button finally comes undone, and Scott’s shirt hangs open: bandage standing out stark white against his chest. There’s no blood visible this time, but he can feel how heavy it sits against his skin.

It’s going to be a mess underneath.

He stares down at it, licking at his lips. Tastes desert.

His hands won’t move.

He doesn’t even know why they won’t. He wants them to. He’s already done the hard part, physically. It’s just a single line of tape that’s standing in his way. One little tug will do it.

His hands hang uselessly at his sides.

Scott looks up at Stiles, lips parted but nothing coming out. Pleading for—something.

Stiles’ pupils are moon-large staring back at him.

One hand reaches for Scott.

Scott’s vision tunnels, breath coming out in short pants.

Stiles stops. “You okay?”

His hand hovers where Scott can see it.

Scott takes another second to get his breathing back under control, then nods.

He trusts him.

Stiles’ hand inches forward, ever so slowly, until his fingertips brush the edges of the gauze. Scott can’t help but tense as soon as he makes contact with his skin, but Stiles just stops. His eyes flick up to meet Scott’s, and he waits, wordlessly, until Scott’s muscles relax. Then, just as carefully, he braces his other hand against Scott’s shoulder.

“Good?” he asks.

Stiles’ hand is hot against his freezing skin.

It doesn’t burn. “Yeah.”

Stiles sucks in his lower lip, and then, careful not to pull too hard at the damaged skin, peels the bandage away.

Scott’s eyes slam shut, the desert air sharp and biting against his open chest.

Damn. I felt that.

A shudder runs through him, and he counts down from ten—nine, eight, seven, six—all the way to zero, hoping to chase away Theo’s presence with the descending count.

Maybe the wind is nice, if he concentrates on it. Not because it feels nice.

There just wasn’t any wind in the library.

Scott inhales through the dust, then forces his eyes to open.

Stiles’ hand is barely centimeters from the wound.

Stiles is shaking in his peripheral vision, violent, though he’s struggling to keep the hand at Scott’s chest steady. It’s thinner than Theo’s was: fingers long and spindly, with knuckles that protrude and calluses from late night gaming sessions on the tips. Blunted, chewed off nails with white spots around the edges from nerves and clumsy accidents.

Nothing like Theo’s claws.

Scott slips his gaze away from the hand, a few degrees at a time, until he’s looking down at his chest.

It’s ugly.

A weeping, tattered nothingness, damaged enough that it looks like a single ragged tear, but on closer look, the five points where Theo’s claws had twisted in are painfully visible. It’d been raw and inflamed the night it first happened, but now it’s turned black and fragile: tissues necrotising around the edges. 

He’s seen it plenty of times. Redressed it thrice almost every day, stared at it for hours while he trembled over the sink.

It didn’t even look real.

Scott’s chest shakes.

Pulling away from Stiles’ hand on the exhale. Closer on the inhale.

Theo’s hand hadn’t moved as he’d struggled to breathe around it. Each desperate expansion just forcing the claws deeper into his chest. It had felt almost like a choice: die by cutting into himself, or die by cutting off his own air.

A lie. Death by suffocation either way.

“Scott.”

It takes a second for his eyes to find Stiles’.

He looks like he’s trying not to cry again. 

Scott’s fingers clench, then unfurl uselessly at his sides. “It’s not as bad as it—looks.”

Stiles just swallows.

His hand is so, so close. It’d be touching him by now, if Scott had muscle and skin where he was supposed to.

“Okay.” Stiles’ voice shakes. “Do you… want to tell me how bad it is?”

Blood rushes to Scott’s face. “I—”

Scott stops.

His chest expands.

It’s moving too fast, too greedy. He’s going to get blood on Stiles’ hand if he doesn’t calm down.

“I’m better now,” Scott finally tries. His teeth slide along his lower lip, fangs aching to break through. “It’s not like—with the locker. Before. I can shift if I need to.”

“Wait, when could you not shift?”

The smell of Stiles’ fear hits against the back of his throat, and Scott’s guilt triples.

Of course he’s scared. Scott’s just told him he can’t protect them.

Scott flicks out the claws on his left hand, startling Stiles.

“It’s fine now, see?” he says, holding them out a little desperately. “It’s not a problem anymore, so—I’ll be ready. When we find Kira.”

Stiles’ features rearrange, too fast for Scott to follow. “Okay, but—Scotty, I didn’t ask what you could do.”

