Chapter Text
Stiles texts Scott while they’re on the way – dude get to jackson’s asap
“Texting while driving? And speeding? Your dad must be so proud,” Allison teases, making a face at him. He tosses his phone into her lap.
“You know, I think there are other things that are more likely to kill us than traffic accidents right about now, so.”
She snorts. “Texting Lydia now, letting her know we’re on our way.”
“God, she must be so confused by all of this shit.”
“Either that or she’s figured everything out and is halfway to taking over the world.”
“Yeah, that’s distinctly possible.”
Allison points. “That’s Jackson’s street.” Stiles yanks on the wheel and turns in, wheels skidding a little bit on the turn. He pulls into the right driveway and bolts up the stairs, Allison close behind him.
When they get to the top of the stairs, Stiles pushes the door open. He’s briefly overwhelmed by the pretentious douchebag vibe the room gives off before he takes in the scene – Chris Argent leaning against the island in the kitchen area, Jackson sprawled on the couch with Lydia perched behind him, and Scott trying really hard to look casual while sitting on one of the leather chairs near the TV.
“Allison?” Scott and Chris say in unison.
“Hey! Um, Lydia, I have your stuff.”
Lydia looks briefly confused, but rolls with it. “Awesome, thank you.”
“What?” Jackson asks.
“It’s nothing dad-friendly,” Lydia says, with a wink at Jackson. “You’ll see later, don’t worry,” she tells him before grabbing Allison’s hand and leading her into another room.
Stiles breaks the brief uncomfortable silence. “So, Chris, what are you doing here?”
“I was actually just leaving,” Chris says, looking at Scott. “I was in the neighborhood and saw that someone had left a dent in Jackson’s car. Thought I’d let him know.”
Stiles grins up at him, as obnoxiously bright as he can manage. “Wow, that’s really nice of you!”
Chris nods. “I can recommend a mechanic if you’d like. For now, I’ll leave you kids alone.” He nods awkwardly, then heads out the door. Scott relaxes, and Allison and Lydia come back.
“Does anyone want to tell me what the hell that was all about?” Lydia says. “I’m not exactly a fan of being kept in the dark.”
“Um,” Scott starts, looking from Lydia to Jackson to Allison, panicked.
“There’s a good explanation for this, I swear,” Stiles says.
“For why you’ve had me basically stalking my boyfriend for the last three days?”
“One, I’m not your boyfriend. Two, you’ve been stalking me?”
Scott throws his hands in the air. “You were in danger! What were we supposed to do?”
“Wait, what?” Jackson nearly jumps out of his seat. “I’m in danger? What the hell is going on?”
“Um,” Scott says again.
Allison, now sitting on the couch, rolls her eyes. “Scott’s a werewolf,” she announces.
There’s a moment of dead silence, where everyone stares at her, and then Lydia raises an eyebrow, Jackson starts laughing, and Scott blurts out, “You knew?”
“Cute, guys.” Lydia clearly doesn’t believe it, and Jackson’s still laughing.
“Is he okay?” Stiles asks.
“He’s fine. Now, can we please be serious? I’m getting really tired of your shit – all of you.”
“Lydia –” Allison starts.
“I got this.” Scott makes a face, and then he shifts.
Jackson stops laughing. “What the fuck,” he whispers.
Scott shifts back and shrugs. “Like she said, werewolf.”
Lydia looks taken aback, and then nods slowly. “That…actually makes some sense, in a twisted sort of way. How do the rest of you fit into this, though?”
Allison raises her hand to volunteer an answer. “My family is made up of werewolf hunters –”
“It’s a blast,” Stiles cuts in.
“Are you included in that group?” Lydia asks. Scott’s clearly interested in the answer too.
“I don’t know,” Allison admits. “I mean, ‘nous chassons ceux qui nouse chassent.’”
“We hunt those who hunt us,” Lydia translates.
“I don’t know who’s hunting whom at this point, though.”
“Basically, we have three werewolves in Beacon Hills,” Stiles offers. “There’s Scott, and then there’s Derek Hale –” Lydia raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. “– and then there’s the alpha, who turned Scott, and his name’s Peter Hale, and he’s the bad guy, but Scott and Derek haven’t done anything wrong, I swear.”
“I don’t know about Derek,” Scott says.
Stiles sighs. “Yeah, okay, the Derek situation is a little unclear right now but he’s probably a good guy deep down.”
“Okay.” Lydia runs a hand through her hair and nods. “Okay,” she repeats, sounding more confident.
“Man, I really thought it was steroids,” Jackson mutters.
“So Jackson really wants to become a werewolf,” Lydia tells Stiles over coffee the next day.
“Yeah, I got that, somehow, when he showed up at our apartment last night, you know, and spent two hours trying to get Scott to turn him. Pretty sure he knows better than to hunt down Peter, though.”
“I’m not positive.” Lydia purses her lips. “I’m trying to keep an eye on him, but he’s a little obsessive.”
“He’s convinced Scott can turn him and just won’t.”
“Well, that’s – Stiles.” Lydia’s eyes are wide.
“What?”
“What if he tries to get the bite from Derek instead?”
“Oh, fuck.”
He drops Lydia off at her apartment, because he wants to keep her safe, and then texts Scott.
dude, you need to find jackson and track him – lydia thinks he’ll go to derek next
im on it
Scott texts him that night. hale house. dereks here
A few minutes later, he gets another message – argents. im hurt. jackson ran and i dont know where derk is
Stiles curses the side roads as he weaves around potholes. The Hale house isn’t really that far out of town, but the drive there is awful, and by the time he pulls in, the house is empty, and he can’t see Scott anywhere.
“Scott?” he calls, quietly – if Scott’s conscious, he’ll hear. But Stiles doesn’t hear anything, so he calls Scott’s phone. And yep, there’s the sound of Call Me, Beep Me. Stiles snorts – he set that ringtone almost a year ago, and it’s still kind of funny – and then he runs towards it.
Scott is…really fucked up when Stiles finds him. He is still conscious, but barely, and his wounds aren’t healing like they should. And his veins are turning black around the wounds. “Wolfsbane?” Stiles asks. Scott nods.
Stiles isn’t strong enough to carry Scott all the way to the jeep, so he runs back to it and drives closer, so that he can rip his lacrosse jersey – oh god, Finstock’s going to kill him – and use the strips to temporarily bind the wounds. He manages to get Scott into the backseat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters. “Hospital. Right.” He pauses, thinks about how that would pan out, then reconsiders. He’s thinking out loud, using his own voice to calm himself. “But medical supplies. Fuck.”
“Deaton’s,” Scott groans from the backseat. “I have a key.”
Stiles nods, then winds through the back roads even faster than before. It only takes about fifteen minutes, with his complete disregard for the speed limit, but it feels like forever. Scott’s unconscious by the time they get there, but Stiles digs the keys out of his pocket and unlocks the back door, dragging Scott by his arms.
“Fuck.” He realizes that he doesn’t know what to do once he gets medical supplies – the first aid class he took in tenth grade didn’t exactly cover this. “What do I do, what do I do,” he whispers, letting it be his mantra until he hears a cough from the doorway. He looks up, and fuck, Deaton’s there. “This…isn’t what it looks like.”
“Yes it is,” Deaton says calmly. “Let me help.”