Chapter Text
Scott was acting strange. Stiles knew Scott. Stiles knew Scott better than Scott knew himself, and something was different.
Something in the way Scott carried himself had shifted, an unfamiliarity clung to his movements, an unconscious responsiveness to his environment. Twitching or focusing on quiet noises, body unknowingly twisting toward the source. Quick agitation under bright light, a glint of something reflective, something other, sparkling in his eyes.
Scott was suddenly fast, strong, and healthy. Instantly. It wasn’t an unwelcome change, though it was the most obvious. Stiles hadn’t seen him reach for his inhaler once, not in four whole days. It was strange. Usually, Scott needed to use his inhaler so regularly, on a day to day basis, that Stiles even carried a spare on him, constantly, just in case. That lacrosse match was not natural. Agility, reflexes and movements made easy and powerful, almost inhuman.
But, weirdest of all, Stiles could feel it. Something in Scott felt different, it had changed. The energy around him, the air and space clinging to him, was new. Stiles couldn’t explain it; he couldn’t understand it, but he knew, somewhere bone deep, that something had changed.
He hadn’t, however, actually been expecting werewolves. Or maybe he just didn’t fully believe it until he saw it. He’d done the research, he’d seen the indent of claws across the back of his chair, but it was different, to see it. Undeniable, in his face.
Scott’s eyes gleaming a bright, unnatural gold, hot glowing flames licking around the deep black of his pupils. Jaw made slack from the heavy weight of fangs, his breaths coming quick and fast; teeth shiny and slick with saliva, gleaming in the dimly lit lights of the bedroom they were in. A flash of claws, long and sharp. Werewolf.
Stiles had trapped himself in a room, with a werewolf, on a full moon. Scott’s first full moon.
“Scotty,” Stiles whispered, panic settling somewhere deep in his gut.
Scott hadn’t moved since Stiles entered the room, and they stood opposite one another, on each side of the room. Air thick with tension, the moment suspended between them, they each simply stood, staring at one another. Stiles could feel the vibrations of the music downstairs through the floors, and was sharply reminded of the party, and the countless people, downstairs.
Moving slowly, eyes locked onto Scott’s own, Stiles carefully lifted his hand to the door handle, watching nervously as Scott’s eyes tracked the movement. The click of the door lock sliding shut was deafening in the silence between them.
Stiles really didn’t like the look in Scott’s eye, suddenly remembering the whole ‘blood lust’ thing. He felt pinned, Scott’s stare unblinking, hungry, focused. Trying his best not to feel like prey, his voice wavering slightly, he called out another hesitant,
“Scott? You okay, buddy?”
With a snarl, Scott lunged forwards, his movements liquid and fast: animal. He crossed the room before Stiles could blink, and Stiles felt the heat of him, before he registered Scott barrel into him. They fell in a tangle of limbs, a growl rumbling through Scott’s chest into Stiles’ own from their proximity, and he could hardly think through the beating of his heart in his chest.
Warm breath across his throat, the sound of claws scrabbling on the wooden floor by his head, and the deep heaving of his panicked breathing. For a moment, all Stiles could think was that he was going to die. Right here, right now. This was the end of the road.
Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Stiles braced himself, body tense and arm flying up; forearm coming up to press against Scott’s chest, in a last ditch attempt to put some space between them. At the contact, Stiles gasped, feeling something new, something burning, something hot churning in his chest.
He could feel it again. Feel the mass of energy surrounding Scott, engulfing him, something that he couldn’t see, but could feel. Something was new, though. Something in his core, something within his very own self, was shifting. Time felt frozen, the moment suspended once more.
White hot energy, a fluid, twisting, winding pressure was building in chest, filling a deep chasm that he hadn’t even realised was there. The acknowledgement of it now was shattering. How did he not feel that before? What did he even feel?
Body shaking, and still wrestling with Scott, Stiles flung his eyes back open, meeting the bright glow of Scott’s eyes. Both hands coming up to grip at Scott’s shoulders, he winced as Scott landed a small scratch on his arm, before taking a quick, deep breath and trying to pull at the weird sensation in his chest,
“Scott,” Stiles barked, tone harsh and sharp, fingers clenched tight into the fabric of Scott’s shirt, “It’s me. You need to calm down.”
Something warm pulsed in his gut, the swirling, strange sensation of energy rushing a quick path through what felt like his entire body. To his amazement, Scott’s breathing started to slow, movements beginning to still, and Stiles, relief pouring through him, breathed a deep, shaky sigh.