The smell of fear doesn’t waver. 

It’s not even hidden under anger, like it usually is, or disgust, like he thought it’d be.

Scott doesn’t know what to do with it. “What else… is there?”

“You.”

Scott flinches, and something in his chest makes a squelching noise.

Stiles’ fingers curl away for half a second.

“Sorry,” Scott stammers. His claws shrink back down even as his hand moves up, and he crumples the edge of the bandage between his fingers. “Sorry, I—”

“Scott,” Stiles interrupts, a bit of steel coming into his voice.

Scott stares down at the sand.

Dimly, he registers Stiles’ thumb massaging slow circles into the juncture between his shoulder and collar bone, grounding him.

Stiles’ hand slips forward again, drifting near the edges of the wound like he’s trying to find somewhere safe to touch. “You said it just takes—time.”

Something’s changed. And I think it’s because of me.

Scott doesn’t react.

“It’s been time, Scott,” Stiles pleads, fingers settling just below his ribs. “…A lot of time.”

Scott’s eyes are sharp enough that he could count out all the individual grains of sand, if he wanted. It seems like a less impossible task than answering Stiles’ question.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admits, softly. “I don’t know why it stopped healing, and I don’t know why it even…”

He trails off, the words too big for his mouth.

Stiles looks at him, brows wrinkled in the way he gets right before he figures out a particularly difficult problem.

He doesn’t realize how dangerous the answer is.

Scott releases the tape and closes his fingers around Stiles’ wrist, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder in the process.

“Whoa, hey, what’re you—”

“You wanted to see it.” He lowers Stiles’ hand away from his chest, away from him, only letting go when both of Stiles’ hands are back at his sides. “So I’m… I’m covering it back up now.”

“Scott—”

He shakes his head, refusing to meet Stiles’ eyes.

He starts pulling the bandage back over the wound.

Stiles’ hand gets in his way.

Scott glares up at Stiles for that. “What’re you doing?”

“You can’t put that back on there.”

“I can’t just leave it like this all night—”

“No, but if it’s not healing, you need to make sure it stays clean, or—”

“I know what I need,” Scott snaps.

Stiles falters for a second, then his eyes harden. “Well it’s not healing, and that thing is—Scott, it’s gross. You’re going to get an infection or something.”

Scott looks down at the bandage in his hand.

It’s sticky, weighed down with filth from the day. The dampness means it’ll chafe against his frayed skin. His mom would have a fit if he put it back on.

But if he gets a new one, he’ll have to take the time to clean the wound, and redress it, and just the thought itself is exhausting.

Stiles is watching him. Waiting for him to answer.

Scott’s fingers curl tighter around the cloth.

“I held it for like two seconds and hated it,” Stiles continues, when Scott doesn’t say anything “So that… You can’t tell me it feels good to you.”

His gaze darts down to Scott’s blackened chest.

Begrudgingly, Scott’s eyes follow.

He looks away. “It can’t… hurt me.”

“But will it hurt?”

The wound burns hot at the distinction, stealing the warmth from everywhere else.

Scott wavers.

Stiles’ hand lowers, still hovering, but not directly in the way.

Letting him choose.

“I guess,” he finally whispers, with the dark, empty blackness of his wound staring back at him. “…It always hurts.”

Stiles’ fist clenches, but to his surprise, Scott doesn’t find himself flinching away. “Okay. Yeah, okay, then—god. Did you bring anything? In the car, maybe, or I can—”

“Glove compartment,” Scott murmurs.

He’d packed them there while Stiles had been messing around with the engine. He hadn’t really been planning to use them, especially not in front of Stiles, but the odds of bleeding through a shirt again had been too high to risk not packing anything.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay, I guess we’ll just… put this back on until we get to the jeep, and then we’ll see if we can get this cleaned this up, yeah?”

Scott blinks numbly at him, bandage still fisted in his hand. “You hate this kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But I like you… more.”

Tears suddenly prick at the corners of Scott’s eyes.

He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel them before the one or two leaking out turns into a flood.

He stares resolutely down at his chest as he secures the bandage back in place, wincing at the feel of it. When he looks back up, Stiles is mirroring his expression.

“You with me?” he asks, reaching out.

Scott’s breathing stays steady at the sight of Stiles’ hand. “Yeah.”

