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Isaac is the easiest. If you show up and scuff your toe on the carpet and don’t meet his eyes, he’ll let you into the apartment whether he wants to or not. Then it’s just a matter of chatting casually about school until he gets comfortable, settling beside him on the couch and waiting for him to relax. When he smiles at you, you say it.
‘I don’t blame you, you know.’
You say it earnestly, like you’re trying to convince him, like you expect him to be struggling with it even though you know he’d managed to forget for a second. You say it gently and you can see him freeze up, his hands shaking and his eyes fixed on the floor.
‘There were, what? Five Oni? Six? There was nothing more you could have done. She just wasn’t a good enough shot.’
You have to say it smoothly, even if the words tear at your throat, and then you wait until he starts to argue.
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ he’ll say, choking on the words. ‘She was so brave.’
‘Well, it wasn’t your fault,’ you can say pointedly, in that low mocking tone your voice has gotten used to. ‘It’s okay, Isaac.’
You give him a sidelong look, one he can recognise but not accuse you of. When he shakes his head and looks away, that’s when you get up. You stand up and stretch and exhale and make all the little sounds of life and you know he can hear them. When he balls his hands into fists, that’s your cue to say ‘I hope you find someone else.’
That’s when he springs, every time. Five seconds later you’ve got his claws buried in your shoulders and pain singing along every nerve in your body and you can breathe. His eyes are too yellow and too tear-filled, so you close yours and pretend anyway. It’s almost enough; almost what you deserve.
Isaac was the easiest. Before Chris Argent started refusing to let you into the apartment.
-
You went to Ethan once, before he left town. Casually dropped by to visit, hoping you didn’t smell like tension and trying not to wring your hands. You didn’t have a script for Ethan, but his temper had shortened since his brother’s death and after you hinted that he should be happier alone, he didn’t even try to control himself.
You got two sets of claws dragged all the way up your back, for that one. The scars are still there, though the horizontal bloodstains you left on the wall of the garage when he threw you at it have been painted over by the new tenants. The doctor was angriest about that, because he knew it wasn’t Isaac and that meant that this wasn’t about ordinary cruelty.
Deaton knows you’re not just doing it because you’re a sadistic bastard. If he didn’t, he would have told Scott by now. That’s the thing that makes it easiest, really. Everyone is so in love with Scott, trying so hard to protect him, that they won’t tell him what you do these days.
You’re in love with him, too. And he’s done nothing but smile gently at you and turn his own veins black ever since you twisted that katana into his diaphragm, so you don’t go near him anymore. Because you want to protect him, too.
Because he should be angry. He should be angry at you for opening the door in your mind instead of closing it, and for putting him and everyone he loves in danger. He should be the one shoving you up against a wall, with his claws halfway to your heart, making you promise to die rather than put him at risk again. But he doesn’t get angry, no matter what you say to him. He just looks hurt and nods his head and tells you it’s going to be okay, so you stay as far away as you know how.
You don’t have a lot of options left after Ethan leaves and Chris opens the door with a pistol pointed at your head. You’re not actually suicidal enough to meet with Peter Hale, so you don’t really have any options at all.
-
He looks genuinely happy to see you and that hurts for a second, until you catch him looking over your shoulder for Scott. You don’t actually scowl, but that probably makes no difference to a werewolf.
‘Oh,’ he says, like he’s disappointed. ‘You’ve finally come for me.’
You raise an eyebrow and give him a condescending look, but it’s not what you expected him to say at all.
‘Were you feeling left out?’
Derek doesn’t react, just shakes his head, and it occurs to you that you might be out of your depth. Not that it matters. You jerk your head toward the staircase.
‘Where’s Uncle Peter?’
It’s not like you find it hard to be a mouthy little shit, but Derek doesn’t even answer you this time. He just circles around behind you and slides the huge door closed. Your heart rate picks up a notch and you’re sure he knows it.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he says, at last.
You sneer at him and look pointedly at the post in the corner. You remember flinging him against like he was a rag doll and you’re sure he remembers it too. He follows your eyes, but he just looks… sad.
‘You don’t know as much as you think.’
He shrugs and walks back to the table, stacking the bits of carved wood away and sheathing the knife he’d been whittling with. You try to look away from it, but your eyes don’t move.
‘I hear things,’ he says lightly, and there’s no reason for him to make this so difficult. You feel like you’re suffocating in your own skin, like all the guilt and unmet obligation in your life is seeping into your lungs to drown you, and it has never been this hard to make Derek angry. You try to focus and drag your mind back to the last time he hit you.
