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Why?
With a sigh, Scott lets his head fall down towards his chest, eyes closed. Why is it so complicated? Another sigh, louder, echoes in the bathroom as Scott drags both of his hands through his hair, before remembering that he had just styled it.
For fuck's sake, Scott groans internally, carefully removing his hands.
Scott slowly raises his head and opens one eye to assess the damage in the mirror. Nothing is right anymore. His hair, that he has spent the last forty minutes styling, is now the same mess that it was this morning when he woke up with the most incredible case of bed hair. Grimacing, Scott tries to rearrange it, patting the top of his head in hopes of getting rid of a rebellious hair spike. It seems determined not to go down, much to Scott's dismay.
I should have kept my shirt.
Scott looks down at the shirt he had on before, now lying on the edge of the bathtub, mocking him. There’s nothing wrong with the shirt. Objectively. It's a plain light grey, cotton soft, comfy in every way, and makes him look nice. It has even been Lydia approved.
(How the banshee even knew what Scott was up to is beyond the alpha’s understanding. Is it a banshee thing? Or a Lydia thing? Or was he being obvious?)
The point is: Lydia had taken one look at him, fresh out of the shower after an intense lacrosse practice, his light grey shirt on, and had smiled. One of her small smiles where only the left corner of her mouth curled up, soft and private. Then she nodded once before linking her arm with Allison's and dragging her away, completely ignoring Aiden who was coming right behind Scott.
There is nothing wrong with Scott's shirt.
Except one thing.
Aiden, angry to be ignored like that (again, their on and off relationship is a nightmare to keep up with), rushed after her and jostled Scott in the process. And Ethan caught him by the shoulder, keeping him steady before following his twin (hopefully to stop him from wolfing out in frustration).
Both of them had left an unfortunate trail of their scents on Scott's very good and impeccable shirt. The scents were light –enough that Scott's nose didn't pick them up.
Isaac did.
He didn't mention it, but the barely audible scoff he let out and the annoyed look that hasn't left his face since then spoke volumes. Scott knows Isaac hates the twins and anything twins-related. Just like he knows that sometimes Isaac blurts out words, like a knee-jerk reaction, a smirk tugging at his mouth but quickly falling when he meets Scott's or Melissa's confused looks (or worse, Stiles's sass), as they don't understand what he said or why he said that. Because it's not meant for them. It was meant for Boyd. It was meant for Erica. It was meant for the three of them. And Isaac is the only one left.
So yeah, Isaac hates the twins and regularly comes up with murder plans for them.
(Scott should not find it endearing. He should not. And yet.)
But the point is, now Scott's perfectly good shirt has become a perfectly bad shirt, as he intends to spend the rest of the evening and the night with Isaac. Which is becoming less and less likely given Scott's current condition. His hair spike is as stubborn as Stiles and won't go down. And the shirt he’d chosen to replace the first one is... wrong.
Why does it look like this?
The shirt, a maroon one with long sleeves, had looked nice in his drawer. It still looked nice when Scott held it against his torso in front of the mirror. But, somehow, on Scott himself, it doesn't look nice anymore. Not really. He can see little wrinkles right under the collar and odd folding marks on the sleeves as they have been folded a bit hastily.
Scott squints at his reflection. He tries to step backwards, to be more under the light, in case it's just a shadow problem, to no avail. The shirt is still making him look like he hasn't seen the sun for the past months. Which, not true.
It's not that Scott needs to look good. Not exactly. But looking good would be a plus for what he's about to do. It would be great for his self-confidence. Not that Scott doesn't have any. But what self-confidence he has always seems to disappear on him in this kind of situation. And it's nerve-wracking.
He remembers the first time he asked Allison on a date. She was smiling at him, half-happy, half-confused because he was a stuttering mess and what he said to her didn't make a lot of sense at first. Scott remembers he had a hard time looking at her, his heart beating fast and making him worry about werewolfing right in front of her, and he was terribly aware of how weird his hair looked. He was so nervous he washed it twice in the morning to make sure it wouldn't be greasy, but he hadn't had the time to dry it. And he had to talk to her while looking like a half-drenched puppy.
(The irony of it wasn't lost on him. It definitely wasn't lost at all on Stiles, who cackled like a maniac before patting his shoulder in commiseration and pushing him into Allison's direction with a thumbs up and an exaggerated wink.)
Scott thought that asking people out would get easier with time.
(Practice makes perfect, as Coach would say before going off on a tangent about how them losing repeatedly would not make them perfect losers.)
Anyway, it obviously doesn't. Scott's palms are already sweaty again despite having dried them before putting on what he thought would be a good shirt. His hair spike is starting to stress him out. It isn't as bad as the wet puppy look since his hair strands are shorter, but still, it has him considering shaving his head to finally get rid of it. The buzz cut would at least solve one of his problems. The other one being the shirt.