“Stiles?”
Scott’s voice was low and confused, sounding groggy and throaty. All the growling had probably done a number on his throat. Growling. Because Scott was a werewolf.
Stiles couldn’t stop the shrill, crazed laugh from pouring from his throat if he tried, his shoulders heaving from the force of it, body going limp. His adrenaline was crashing hard, and everything suddenly felt so ridiculous.
Fucking werewolves.
---
Getting Scott back to Stiles’ house, without him maiming or eating someone, was thankfully a painless ordeal. The subsequent research binge on everything werewolf, magic and supernatural was, however, pretty painful for Stiles’ sleep schedule. He was just lucky it was a Friday.
For the rest of the night, Scott stuck close to Stiles’ side, less homicidal in presence but still undeniably exhibiting wolfy behaviours. His eyes would flash, or Stiles would hear him inhale, clearly smelling him, and he couldn’t help but pace around Stiles’ room, almost as if he were walking the perimeter of it. It was a little funny, Stiles had to admit.
Stiles pieced together a rough idea of what werewolves were, and how dynamics were likely to be structured, as accurately as he thought he could scrape together from various, weird websites. Alphas led packs, so it was likely an alpha bit Scott. From what Scott had described, the Alpha was much more animal than Scott could shift into; something actually resembling a huge, beast-like wolf, the glaring red eyes different from Scott’s yellow.
The magic was more difficult to piece together, there was too much conflicting information, too much fantasy and fiction mingling with the history. There was nothing reliable Stiles actually trusted, and he bit back a sigh of frustration.
Slumping back in his chair, Stiles rubbed a heavy hand over his face, before turning to look at Scott. He had made himself comfortable on top of Stiles’ bed, slack sleeping face nestled into a pillow, a slight bit of drool escaping from his open mouth.
“Gross, Scotty,” Stiles mumbled, smiling softly, fond nonetheless. He turned back to his laptop, cracked his knuckles, and kept on researching until the sun rose.
---
Later that same day, after Scott nearly broke his ribs, with the sheer force of the apology hug he gave Stiles, he was propped back on his elbows, restless, against the softness of his sheets. He could still feel it. That warm buzzing.
A flame glowed hot in his chest, burning its way through his lungs with every gasping inhale, rising in his throat and urging him to let it free.
Just once. Just a little. It couldn’t hurt.
A wordless, soundless, resounding plea cried out; twisting and writhing in the pit of his stomach, making the veins in his wrists itch and pulse. He inhaled once, sharply and deeply, and collapsed back onto his bed with his exhale.
His ceiling was a familiar sight, painted cream and cracked and weathered with age, spotted with small, glow-in-the-dark stars he and his mother had stuck up, long since having lost their glow. He sighed once more, closing his eyes and rubbing both hands down his face.
Fuck it. He never really had much self-control anyway.
Seeking out that blazing flame, he felt it flare accordingly, like an eager puppy jumping to attention. He smiled, a soft, fond smile, and snorted under his breath.
“Let’s hope I’m not crazy, huh,” he mumbled to himself, stretching out his hands above himself – feeling his knuckles crack with the movement - and envisioned the flame moving.
From his chest to shoulders, winding around the muscle and bone of his upper arms and continuing its path to his inner forearms, where it ran its way down toward the veins of his inner wrist, making them twitch once more, and then finally pooling into his palms.
He opened his eyes, and released.
Warm, gentle fire, appearing hesitant in its journey, seemed to emerge from his palms and began to coil its way around his wrists, although causing no pain to him.
“Holy fucking shit,” he whispered, reverent and awestruck, and sat up; beginning to inspect the flame closer, by leaning his head into both of his arms and narrowing his eyes.
He flexed his hands, and willed the flame to increase. It responded in kind, burning brighter and higher, with it extending further down his arms.
He laughed, breathless, and willed it to decrease. Again, it followed his command, the flames first becoming sharper, small whips like extensions of himself, and then receding back into his palms - collecting into small pools of light.
“I wonder if…” he began, and cupped his palms together, the left atop his right.
Gently, he attempted to scrape his left palm against the side of his right, like transferring cake batter between two spoons. The glow of his right palm doubled, as the mass of his left was added to it, and he laughed again.
“Just brilliant.” A louder laugh, “Lumos.”