‘Look, if you’re worried I’m going to hurt you,’ you say mock-sympathetically, and he turns back toward you, shaking his head.
‘Stiles, I don’t want to hurt you,’ he says, and you look away because you can’t face that kind of honesty.
‘You’re a werewolf. What else can you do?’
You throw the words back at him and hope they sting, but he just sags a little and starts walking back towards you. He doesn’t say anything and his eyes are still grey-green, but it’s all you can do not to take a step back. He grabs your elbow and pulls your left arm toward him, sort of cradling your forearm against his. You couldn’t pull away if you wanted to.
‘What are you doing?’ you demand. He looks at you sadly.
‘Just what you want me to do,’ he says gently. ‘You’re still a part of Scott’s pack. I won’t turn you away.’
He extends his claws, the ones on his left hand sharp and full of promise against your arm and now you can’t take your eyes from the ones on his right.
‘You’re going to need this,’ Derek goes on. ‘You have a long night ahead of you.’
That’s when you start trying to pull away, yanking at your arm uselessly and glaring at him.
‘I don’t need your fucking pity,’ you spit, struggling against his grip, but he doesn’t let you go.
That’s when you see the light, and you put two and two together, and that’s when you really start to panic. The light is Derek’s phone, on the table opposite the knife you couldn’t stop staring at. The light is an open line, a call still connected, and your ears aren’t sharp enough to hear the rumble of a motorcycle engine on the other end of the line, but you know it’s there. You start screaming.
‘Let go of me! You asshole, what is wrong with you? Let me go!’
Derek holds fast and his clear eyes don’t leave yours.
‘Listen,’ he says softly. ‘I can do this for you now, if you need it.’
You start punching him with your free hand, falling silent to conserve energy and trying not to swear because it’s an awful lot like punching granite.
‘I know what it’s like to need an anchor,’ he continues, and you hate him. You’ve never hated him so much. ‘And unless you think you’re going to get Scott’s claws in you after he gets here, this could be your last chance for a while.’
You still for a moment, eyes flickering from his face to the door, straining for any hint of sound that could tell you how far away Scott is. You want to tell Derek to just do it, to push his claws under your skin until you feel human again, to get it over with and let you breathe for a second before you have to face your once-friend again, but you know in your heart that you won’t.
All you want is to go back to him. Eventually, sooner or later, you’ll get through this and feel like yourself again, be trustworthy again, and maybe you and he won’t ever be friends—maybe you can’t be friends after what you’ve done—but maybe you’ll be a real emissary by then and maybe you can be something to him. Someday.
It isn’t today, but if Scott sees your blood on Derek’s hands, he’ll be hurt and disappointed and that’s everything you’ve been trying to avoid. So you just punch Derek’s chest again and shake out your hand and half-turn away from him.
‘Let me go,’ you say again, but he doesn’t even bother to answer.
You try to remember what it was like to feel numb to all of this. Your sarcasm is no defence at all against Scott’s gentleness.
-
He almost falls through the door, frantic in his attempts to get to you and you can’t meet his eyes. He drops his helmet on the stairs and starts toward you both.
‘Stiles!’
Your heart aches to hear him, and you respond the same way you have for nine weeks, every day at school.
‘Hey, Scott, what’s up?’
Of course, at school you can pass him by and keep walking because Derek isn’t stubbornly hanging onto your arm.
‘What’s wrong?’ Scott demands.
‘Nothing, if you don’t count the fact that Derek seems to have taken possession of one of my limbs.’
You force your voice light, mimicking a you from another time and hoping Scott won’t notice. He does.
‘He wanted me to hurt him,’ Derek says in a low voice.
‘If you were listening on the phone the whole time, I’m pretty sure you’d notice that I didn’t ask him to hurt me,’ you point out, though you know it’s hopeless. ‘Or to refuse to let me go.’
‘I was listening,’ Scott says, hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out for one of you. You watch them because you can’t look at his face like this. You just can’t. ‘You said that werewolves did nothing but hurt you. Tell me, Stiles, what did I do?’
You know they can both hear your heart skip when he says your name, so you start shouting.
‘Yeah, you hurt me. You hurt a lot of people when you couldn’t bring yourself to put me down the first time I told you I had a key to the chemistry lab! I tried to have Kira killed! I had Allison killed! How are you going to stop me next time if you can’t stand to get my blood on your hands?’