Stiles’ lips quirk up in the slightest of smiles, and then his hand wraps around Scott’s wrist.

Scott looks down at it.

It’s warm, and dry, and not the least bit frightening.

He lets it guide him back to the jeep.

The hood of the jeep is warm against Scott’s skin.

His shirt’s still hanging open, bandage peeled all the way off and lying crumpled in the sand a few feet away. Across from him, Stiles is sitting cross-legged, carefully pouring water out onto a clean rag in the light of the jeep’s headlights.

The old bandage keeps catching Scott’s attention.

It’s weird, seeing it from a distance. The desert wind has already half-buried it, but somehow the small sections that are still visible look even worse than he remembers.

“Sorry I don’t have any saline,” Stiles says, dragging Scott’s attention back. “Or… a doctor’s license.”

A gust of wind sweeps through the area, the cold snapping at Scott’s chest, and a violent shudder runs through him. He places his hands flat against the hood in the hopes of stealing more of its warmth.

Stiles looks up, water bottle still canted haphazardly in his hand. “You okay?”

Scott’s chest stutters up and down, aggravated by the temperature and the sudden movement. And the injury goring through his ribs.

The bloodied bandage sits in the sand.

“…No.”

Stiles’ fingers clench around the bottle, but his scent turns strangely relieved. “Yeah. So… let’s see if we can fix that.”

Stiles sets the bottle down and scoots further into Scott’s space, all the way until his knees knock against Scott’s. He wraps the rag around the fingers of one hand, and then, like he did before, rests his free hand on Scott’s shoulder. Scott closes his eyes, focusing instead on the points of contact and trying to match his breathing with Stiles’.

The first touch of cloth against his skin has them flying back open with a ragged gasp.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Stiles flusters, pulling back immediately. “It’s—cold? Rough? I don’t really know what I’m—”

Scott grabs Stiles’ wrist, shaking his head while he catches his breath.

It had startled him, but not in a bad way.

After a moment, Stiles brings the cloth closer again.

He catches Scott’s eyes. “Let me know if it hurts, okay?” 

Scott lets his hand fall away as the rag presses against his chest again.

This time, he’s ready for it.

Stiles traces the cloth down Scott’s chest, mapping the wound with his fingers and slowly working away the dried blood. Scott’s skin burns under the attention, and it’s not exactly gentle, but it’s almost overwhelmingly careful. Stiles checks in on him every time he so much as winces, and dedicates himself to the arduous task with the kind of laser focus he normally reserves for working on one of his string maps.

Somewhere around the fourth pass, the stinging sensations finally ease up as the last of the dead tissue is stripped away.

He’s not ready for how good it feels when Stiles starts in on the fifth.

“Stop,” Scott chokes out.

Stiles jerks back like he’s been burned. “What? What is it?”

The lump in Scott’s throat is too big, and he can’t get a single word past it. He shakes his head, trying to communicate something, but then—

A single tear slips out.

Then another.

And another.

“Whoa, Scott? Hey, just—” The rag lands on the hood with a wet squelch, Stiles’ hands frantic. “Scotty, you gotta talk to me, I don’t know what’s—”

“I died.”

Stiles stills.

Red and black water runs in slow rivulets down the jeep, dripping off the edges to disappear into the sand.

“…Yeah,” Stiles agrees. His voice as careful as his hands had been. “I’m sorry—”

“No.”

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut.

Scott can’t get the words to rearrange on his tongue.

Another tear falls, splashing against the metal.

“I—died,” he says, trying again. “But then it—hurt. When I came back.”

Stiles sucks in a breath.

Scott’s tears just keep spilling out, dripping onto the jeep, his chest. His vision too blurry to follow Stiles’ expression.

“I can’t—I’m trying to make it heal,” he stutters, dragging the back of his hand across his nose. “I am. It just—won’t, and I don’t know why. Everything… everything else went away like it’s supposed to.”

The claw marks from Liam, the bruises from where he’d smashed through the ceiling. Even the ribs that had broken under his mother’s hands as she’d forced him back to life.

Stiles is terrifyingly quiet across from him. 

Then instead of answering, he pushes his knees a little closer to Scott’s. Separates one of the clean wet rags from the pile between them, and holds it out.

Scott drags it across his face, harsher than necessary.

“Is… that why you asked me to stop?” Stiles asks. “It hurt?”