He paused, and looked up – directly at the long dead stars on his ceiling. Eagerly, he rose first to his knees, then up onto his feet, atop his bed, all the while still looking up. He looked back down at his right hand.
Furrowing his eyebrows, he used his left hand to attempt to pinch small amounts of light from his palm, just a small amount, enough for one star. It stretched at first, consistency looking not dissimilar to melted cheese, and, when at enough of a distance from its source, broke away.
He rolled the light between his thumb and forefinger, watching it shift, and looked back up.
Biting his lip slightly, in concentration, he pressed the light against a dulled star, and pushed upward, using the flat of his thumb. A second of resistance, then a blunt pop, as it pushed into the plastic.
Stiles grinned, and got to work.
---
A loud knock sounded out, making him gasp awake from sleep, collapsed over his laptop. He had fallen asleep while researching as much magical bullshit as he could again, after finishing lighting each star and playing around with the flame.
Blearily, he pried open his eyes, sniffing loudly, and looking towards his door for the source of the god forsaken noise.
“Morning, kid,” his dad smirked, looking amused, leaning against the frame of his open door. He raised his eyebrow at Stiles, slightly condescending yet fond, as Stiles smacked his lips - trying to shake off his weariness.
“You’ve got something-“ he sighed, stepping into Stiles’ room and walking toward him, reaching his arm out toward Stiles’ face.
A light sting struck Stiles’ face as his father removed a stubborn sheet of paper that had been clinging to it. His father sighed, holding up the sheet.
“You stayed up all night again, huh?”
“Uh,” Stiles smiled sheepishly, “No?”
“You sound real certain about that kid,” he sounded entirely unimpressed, “What was it this time? God knows it’s probably better than your whole circumcision kick.”
Tutting, he began to look down at the paper in his hand.
Panicked, Stiles yelped and flailed upright, reaching out to snatch the paper from his father’s hand, and felt his magic flare within him in response. His dad willingly allowed the paper to be taken from him, raising his eyebrows in response, and lifted both of his hands, palms facing upward, in front of him.
“Jeez, alright. Must be worse then.”
“It’s not-“ Stiles stopped, face heating red in embarrassment, “Don’t you have work?” He slumped, defeated.
Taking pity on his son, the sheriff smirked, “Yes, and you have school. So, get yourself ready and be back home directly afterwards. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that stunt you tried to pull in the woods the other night.”
At that, Stiles broke eye contact with his father, instead choosing to stare shamefully at the ground.
“Fine,” he mumbled, peering back up at his father, “But, be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get mauled by some rabid animal either.”
A sad smile crossed his father’s face then, one carrying weight. The sheriff rubbed a hand over Stiles’ head, almost petting, to comfort him.
“Don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” he sniffed, seemingly jolting back to himself, and straightened his back, taking his hand back from Stiles’ head.
“Work,” he pointed to himself, “School,” he pointed to Stiles, and then turned to leave.
He walked a few steps just to stop at Stiles’ doorway. He turned his head back to Stiles, and softly said, “Have a good day, kid,” before fully leaving the room.
Rubbing at his eyes, Stiles sighed explosively, and then looked back down at the crumpled sheet of paper he’d been so protective over. Looking back, he wasn’t quite sure why he’d been so panicked; it wasn’t as if his dad would read it and immediately call a witch hunt on his son.
His dad would’ve laughed it off, seeing it as another one of his son’s ridiculous researching black holes. Maybe, that was why. Or, maybe, Stiles was pre-emptively trying to protect his father from the magic itself; from Stiles.
He’d never thought of himself as dangerous before, especially not to his dad. An asshole, sure. Cunning, of course; he was a Slytherin. But, never truly dangerous.
His lanky frame held so much power within it, this newfound energy coursing throughout his body. Who knew all he needed to unlock it was to simply discover the supernatural? It was exhilarating, almost adrenaline inducing in its excitement.
He stood from his desk, rubbing at the tension in the back of his neck and groaning at the stiffness. Halting in his motions, he called his magic to attention, causing it to rush down through the veins in his arm and pool at the tip of his forefinger. Much like how he pushed light into the stars on his ceiling, he pushed that glowing heat right into the spot that was most tense.
Willingly, it spread along the back of his neck, a dull, comforting heat. Stiles sighed in relief, much better.
He pointed to himself, echoing his father’s words, “School.”
Chuckling to himself, under his breath, he got himself ready and out the door.