Scott’s face crumples and he closes the distance between you in a hurry, like he can’t breathe and you’re his inhaler, and that makes sense because he doesn’t need you anymore. Derek doesn’t let you go until you’re wrapped up in Scott, and now you’re the one who can’t breathe because he feels warmer and safer than you have any right to be, and you have never been able to push him away.
‘How can I fix this?’ he says miserably into your shirt and you twist your hands into the back of his sweater.
‘Scott,’ you say under your breath, the first truth you’ve spoken in a long time, ‘you can’t fix me.’
He sobs—it sounds like nine weeks of loneliness and doubt—and his fingers spasm, tightening into your ribs. For a moment, the pain cuts through everything, cleanly, and you inhale.
‘Scotty,’ you mumble into his hair, because even when you left him you never meant to hurt him.
‘Come home with me,’ he says, pleadingly. ‘Just for tonight.’
You sigh, because you still can’t be trusted, because you can’t keep him safe, because one night could be one night too many. But the least you can do is convince him not to miss you anymore.
‘Just for tonight,’ you say heavily.
-
Melissa looks you up and down suspiciously and you are silently grateful to her for being protective of Scott when Scott clearly doesn’t know how to protect himself. Scott shrugs her questions off and takes you upstairs. It’s been a long time since you’ve been in his room. He’s got some new sigils on the walls now—ones you recognise from the vet clinic and you realise you have been moving in parallel with him even as you’ve tried to tear your lives apart—but his bed is still unmade and the electric guitar you bought him when he turned fifteen still stands in the corner. You can’t even begin to think about how much you miss him, so you throw yourself down on the bed.
He settles into the armchair, deliberately maintaining his distance like he couldn’t hear your heartbeat when he touched you. You’d almost forgotten he did that, and the realisation goes down like another pint of saltwater guilt in your lungs. You’d forgotten. That was never part of the plan.
‘Do you want to talk?’ he says tentatively.
You shrug and keep staring at the ceiling, because the things you want are pretty much meaningless except at the point where they all narrow down to keep Scott safe. Which means you should probably start running but, well, that actually seems like a good place to start.
‘I want you to be safe,’ you say, and your voice hasn’t had a lot of practice with ‘sincere’ lately so it just sounds flat.
‘I thought you hated me,’ he says, sounding surprised, and you stop breathing for a second. ‘I thought you were mad because I let you get hurt. Because I let you get possessed!’
‘None of that was your fault,’ you point out, because pointing this stuff out is why you’re here. ‘It was my fault. And I… I couldn’t protect you.’
‘Is that why you stopped speaking to me?’
You stare at the ceiling, digging your nails into your palms. You have to say it out loud.
‘I still can’t protect you.’
The bed shifts, and you flinch as he sits down beside you, leaning over you with his hair falling into his eyes. You resist the urge to reach up and push it back.
‘I need you anyway,’ he says simply.
You pull away and let yourself slide off the edge of the bed, suddenly angry that he thinks that could be enough.
‘What can I do?’ he asks, and you know he means it. Or, at least, he wants to mean it.
You lift your arm and let it fall back onto the bed, knowing he won’t so much as hold his claws near you tonight, but hoping anyway. If you knew he could spill your blood without hesitation, maybe.
Maybe.
But he takes your hand in his, reaching across the expanse of blanket between you. You know he feels the distance like time, nine weeks to be exact, and you know him. And you ask yourself how you can walk away from all this history again, but his nails are short, bitten and harmless, and you can’t… you can’t visit his grave too. It’s easier to live your life buried in the without-Scott than to bury Scott, and you’re not exactly known for your selflessness.
You take a deep breath.
‘Anyone could use me against you, Scott. Or anything. You can’t afford to have a weak point like that in Beacon Hills, not anymore. And the next time something possesses me, or takes over me, or looks like me? How far are you going to let it get?’
The silence stretches out and you start to think maybe he finally understands. It hurts more than you expected. Scott slides down to sit beside you, looking serious.
‘You want me to prove that I could stop you.’
You nod, trying not to think about your heartbeat and whether his eyes are going to flash red. He sighs and looks at you, looks right through you, brown-eyed and earnest.
‘Stiles… I could lock you in the bathroom with both hands tied behind my back. I almost did when you told me I was going to be just like my dad.’