Scott shakes his head miserably. “It was—nice.”

Stiles’ mouth does something complicated.

Scott wipes at his eyes again before giving up, letting the tears streak freely down his face. His hand falls to rest on his hip, fingers curling loosely around the damp cloth.

There’s no way to explain this. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Maybe it’s telling you something.”

Scott freezes. “What?”

“When I—with the Nogitsune,” Stiles continues, a little slower. “A lot of things didn’t feel real. And so when Donovan—his body just disappeared, and it felt too similar. Like it was happening again. But I could… my shoulder still hurt, you know? And that sucked, but when I was terrified I was still dreaming, it was there. I knew it had really happened. What I did.”

Scott stares down at the cloth, tears still trapped in his lashes. “I know what happened.”

“Do you?”

Scott’s fingers clench around the rag.

“You got hurt, Scott,” Stiles says. “Really hurt. By a lot of people, and… I think we’ve all been pretending that you weren’t. Me, most of all.”

Scott shakes his head. “If I’d just heal, it wouldn’t matter that—”

“It would,” Stiles interrupts. “Because you still would’ve died. You’d still be hurting, just… not obviously. Maybe that’s part of why it won’t heal. Your body’s trying to tell you that it still hurts, like you’re—like it’s….”

Stiles trails off, then he’s gently coaxing the cloth out of Scott’s fingers.

Scott’s hands have only water on them. “…Like it’s a tattoo.”

Scott’s vision blurs all over again.

Then he’s tipping forward and Stiles’ arms are around him, cradling his neck and wrapping around his waist in a clumsy, desperate approximation of a hug.

Scott sobs—ugly, snotty tears and heaving lungs and a body that won’t stop shaking, slumping bonelessly against Stiles. 

Stiles just hugs him tighter, fingers curling in his hair as his forehead rests against the top of Scott’s. He’s crying too, tears falling from his face to land on Scott’s, intermingling until Scott can’t tell the difference.

He clings to Stiles just as tightly as Stiles holds on to him.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there.

It doesn’t really matter how long.

Eventually, his tears have all but dried out, ragged gasps slowed to a whimper. Stiles is rubbing slow circles into his back. Scott returns the gesture with a pet of his thumbs as he pulls away.

The bandages are crumpled between them, cloth and tape jumbled from Scott’s desperate lunge.

His chest is still bare.

Scott reaches for the bandage—now that his wound’s been cleaned, the actual dressing is just a matter of taping it on—but Stiles gently slips that out of his hands, too.

“I got you, Scotty,” Stiles says, and his hands are warm where they press the bandage against Scott’s chest. “I still got you.”

The gas gauge points to half full when Stiles turns the key over in the ignition.

Scott’s body tenses.

This time, however, he pushes past the discomfort and clears his throat. “Stiles?”

Stiles’ head jerks up, concern flashing across his face, but then his brow smooths out when he sees where Scott is looking.

“I filled up about an hour before you woke,” he says, putting the jeep in gear. “And plotted another stop based on when it should run out. We’ll be good.”

Scott releases the breath he’d been holding, the tension dispelling along with it. “Thanks.”

Stiles murmurs something unintelligible but Scott recognizes as ‘no problem,’ and it helps soothe him deeper into his seat. The clock on the dashboard, adjusted, says it’s nearing midnight.

He could sleep.

His eyes start drifting shut.

“Hey, Scott?”

Scott rolls over on his side, already too sleepy to bother with a proper response. “Mm?” 

“I…”

Nervousness tints the edges of Stiles’ scent, and that has Scott cracking one eye open. It doesn’t seem bad, though, and he’s pretty sure—

“I need you to know you’re my best friend.”

It cuts into his chest.

Deep, like so many other things, but different.

Like cutting away dead flesh.

“Yeah?” he says, because he can’t help but ask.

Stiles glances sideways at him, something soft in his eyes. Then he’s reaching over and his hand squeezes Scott’s shoulder. “Yeah.”

Scott’s chest floods with warmth, radiating out from the center and soothing away the last bit of tension in his muscles. He lays his head back against the window, the rattle of the jeep familiar as it pulls out onto the road.

Stiles’ hand doesn’t leave him.

If he thinks about it, his chest still hurts, underneath it all. Fainter, and not as painful, but still there.

But it’s healing.

The jeep is quiet.

Scott drifts off to sleep.