---
“Scott!” Stiles bellowed, in the quiet morning on Scott’s street, seeing Melissa’s light turn on consequently.
He winced to himself. Well, he couldn’t turn back now.
"Scott! C’mon!”
Glaring at Stiles, Scott stuck his head out from his window, looking tired and bleary.
“Give me a minute!” he called back, his voice heavy with sleep, and retracted his head back into his room.
Stiles waited as patiently as he could, tapping his foot against the ground and finger against his upper forearm, looking around the familiar neighbourhood, all the while leaning back against his jeep.
He first looked at the tree he and Scott had attempted to climb, when they were 10, which left Scott stuck and too afraid to climb back down – much like a cat. Stiles had panicked, and called 911, describing the situation as if Scott really were a cat; although, in Stiles’ defence, his panicked yowls really did sound like some feral creature.
Scott was eventually retrieved, obviously, and he and Stiles were promptly punished by Melissa for their recklessness. On the bright side, all those household chores really were quite good exercise.
The front door creaked open, as Scott hurried out, a jumper hastily thrown on and shoes still not fully on. In his rush, he tripped over a loose board, almost falling onto his ass, before correcting his balance and shoving one foot fully into his shoe, although leaving it unlaced. What a mighty werewolf.
He finally stumbled his way up to Stiles - stood there with his arms crossed against his jeep, with an eyebrow raised - and leaned down, to correct his other shoe. Looking up with a sunny smile, fumbling to do up his laces, he panted, “Slept through my alarm.”
“No shit,” Stiles replied, amused. God, Scott really was like a puppy. “Dude, I may have done something, and I gotta show you it.”
Tilting his head, Scott replied,
“I’m not gonna like this, am I?”
Stiles just grinned, a glint of mischief in his eye. Groaning, Scott rose to his feet and the two of them clambered into Stiles’ jeep.
Still grinning, Stiles turned to face Scott, who looked straight back at him, and channelled his magic behind his pupils, willing them to glow a muted, warm white – the edges of which were tinted a soft yellow.
Scott gasped, his jaw going slack and brows furrowing.
“What the fuck,” he whispered, leaning in closer to Stiles, inspecting further.
“Dude!” he exclaimed, coming back to himself.
“Dude,” Stiles smirked, letting the light fade from his eyes.
“What the fuck! Did you get bit?” Scott immediately reached over to Stiles, patting over his chest, and then attempted to lift his undershirt.
“No! Off! Bad touch!” Stiles yelped, slapping at Scott’s hands frantically, only stopping when they receded, “It’s a magic thing! Not a wolf thing. That’s all you buddy.”
“Oh,” Scott said, “Magic? Dude, you’re magic?”
“Fuck yeah,” Stiles nodded, eyes gleaming and grin helplessly wide.
“Since when?” Scott gaped, eyes wide and jaw slack.
“I actually have no idea,” Stiles snorted, “I think you triggered my magical puberty, or something, dude.”
“Show me more! Jesus, Stiles. C’mon, what are you waiting for?”
Fascination crossed Scott’s face, a glee much like a child’s. He sat eagerly, hands in lap, with his full attention on Stiles, as if waiting for him to perform some trick for him, his eyes bright – almost sparkling. Stiles turned back toward the road, looking forward, and snorted,
“We’re parked in the middle of your street, Scott. And, we have school in like ten minutes.”
“Drive us somewhere private then. Screw first period. We have Harris anyway,” Scott huffed. Stiles’ eyes found Scott’s again, and they shared a grin.
“Fuck it, sure,” Stiles said, causing Scott to cheer, pleased to have had his way.
Those puppy dog eyes were always so hard to say no to. Stiles turned the key in the ignition, and they made their way to the preserve.
---
Stiles exhaled, facing Scott.
They were stood in a small clearing within the preserve, and Stiles could swear the forest had never felt so alive; it was as if he could feel the energy of the preserve itself: sharp, yet kind; freshness like an icepack to an injury; constantly moving; never stopping; running and chasing; a push and pull.
Giddiness rose in Stiles’ chest, elation at what appeared to be nothing. Simply being there, standing within this living, breathing forest, brought him this feeling of being truly content. He closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders and exhaled. Scott stood watching, patient and keen.
With a soft smile, Stiles willed his magic to move: a radiant, fog-like smoke rising from his chest, to the base of his neck, licking along the back of his teeth, and swirling out through his mouth and nose with his next exhale.