You should probably stop unpicking his carpet and apologise for that, but he doesn’t pause long enough for you to steel yourself. You wish he had.
‘And you know it. So what is this really about?’
You get to your feet, but he’s faster. He grabs your wrists and looks down at your shaking hands and you can’t make them still. The darkness starts at his fingertips and that’s the closest you’ve ever cone to punching him.
‘Stop it!’
His head jerks up but he doesn’t let you go. It’s starting to become a theme for the evening but you don’t try to pull away from him, even now.
‘You want me to hurt you,’ he says gently, like he’s afraid even saying it might be enough. ‘You think I should.’
You turn your hands over and grip his wrists like he’s the only thing you have to hang on to.
‘I want you to keep me from hurting you again,’ you admit and everything that has settled in your lungs in the past nine weeks swells hot behind your eyes.
You try to turn away but Scott pulls you insistently toward him until you surrender and bury your face in his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt but you can breathe anyway, if a little unsteadily when your chest keeps hitching involuntarily. Scott holds you so tight, you think he’s afraid you’re going to leave again. You’re not sure if you can.
‘Go take a shower,’ he says quietly, the age-old excuse the two of you share when it comes to tears. ‘I’ll lend you a change of clothes.’
You nod and manage to let go of his arms to turn to the bathroom. At least you feel too exhausted to hurt him.
‘I have an idea,’ he calls after you, through the closed door. ‘Do you have anything on tomorrow?’
‘Jesus, what day is it tomorrow?’ you mutter, struggling with your shirt with unsteady hands.
Scott laughs outside, then abruptly stops.
‘It’s. It’s Saturday tomorrow, dude. In the morning we’ll go downtown. I know a guy.’
You drop your clothes on the floor and turn on the water before answering. It’s hot and comforting and just the tiniest bit like hugging Scott.
‘Uh, a guy who does what, exactly?’
‘Pack tattoos,’ he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. ‘Either that, or he’ll supervise an alpha doing them.’
For a second you stop breathing, your heart racing. Would Scott really do that?
‘Is that a fear reaction or are you excited?’ Scott calls worriedly.
‘I’m fine!’ you say quickly. ‘Feel free to stop listening in on my shower any time now, dude.’
‘All right, all right,’ he says good-naturedly. ‘Just think about where you want it, okay?’
Two concentric circles, one wide and one narrow; you don’t question for a second that yours should match his. And if he’ll do it, maybe it will help quiet the terror in your gut for a while. You turn off the spray and rub the steam from a swathe of the mirror with nearly-dry eyes, pull down a towel and wrap it around your waist, try to imagine ink encircling your skin. The steam fades while you stand there and the house is quiet, save for Scott’s mom moving around downstairs.
This place was a home for you, not so long ago, and you think if you asked Scott he’d say it never stopped being one. He’ll forgive you. You know he will, and it will be on you to protect him every day and there’s nothing else you want to do for the rest of your life.
When you open the door, he’s left a pile of clean clothes on his desk for you and he’s curled over his laptop with headphones on, manifest politeness. You dress quickly, not letting yourself inhale the smell of him, and toss your clothes into the laundry basket like you’re sure you’ll be coming back.
You sit down beside him and he pulls his headphones off, smiling at you like some sort of flowery metaphor. He bumps his shoulder against yours and drops the computer to one side.
‘Are you coming down to eat?’ he asks easily.
‘Yeah, of course,’ you say, because it’s not like you’ll ever be ready to face Mrs McCall again so you may as well get it over with.
-
‘So you’re staying for dinner?’ she says coolly and Scott gives her a worried look.
‘Just like old times,’ he says earnestly, glancing uncertainly between the two of you.
‘If that’s okay,’ you offer awkwardly, and get a raised eyebrow in return.
You want this too much to be half as smoothly manipulative as you’ve been for the last few weeks. But she nods, eventually, and you let out a breath, and Scott points you in the direction of the silverware drawer like you might have forgotten.
‘Oh, are you eating tonight?’ Melissa asks when Scott stacks three plates onto the counter.
Scott gives her a look of embarrassment and quickly says, ‘Yeah, of course!’
You have to try way too hard not to drop forks everywhere, putting them down on the table overly carefully and not thinking about the way Scott handles you.
Over dinner, Scott picks at his food and his mom asks you too-casually what you’ve been up to. Your mind races from the school hallways you’ve walked alone to getting bandaged up at the vet clinic after hours to the time Scott tried to visit. Your dad called up to you that he was here and you yelled back ‘Tell him I’m not home!’