With a deep groan, Scott tugs the shirt over his head, careful of his hair. It may be bad but he doesn't want to make it worse, which knowing his luck, could definitely happen. He haphazardly throws it somewhere on his right, not really concerned with where it lands.
He gives himself a once over in the mirror. He is pleased to see that he is no longer looking like he's going to be sick any minute. As he eyes his toned stomach, Scott distractedly wonders if he should just ask Isaac out without a shirt on. Like, casually going into Isaac's room, shirtless like he's just fresh out the shower, and ask him if he wants to go out to dinner with him.
It's not a bad idea. Being on the lacrosse team means that half-naked dudes are a given, especially in the locker room, so it won't be like Scott is blatantly showing off, right? Right.
Maybe, Scott thinks, I could take a towel with me. He knows himself enough to know that this kind of situation tends to make him a bit fidgety. Having the towel to hold onto will prevent him from going all twitchy in front of Isaac while helping him look even more casual.
Sounds like a plan.
Scott can do it. All he has to do is grab his towel, get out of the bathroom and ask Isaac out.
Simple, foolproof.
Scott's feet are rooted to the bathroom tiles. He can feel his heartbeat rising and he feels hot all over. Okay, maybe it's not as simple as it sounds. That doesn't mean Scott can't do it. If he can hold his own against a pack exclusively made of alphas as well as a vengeful Darach and cross mountain ash, then he can ask Isaac out.
Even if he doesn't want to go on a date with Scott (highly unlikely, according to the slightly awkward discussion he had with Allison and the really weird one he had with Stiles, who spent the whole time saying that yes Isaac is totally interested but that Scott could do so much better than an useless werewolf with a very debatable sense of fashion and a questionable tendency to suggest murder any time he's remotely annoyed), he's not going to make Scott miserable about it. It's Isaac.
Oh god, it's Isaac.
Isaac, who has really soft curls and an even softer smile.
(Scott likes doing his homework at the kitchen table. He can work on his econ worksheet, read whatever chapter has been assigned in biology, and try to make five sentences with his word of the day, while sneaking glances at Isaac. Scott tries not to make his staring too obvious, but there is something about how Isaac moves in kitchen, about his scrunched up nose when he isn't entirely pleased with what he's cooking or baking, about his soft smile when Scott tastes a sauce, a batter, anything really, and tells him with a smile of his own that he loves it. The domesticity of it, of them in the kitchen, never fails to make Scott's cheeks heat up.)
Isaac, who has no conception of personal space.
(Especially with him, Scott notices. Not that he minds much. Isaac always leans towards him. Scott is talking, and Isaac steps closer and tilts his head towards him, and Scott finds himself having to concentrate more not to lose the thread of what he's saying. Scott is walking down the school corridor, and Isaac is right next to him, and Scott is willing himself not to blush every time their arms brush against each other. Scott is on the couch watching a movie, and Isaac is sitting beside him, and Scott becomes hyper-aware of the heat seeping out of him.)
Isaac, who trusts him.
(Enough to come to him when he had nowhere to go after Derek kicked him out. Scott welcomed a wet and lost Isaac with the softest towel he owns, his most comfortable sweatpants and hoodie, and the promise that Isaac could stay with them, with him, for however long he needed. And Isaac stayed.)
Isaac, who Scott wishes were his Isaac.
Scott opens the faucet and cups water between his hands to splash it on his face. Taking a deep breath, he grips the edge of the sink with both of his hands, and stares his reflection right in the eyes.
“You can do it,” he says to himself in a low tone, “You go out of there, you ask him out, and he's going to say yes 'cause it's Isaac, and he likes mexican.”
Scott nods and leans forwards until he's just a few inches away from the mirror. “You're not a teen wolf, you're a werewolf,” Scott continues, trying to conjure a bit of his best friend's spirit. “Go out. And be. The Alpha.”
And to drive the point home, Scott flashes his red eyes to his reflection. Feeling a burst of confidence surges through him, Scott nods decisively one last time and reaches for the towel draped beside the sink. As he extends his arm, something catches his attention from the corner of his eye in the mirror. Scott turns his head, his eyes still red, and feels his breath leaving him. His heart is hammering in his ears and he can't look elsewhere or even blink.
His stomach –
There is a patchwork of scars on his stomach.
Scott's grip on the sink tightens as he stares at his stomach. His mind is reeling. His hands are unable to stop shaking despite his solid grip.
The body reflected by the mirror looks like his. Perfect copy, almost. It could have fooled him.
The body in the mirror doesn't fool him.
What he is seeing is his body. And it's not. It's not because Scott knows his stomach, he likes resting a hand on it at night as sleep pulls him under, so Scott knows. That his stomach is nothing but smooth skin.