Even upon hearing a sharp intake of breath from Scott, his eyes remained closed, as he willed his magic to wrap around his neck, then shoulders - allowing it to stretch out, much like a cat would do after a good nap. Winding and twisting, it coiled down his arms, until finally reaching his palms and curving into balls of pure energy.
“Dude! Holy shit!” Scott exclaimed, rushing forward, reaching out to try and touch it.
Opening his eyes, Stiles felt as his magic skirted back upwards, rushing back over his arms, to twist back around his shoulders.
“Skittish, I guess,” Stiles huffed. Having stopped his movement, Scott looked back up at Stiles,
“Dude!” he repeated, as if Stiles hadn’t heard the first time.
Something lurched in Stiles’ gut, and he instantly stopped his movements, his face falling slightly. Something felt off. Holding his breath, Stiles’ eyes started darting around the preserve, searching for a threat.
Stillness had fallen upon the preserve. Silence, hesitance, as if it had begun holding its breath.
Narrowing his eyes, Stiles tensed; his magic crawling under the hem of his shirt, to slither under the sleeves of his undershirt, and ready itself, coiled around his wrists.
Stiles looked behind Scott, directly above his shoulder. He brought his finger to his lips, ensuring Scott’s silence, and tapped his right ear with his hand questioningly. Scott paused, now also tilting his head, and nodded.
“I hear breathing,” Scott whispered, in a hushed tone. Placing a hand on Scott’s shoulder, Stiles walked around him, somehow knowing the direction he needed to walk in, feeling the set of eyes burning into him.
A bush, relatively non-descript, covered a dark mass – black fur peeking through from between its leaves. Two, pin-prick red beams of light stared back at him. The alpha. Fuck.
Not taking his eyes off of it, Stiles whispered, panicked,
“Run.”
Hearing the command in Stiles’ words, Scott was off like a shot, his feet pounding against the forest floor – loud cracks of the breaking of twigs and crunching of leaves sounding out with the force of each step. Gasping for breath, his chest heaving, he followed instruction without question. Stiles, however, stood stock still – almost frozen – eyes still locked with the beast.
There was an amusement in the cruel thing’s gaze, as if seeing a dog perform a new trick. A sick, twisted interest laced with condescension, alongside a challenge. Stiles was, of course, not only fucking terrified, but felt his pride prodded by that warm, intense gaze.
Maybe, he was just an idiot, one with too much new-gained ego and confidence in himself. And, maybe, that would get him killed. But, in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to run just yet. He couldn’t succumb to being the prey he’d always known himself to be.
Still slightly shaking, he planted his feet firmly into the ground beneath him, anchoring and grounding himself; connecting himself with the forest’s energy. He inhaled deeply, lifting his chin in challenge, just to feel a pulse of energy beneath his feet.
Flowers, small purple flowers, had begun to grow around his feet – he felt another pulse, they grew larger: wolfsbane. Curious. Slowly, he bent down towards it, gaze still locked with the alpha, and, just as his hand grazed it, he heard a resounding snarl.
Rising steadily, the deformed, hulking mass of the alpha came into full view: beastly; stood on four bulky, muscled legs; covered in a matted, black fur, as if bathed in shadow; jagged, tusk like fangs protruding from its mouth. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. Letting out a low growl, it took one step forward.
With that, Stiles broke out of his stupor, quickly grasping the wolfsbane and standing back upright. He braced himself, stepping into a fighting stance, not that he expected to win a fight hand-to-hand, or, in this situation, hand-to-claw. Instinctively, somehow, he knew what to do.
Magic, in the form of a blazing heat, was released from its circling around his wrist. A snarl. Footsteps. Pounding footsteps. Rapid beat of paws against a forest floor. Hastily, Stiles burnt the flower to ash, firmly grasping the powder in each hand. He held each handful up to his face, directly in front of his mouth, and exhaled harshly, willing his magic to travel alongside it.
The alpha was close, much too close, and getting nearer by the second.
Clouds, dark clouds much like those within storms, began to race toward it. Winding, carried by strong, unnatural gusts of wind, and collapsing into itself, it appeared to glow from the inside – small, electric bursts of energy cracking from within it, as if lightning. It raced toward the alpha, which could no longer stop its charge toward Stiles, its eyes wide, still burning a crimson red yet no longer so amused.