Eventually, he left.
‘You know. School. And, um. Uh. Homework.’
‘We have so much chem homework this week,’ Scott adds, nodding. ‘And econ. And English, I think.’
‘Yeah, I started that essay but I haven’t finished the book yet.’
He actually laughs, despite the weakness of the joke, but his mom is still watching you mistrustfully. She puts her fork down and turns deliberately to Scott.
‘Are you still having trouble turning essays in on time?’ she asks.
He looks down, pushing his fork through his stir fry.
‘I’m doing okay,’ he says eventually, and you don’t understand her.
She should be taking your side, not… whatever this is. Mrs McCall always protects Scott, to the last man. When your mom got you that snake, she even tried to stop him coming over after school for a month, and this just doesn’t fit.
‘Oh, is your phone charged?’ she says suddenly.
Scott pulls it out of his pocket and swipes his thumb across the screen.
‘Yeah, no problem.’
‘I’ll have mine on me for the whole shift, okay? If you need anything.’
‘Mom,’ Scott says, a little more loudly than he needs to. ‘We’re going to be fine.’
She holds up her hands.
‘All right, then. Just remember to wash up. I’ll be home around four.’
Her plate is only half-empty, but she gets to her feet and collects her bag from the living room. Scott goes after her and she hugs him goodbye. She calls ‘Stay safe!’ over her shoulder as she pulls a jacket on, and you wave but she doesn’t look at you. It feels like the silence of the drive here all over again, heavy with Scott’s expectation and your rejection of it.
As the car pulls out, Scott stuffs his hands in his pockets and kicks at the floor. He looks up and gives you half a smile.
‘Give me five minutes to wash up,’ he says, because it’s pretty obvious neither of you feel like eating, ‘and then we can play a round of Halo, yeah?’
‘Dude.’ You get up from your chair, shaking your head. ‘Maybe I should just go home.’
He looks you in the eye and says gently, ‘Tonight’s not over yet. Stay?’
‘It’s not like you to be the clingy girlfriend,’ you retort, but he only smiles at you.
‘Yeah, it is.’
Right then, you’d follow him into a burning house, but he only goes to the kitchen and starts putting the leftover stir fry into the fridge. You turn on the hot water and the sponge is where it has always been and Scott starts humming Halo behind you like he does practically every time he mentions the game. You try not to remember the words.
Domestic bliss is hardly your favourite way to pass the time, but it works well enough. When the dishes are dried and stacked away—the first time you’ve managed it without mutual laughter and soapsuds in your hair in years—Scott slings his arm around your shoulders.
‘If I promise to let you snipe me from high places tomorrow, can we skip King of the Hill tonight?’
‘Like you ever need to let me shoot you. What do you want to do instead?’ You know you’re grinning when you say it, but it’s hard to stop.
‘Sleep,’ he says, determined. ‘I think you could use some.’
You hesitate, but he just squeezes your shoulder.
‘Come on. We’ll run the Jeep back to yours for your pillow and I’ll put the spare mattress on my floor. It won’t take long.’
He smiles at you, so you call your dad and tell him you’re staying at Scott’s tonight and listen to his uncertainty. You even let Scott drive Roscoe when he insists you’ll fall asleep at the wheel otherwise and, upstairs in his room on the familiar makeshift bed on the floor, you feel more rested than you have in nine weeks. And more comfortable.
Maybe that’s why you don’t fall asleep right away. Maybe that’s why, when the house is silent and the stars are bright outside the window, when Scott gets up and tiptoes to the bathroom and shuts the door carefully behind him, you’re still awake. Or maybe it doesn’t matter why.
-
Morning arrives abruptly with a sunbeam in your eyes around nine and Scott laughs when you swear into your pillow, which is worth waking up for. He’s already awake and dressed, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a textbook and he doesn’t look like a warrior.
‘Is the shower free?’ you groan, checking your face for drool with your sleeve.
‘Yeah, I’m about to make breakfast. Pancakes?’
Your response to that probably sounds more like a moan but, in fairness, Scott’s pancakes are out of this world.
‘Bring your face down here and I’ll kiss you.’
It makes him laugh again, so you’re glad you said it. He puts the book down and leaps, completely unnecessarily, over you to get to the door.
‘Grab a change of clothes from the closet,’ he says, then probably slides down the banister or something.
