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Scott’s toaster zaps him twice when he stumbles into the kitchen at 5:30 in the morning.
He doesn’t think much of it.
The wiring’s always been a little off in his studio apartment, and the toaster itself is a hand-me-down from his mom that’s probably older than he is. He also doesn’t have much time to consider it, as the burn heals over almost immediately, and he’s supposed to be at work in less than half an hour. His bagel’s toasted properly, and that, and the fact that his cream cheese tastes okay despite being a week past the sell date, is all he really cares about.
It doesn’t surprise him when the car door zaps him as he fumbles the key in the lock, either. It’s the middle of winter and he’s wearing a wool sweater—because no matter what Stiles tells him these days, thirty-five degrees is cold—so a little bit of static shock is to be expected. Besides that, the jeep’s always ready to torment him in new and exciting ways, so this is probably the least of the damage it could do.
The wool and the temperature also help explain the shock he gets when he grabs the metal door knob at the clinic, and the one when he opens one of the cages to check on Bill, the collie that’s staying for observation, and even the shock he gets when his knuckles brush against the examination table.
Absolutely nothing explains the computer short-circuiting the second he touches it to double check the day’s appointments.
The string of obscenities he lets out is pretty far from professional.
“Everything all right there, Scott?”
Scott looks up, his cheeks flushing as Dr. Deaton walks in.
“Um. Yeah, I just—I sort of—” He shrugs, nodding his head towards the computer as he shakes his hand out. “…I might have fried it?”
Dr. Deaton arches his eyebrows and sets his bag down on the counter.
Scott scowls when it doesn’t zap him.
“I see,” Dr. Deaton says, walking over to the desk. “Did anything seem out of the—oh!”
Scott decides it’s a litany of profanities, this time, that comes out of his boss’s mouth when attempting to pat him on the shoulder causes a visible spark.
“Well then,” Dr. Deaton says, after a moment of shaking out his own hand, “that does seem to be a problem. When did this start?”
Scott slumps back in his chair—careful not to touch anything metal this time—and quickly describes everything that’s happened to him the past few hours.
Dr. Deaton’s expression is pensive when he finishes. “And you say this happens every time you touch something metal? Even when you’ve touched it before?”
Scott nods, thinking of the zaps he’d received from the toaster.
“Hm.” Dr. Deaton looks at him for a long moment, then touches the metal stapler on the desk.
Nothing happens.
“Could you try it now, Scott?” he asks.
Scott looks at him suspiciously, but pokes it anyway.
He does not yelp when it zaps him, stronger this time, but it’s a near thing. “See?”
He’s expecting concern, so the slow smile that crosses Dr. Deaton’s face takes him completely by surprise.
“Scott,” he says, leaning back against the desk, “would you happen to have anything in your pockets?”
“…Just the usual,” Scott says, fumbling as he turns them out. “Phone, keys, wallet—”
Scott stops.
It sends a bolt of electricity through him as his fingers brush against the obsidian.
He looks up at Dr. Deaton, eyes wide, and his boss’s smile just grows fonder. “I think you found your answer.”
Scott looks back down at the shuriken, little pin pricks of electricity running through him at each point of contact. “I—I think I need to—I mean, can I—”
“I’ll be fine for the day,” Dr. Deaton says, still smiling. “Go.”
Scott doesn’t need to be told twice.
He doesn’t even know how he knows where to go.
All he knows is that the knob zaps him on the way out, and then so do his keys, the door handle, the seatbelt, the steering wheel. The tail in his pocket feels like it’s burning, now that he’s paying attention to it—a constant flow of electricity thrumming through his veins.
It makes him feel more alive than he has in months.
He drives out of town, past his mom’s house and Derek’s loft and to the outer edges of the preserve.
Where he and Kira had their first, real, completely interrupted date.
He hops out of the jeep the second he throws it into park, running with werewolf-speed to the abandoned lamppost.
The lamppost flickers on as soon as he reaches the clearing.
Scott steps forward, eyes wide as he stares up at it.
It’s not connected to the power grid. The only time he’s ever seen it lit was when…
Scott’s ears perk up at the sound of leaves crunching behind him.
He turns just as a black-bodied fox with orange markings leaps out of the brush, landing softly on paws that quickly morph into suade boots.
“Kira,” he breathes, hardly daring to believe it.
“Hey,” she says, just as softly. Her eyes swirl with a deep orange that has his flickering red in return, matching the color of her knee-length coat.
Scott licks his lips, the dryness having nothing to do with the weather.
Everything he’s wanted to say for the past two years gets stuck in his throat at the sight of her.
Kira steps forward until there’s only a handful of inches between them.
Her eyes drift down to his hand, which is still curled loosely around her tail. “I think you have something of mine.”
“Oh.” He rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand, trying to hide his disappointment. He offers it back to her. “Right, sorry, I—”
Kira pushes his hand down to his side, with a shy smile that quickly turns bold. “Not quite what I meant.”
Then her lips are on his, capturing his mouth and stealing his breath away. He flounders for only half a second, then drops the tail to cup her face with both hands, deepening the kiss and pulling her the rest of the way into his space.
It’s electric in all the best ways.