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Hold him still, the Surgeon orders, scalpel in hand. He goes on, but Theo has long since learned to tune out anything that isn't meant for him. He focuses on cataloging the subject instead. No one has asked him to, but sometimes one of them wants a report later.
It's not difficult: standard wolfsbane poisoning, yellow by the smell and the convulsions, the way the subject's eyes are fluttering, mostly closed, the bright red pupils rolling back into his head whenever Theo gets a glimpse of them. The wolfsbane must have been inhaled. Probably unintended, from the way the Surgeon is aiming for the space under the subject's sternum, as if to release the poison.
Theo wonders if the subject wasn't supposed to be treated with wolfsbane at all. Some of the subjects steal poison, or even some of the Surgeon's tools if they've lost their secondary attributes and can't find anything else. They disrupt the experiments. The Surgeon gets pissed, which usually means Theo's day is ruined. His night too. Sometimes the whole week.
He holds the subject down tighter, palms on his collarbones and thumbs on his neck. It's difficult; the subject is stronger than most. An Alpha isn't easy to overpower.
But Theo manages, the way he always does.
He grins.
If I go too far to either side, the Surgeon instructs him, I may puncture the lung.
Theo presses the subject down more firmly, nodding to show he gets it. It's a good sign if the Surgeon is in the mood to educate. Means he's feeling optimistic about Theo. Open to investing in him.
Theo makes it his business to be a good investment.
Better than the subject, anyway, even if he is an Alpha. He's covered in sweat—will need hydration if he makes it, Theo notes, and probably to get hosed down. There's blood all over his naked torso. From the struggle to get out, probably. The subjects are always trying to get out. Idiots. Theo's definitely going to be the one stuck cleaning him up.
The subject finally stills, the poison getting the better of him, the way it always does with werewolves. Pathetic.
It's easy to hold him down after that. Theo can keep him pinned with just his left hand, so he uses his free hand to check for internal injuries. He doesn't find any. There's a rattle in the lungs but it's decreasing. The eyes are closed, no longer blinking erratically.
Theo reaches over and pulls one eyelid back, to check if the eyes are still rolling.
They're stable. No redness in the sclera. Alpha redness in the iris.
Then it fades, all of a sudden, back to human brown.
Then it focuses on him.
Both eyes open. The subject is staring at him, his eyes widening as terrified chemosignals flood the air.
Familiar.
Scott is staring at him.
The details come back in a trickle, then a waterfall. They'd been on a basic recon mission. More hunters than they'd expected, and they'd come armed with Argent tricks and a lab's worth of poisons. Scott had been their primary target, and they'd had a couple of crack shots on their team. Even worse, they'd been shooting exploding arrows laced with yellow wolfsbane. They'd both inhaled a bunch despite their best efforts. Theo had metabolized it all right, but Scott had a true werewolf's weakness to it. They'd headed for the clinic by silent agreement. There'd been almost no need to talk at all, given how similar this was to what had happened with the wolfsbane-laced vents a little while back.
And at some point during all of that, Theo had lost his fucking mind.
Scott is still staring at him. He still smells like fear.
Theo doesn't know what to do.
So like always, he doesn't do anything.
Scott sits up.
Theo lets go.
He watches, motionless, as Scott leans over and spews out the last of the wolfsbane—a little on the first hiccup that hits the floor, and then then a flood of it into the bowl Deaton suddenly has ready, the fluid all stained black with werewolf healing. He's still panting afterwards, his cuts closing up on the exhale. He wipes his wet mouth, then his eyes. He holds his hands there. He doesn't seem to have noticed that his hands are covered in blood.
"Theo," Deaton says in his usual measured voice. He's still looking at Scott. "Would you mind fetching us some water? There should be glasses in the cabinet to the left of the sink."
Right. Hydration.
Also, the sink is in the other room. Away from Scott.
Theo leaves.
He can hear Deaton whispering, but even before he turns the faucet on, he can't make out what Deaton is saying—part of the magic of the clinic, Theo expects.
They're also speaking very quietly. Deaton's voice is so soft. Nothing like the Doctors ever were.
Scott's quiet in turn. That part's more familiar. He used to talk to Theo like that.
Theo calculates how long he can hide in the room before the other two get suspicious. Only then does he return with the water, along with a wet towel and a dry one in case Scott wants to clean up.
Scott's sitting up by now, the cuts on his chest—and torso, where an arrowhead had sliced him—slowly knitting back together.
Theo doesn't remember him getting shot. He doesn't remember anything beyond inhaling the gas. Even now, all the details of what he'd done—thought he'd been seeing, and doing—start to fade. Like a bad dream.
Everything except for the way Scott had looked at him, the sudden fear in his dark human eyes, the way his pulse had leapt under Theo's hand where Theo been holding him down by the neck. Fucking grinning at him about it.
Scott rubs the back of his neck with one hand, the way he does when he's not sure what to say. He manages an awkward smile that starts out aimed a little to Theo's left, but ends up landing on Deaton. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Deaton replies calmly. He's the one who takes the water and the towels, handing them to Scott in turn as Scott gulps down water and wipes himself off and finally starts to get dry.
It feels private. Theo shouldn't be here. He looks away.
Scott's shirt is sitting on the counter by the door. Theo grabs it.
Scott’s startled. "You saved it?"
Theo nods. He has no idea if he was the one who took Scott's shirt off.
Had he? What else had he done?
Scott takes the shirt, strangely reverent. Like he doesn’t remember the important things either. “Thanks.”
Theo looks around, trying to jog his memory. But all he picks up are the familiar scents of blood and animals and fear and Scott, who's finally getting dressed.
Somehow, it's Scott getting dressed that feels like the most private. Theo can't take it anymore. He goes to his truck and drives out until he's calculated that he's past Beacon Hills county line. He pulls over and doesn't do anything. Doesn't throw up. Doesn't cry. Doesn't even sneeze from the last remnants of the yellow wolfsbane on his hands.
His phone buzzes.
Theo picks it up with steady hands.
Hey are you okay? Scott has texted him.
Theo stares at his name on his phone.
A safe distance away.
Never better, Theo replies.
Scott sends something back, but Theo doesn't bother looking.
The phone goes on buzzing for a while more, but Theo tunes it out.