You drag yourself to the closet, muzzy but content, and grab one of Scott’s tank tops and a shirt you’re pretty sure started out as yours. Scott has even left you plenty of hot water but you shower and dress in five minutes, feeling more hopeful than you have in months.
He’s already pouring batter into the frypan and the kitchen bench is covered with fillings and toppings, from the white chocolate chips that mean he thinks his mom will be awake soon, to his preferred bananas and maple syrup, to the fresh blueberries and caramel sauce that are just for you. Scott McCall is the god of pancakes, so you start setting the table and don’t even hover by the stove and eat the blueberries.
Set table or no, you both down the first plate standing up in the kitchen. He covers his in syrup and you cover yours in caramel and you both stab the middle of a pancake and eat it straight off the fork, grinning between bites. By tradition, only the second batch of pancakes is eaten at the table with Mrs McCall, probably because you were incapable of waiting when you were thirteen.
As if on cue, she appears, yawning and pushing damp hair off her face.
‘Morning,’ she says and Scott puts a stack of pancakes in front her as soon as she sits down.
‘Morning, Mom,’ he says, smiling until his face is practically glowing.
‘What do you boys have planned for today?’
‘Scott has something planned,’ you explain, ‘but he hasn’t told me exactly what.’
He returns, still grinning, drops off the two remaining plates and slides into his chair.
‘I’m taking Stiles to see Bradley,’ he says cheerfully. ‘He’s getting a tattoo like mine.’
She looks at you in surprise. You swallow and put your fork down uncertainly.
‘How long have you been planning this?’
‘Uh, about twelve hours,’ you admit, and she nods.
‘How is Bradley anyway?’ she asks, turning to Scott who has nearly emptied his second plate.
That’s Melissa all over, too. She’ll point out what a stupid decision you’re making, but she won’t push you into changing it if you’re not willing to listen. Anyway, you don’t really care because if you’re ever in a position to regret getting a tattoo to match Scott’s, the tattoo will be the least of your problems.
‘I haven’t seen him this week, but I gave him a call last night. Seems pretty happy I found him a new client,’ Scott says. ‘And I think we might hang out at Stiles’ after. I might spend the night there.’
You nod in emphatic agreement, and Mrs McCall actually smiles.
‘Okay, then. You two look after yourselves.’
You take another bite of blueberries and caramel because the alternative is probably smiling stupidly at Scott. He grins back at you anyway.
-
‘Look, if you’re worried about doing this—’
‘Let’s talk when I’m not trying to park,’ you say shortly.
The tattoo parlour is set on a narrow street between some kind of organic grocery store and an antique-looking jeweller’s. The cars parked in the few parking spaces at the front are expensive-looking and much too close together. You’ve been trying to squeeze the Jeep in without casualties for nearly five minutes, so the updates on your heartbeat are slightly superfluous.
‘Ha! There.’
‘Are you going to be able to get us back out?’ Scott questions, but he still—still—hasn’t stopped smiling.
‘I’ll figure something out.’
Leaning in the doorway is a short, extremely curvy tattoo artist who lifts a hand in greeting.
‘I thought you knew a guy?’ you say slowly, and Scott elbows you.
‘Bradley is a guy. If you want him to help me tattoo you, don’t be a jerk,’ he says seriously.
‘Right. Okay.’ You nod, and tap your pocket again for the fold of bills that you’re not used to carrying. Scott climbs out of the car, and you do the same.
‘Brad, Stiles. Stiles, Bradley.’
‘Pleasure,’ he says, extending a hand, so you shake it.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Oh, it’s always nice to see Scott again,’ he says effusively. ‘You know that nice Hale boy introduced us? And it’s just lovely to be acquainted with the new pack in town.’
Scott is grinning at you again, and it’s getting harder and harder to look at because you’re here to get a symbol of him tattooed directly onto your skin and this whole day is almost more than you can believe.
‘Scott told me he had a pack member in need of some tee-el-see, so I wasn’t expecting not to need the blowtorch,’ Bradley goes on cheerfully. ‘But I didn’t expect him to bring along his very own emissary.’
Scott starts to correct him at the same time you do, so you both hesitate and Bradley laughs.
‘If you’re paying attention, you can tell the emissary just from the way his alpha looks at him. That kind of trust is awfully rare, you know. But it’s something you should be careful of, Scott.’
‘Absolutely,’ Scott agrees, and your cheeks are starting to hurt but he looks like he could go on smiling forever.