Thick smoke encased its head, blending into the wispy shadows of its fur. A yowl. It reared up onto its hind legs, clawing at its face frantically, sounding much like it was choking. An angered howl. It stumbled; its left hind leg collapsing. It fell, with a thunderous crash, beginning to whimper to itself in pain.
Stiles was not a monster. And, while this creature was not some harmless puppy, it did not deserve such a cruel death, especially when it had not directly harmed Stiles. Yet.
Wincing, Stiles summoned his magic back toward him, and, obediently, it returned – leaving the alpha in a crumpled heap on the ground, the raspy noise of its breathing and light movement of its chest the only indicator it was still alive. Once again, the preserve was silent.
Stiles cleared his throat. He stared at the alpha, dumb move probably, he should’ve been running for it, before the thing decided it wanted revenge. It didn’t move. Stiles stepped forward, a single step toward it, a twig cracking beneath his foot. He winced, and took another step.
“Oh, fuck this is a dumb idea,” he mumbled, edging closer to the werewolf. Eventually, he stood around a foot away from it. From that distance, he could see the skin around the muzzle of the creature was blackened, slightly charred, and emitting a muted smoke. Stiles sucked in between his teeth.
“That’s gotta hurt, buddy. Ouch.”
It lay there, eyes closed and mostly limp, yet still with an underlying promise of danger. Looking to his left, Stiles spotted a relatively long stick. Hm.
“I’m a dumbass,” he nodded to himself, picking up said stick and reaching out to poke the lying werewolf, “I mean, they literally tell you not to poke the bear, but here I am,” he muttered.
Just before he could make contact, the wolf’s eyes snapped open, making Stiles freeze. He gave a sheepish smile, retracting his hand incredibly slowly.
“Hey, buddy,” Stiles squeaked.
It closed its eyes, releasing a loud huff of air through its nostrils, as if questioning Stiles’ intelligence. Opening them once more, it pinned Stiles with its stare, looking at him with begrudging respect yet still with condescension.
“So,” Stiles cleared his throat, “Uh, we cool?”
They stared at each other for another long minute.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Stiles said awkwardly, taking a step back. Wrong move, apparently.
In a second flat, he was shoved onto his back, crashing against the forest floor with a grunt, by the black mass of fur lunging atop him. The alpha sprawled against him, keeping him pinned, but, to Stiles’ surprise, not mauling him to death.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Stiles squeaked, wheezing a little, and squeezing his eyes shut. Hot breath misted over his face. He grimaced, trying to turn his face away, accidentally exposing the long line of his vulnerable throat.
“Oh, dude, don’t you brush your teeth?”
For that, he gained a low growl, though less of a threat, more of a warning – like trying to discipline a child or pet. Heart racing, Stiles tried to wriggle a little, attempting to squirm his way from underneath it, earning himself another huff from the creature.
It stood, suddenly, looked back down at Stiles, flashed its eyes once more, and took off – running into the foliage.
The tension from Stiles released, his body going boneless on the forest floor. Wiping his face with one hand, he dug into his pocket for his phone with the other.
---
“Let me get this right. You kicked its ass, were merciful and it passive-aggressively hugged you for it?” Scott sounded horrified, “Dude! You’re fucking crazy! I thought you were gonna die!”
“I felt bad! It was like kicking a puppy, dude,” Stiles reasoned.
“A puppy? Have you seen that thing? It’s no fucking puppy.”
“I know, I know, okay? Next time, I’ll just kill it, Scout’s honour,” Stiles proclaimed, saluting Scott, with a forced grin on his face.
“Kill it? That’s worse! We can’t kill people, Stiles,” Scott spluttered, puppy dog eyes in full effect and arms crossed. The two of them were sat, once more, in Stiles’ jeep, parked right on the edge of the preserve.
“So I can’t kill it, and I can’t let it live. What do you want me to do Scott?” Stiles asked, frustration seeping into his tone. Scott paused, inhaling once, and replied,
“I don’t know Stiles.” He looked down quickly, then back up at Stiles. Then, he mumbled, expression melancholy, “I just want you to be safe."
The anger quickly flooded from Stiles’ body, his head rolling back and smacking against the back of his seat. Sighing, he grabbed his keys.
“Me too, Scotty," he nodded. "Alright, that’s enough excitement for one day. We gotta head into school at some point,” he smiled back at Scott, turning the keys in the ignition.
The jeep roared to life, and Stiles tried to ignore the distinct feeling that he was being watched.