Bradley leads you inside, and the parlour is immaculately clean, all white tile and stainless steel. It reminds you of somewhere you’ve seen before.
‘Yeah,’ Scott says quietly, one hand on your shoulder. ‘Spooky, right?’
‘Well, at least there’s no giant disembodied tree stump in here,’ you reply lightly.
The place is a little creepy, but it also reminds you of something that never should have slipped your mind. The first time you were in a white room like this—the one that left its mark on you, the one that changed everything—you weren’t alone. There are only two of you left now, but you still aren’t alone and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to leave this pack again.
Somehow, it’s a nice thought.
‘Okay, Stiles, show me your ID and fill out your details on this form,’ Bradley says, pushing a sheet of paper at you across the counter.
You hand over your licence and the cash from your pocket and reach for the standard pen-on-a-chain. The form is pretty basic but you hang onto the pen when it’s complete, twisting and untwisting the end intently. Scott steps up until he’s shoulder to shoulder with you and, at long last, Bradley says ‘Okay, take a seat.’
He points you to a chair that looks unnervingly like it belongs at a dentist’s and Scott follows you over like he’s as nervous as you are. He’s still smiling every time he looks at you as you unbutton your shirt and shrug it off.
‘Have you decided where you’re getting it?’ he says at last, clearly ignoring the scars on your shoulders.
You were going to put it in the middle of your chest, like a target on your heart, a reminder to him. But last night, when he thought you were asleep, you heard him crying in the bathroom, and you haven’t mentioned it because he didn’t want you to hear. So that can be one more unspoken thing that hangs between you, without hurting him.
‘I think, here,’ you say, and put your hand on your shoulder, the upper curve revealed by his tank top and mostly devoid of claw marks, with every intention of wearing it like military stripes.
‘Thank you,’ he says softly, and you recognise the look Bradley mentioned.
You don’t give a damn if your cheeks hurt.
‘Okay, you two,’ Bradley says brightly, sitting down beside you with a handful of paper stencils. ‘Where are we putting this thing?’
You pick out a size and help him align it on your shoulder. He starts applying some sort of ointment to the area, monologuing about the process and neatly avoiding the scars you got from Isaac. You take in most of it in, along with the fact that Scott’s sitting with his hands clasped between his knees and he’s watching both you and Bradley intently, eyes flickering back and forth.
When he finally applies the stencil—‘Perfectly centered, first time and, honey, that takes years of practice’—you take a look in the mirror, realise it makes you look just a little bit like Captain America, and decide it’s perfect.
‘Scott?’
He gives you a surprised look.
‘You’re the one who has to be happy with it,’ he points out.
Bradley puts his hands on his hips and turns to Scott.
‘Alpha up, honey. Tell your boy here what you think and support his decision.’
‘Oh,’ he says, blinking. ‘Oh, sure. Sorry, dude.
He leans in, examining the stencil on your shoulder closely. You can see his eyes take in your scars too and, as a human, you’ll probably always have them but that’s okay too.
‘I think it’s perfect,’ he says at last. ‘It’s all lined up and’—he grins again—‘it looks like mine.’
That’s all there is to say, really, so you give them the okay. It’s exhilarating, like the time you broke a baseball bat on a werewolf. Scott curls over you intently and takes up the slightly-terrifying-looking needle gun with practiced hands. He slowly starts the tattoo at the top of the wide circle and the pain isn’t much on the grand scale of your life these days, but he doesn’t try to take any of it away. That particular brand of trust doesn’t come easy to Scott, even as he gently blots the ink away and glances up into your face to make sure you’re okay, so you make the effort and smile at him. You think you could stay that way for hours, just watching his head bent over your shoulder and his hand on your skin, knowing that he’s marking you as one of his.
‘You might want to leave it there,’ Bradley advises gently and Scott puts the needle down.
The edges are a little uneven and Scott has left the narrow circle for the expert tattoo artist to finish, but you like it already. Scott sits down beside you as Bradley takes over and it’s been a long time since you saw him so protective.
He’s going to keep looking that way. You know that, and you know he needs you to be an emissary now whether you are or not. And you’re pretty sure that if you take him home tonight, he’ll start eating regularly again, and catch up on his homework, and sooner or later he’ll make you apologise to Isaac, and he’ll borrow your clothes again and. And.
Maybe he’ll still cry at night sometimes, but now at least you’ll be there for it. You’ll be there for all of it, even if it kills you. That makes you human, too.