Except, there are scars in the mirror. On his stomach.
Two gunshot scars. Round and neat. One on the right side of his stomach, the other on the left side. Almost symmetrical. Almost identical. Matt shot lower, a warning for Scott and his mother to behave, to do exactly what he said. Much like Gerard did with his knife. The scar he left is more jagged than the others. The teeth of his knife hurt more than a simple slice from a claw. Then the hunters' bullet was laced with wolfsbane. It hurt even more than Gerard's knife. Like pouring acid on an open wound. Scott shudders at the memory. The laced bullet left a faded black ring around the scar, almost hidden underneath another scar.
This scar is the most prominent. Thick and wide. Two large lines, almost parallel, running along his ribs. The one above is longer, the one under parts in three thinner sections that go down to his hip. Ennis's claws digged deep. Scott had bled profusely. He almost didn't heal, if it weren’t for Allison and her sewing kit. Putting him back together, helping him heal.
It's not the only scar Scott got from an alpha on his body. His eyes land on the oblique scar nested right at the center of his chest, before sliding up to the straight one below his left collarbone. Derek used to fight a lot with him before. Scott didn't think it would leave a mark, they were more into pushing each other across the room, through a wall, or down the stairs than clawing at each other.
(And yet.)
With Derek, it was about stating, loud and clear, that he was going to make his own choices, to choose his own way. With Deucalion, it was something else. The mock fight they had in the school was about testing him and pressuring him, playing with him the whole time.
(Where has Scott’s smooth skin gone?)
It doesn't feel like his body. Too many scars on it. A lot of people have hurt him, he knows. He remembers all too well. Relieves it sometimes at night. But he healed. He always heals. His skin knitted itself back together, leaving the flesh tender and rosy, but unmarked. Like it never happened in the first place. Werewolf perk.
(Is it really?)
Scott's hands are cold and clammy again. He's hunched in front of the mirror as his eyes travel down. And there it is. Just above his right hip. Redder than the others. Ugly and disjointed. Throbbing against Scott's skin.
Memories of a night in the woods flash through Scott's mind. A red hoodie, his favorite. Something about a body of water. The familiar weight of his inhaler in his pocket. And then. Low growls and moving bushes. Panic rising. Running. Falling. Painpainpain. Hot searing pain. And a scream.
Scott closes his eyes in a poor attempt to shut out the memories and to fight off the rising bile. Even with his eyes closed, Scott can't erase from his mind how that scar stands out on his skin. How angry it looks. How terrified and little he feels.
(Again.)
Eyes still closed and lips pressed together just as tightly, Scott lifts a trembling hand from the sink. He feels the cold sweat of it as it hovers above the right side of his stomach. It stays there for a few distressing seconds. Scott swallows back a sob. He can't. Not now. He moves his hand higher. Cold and clammy fingers press hesitantly against his chest, right at the center.
Inhale. His grip on the sink tightens, it might be the only thing grounding him, even if only a little. Exhale. Cold and clammy fingers meet the hollow of his chest.
Inhale. Breathing in without choking on the inhalation is arduous. Exhale. The skin his fingers tentatively explore is nothing but warm and smooth. Not the slightest bump, nor roughness, just plain skin.
Inhale. Red eyes stare in the mirror at the scar left by Derek. Exhale. Brown eyes see nothing.
Inhale. A map of almost everything that happened to him unfolds before his red eyes. Exhale. And still nothing to touch.
A small, low, hurt noise escapes him. And Scott is –
Scott is lost.
He’s not supposed to have scars, shifters are not supposed to, they’re supposed to heal. No trace. Being able to see them feels wrong somehow. It feels like Scott has been wronged, cheated. He doesn’t want to see them. He was perfectly good with not knowing they even existed. He wants to scrub at his scars, hard and repeatedly, until they vanish.
(Until he’s back to normal again.)
The scar left by the bite is the worst. It feels like a claim. As if he is still Peter's. As if he fought against that for nothing. All in vain in the end. His stomach knots at the thought. The sink is cracking under his hand. There is something bitter on his tongue, a mix of loathsome and unfair.
Scott wants to move on. He thought he had already.
The more he stares at his stomach, the less he feels like he has. Back to square one. Not the exact same one, but still a step backwards. And Scott wants to move on. Desperately so.
Only –
Only he isn't sure if he can do it. He wants to be able to. It was easier the first time around. When there was no evidence. Out of sight, out of mind. But now there are scars. On his body. And he can't ignore them. He can't pretend they aren't his. The body in the mirror is different from his, but it's still his.
It's still his.
Scott has scars. And he doesn't know how to move on when reminders of what happened are etched on his own skin. How can he move on if each time he looks at his body, all he sees is his past? He can't really move on if his body is stuck in the past, stuck in the pain, stuckstuckstu –
“Scott?”
Scott's head jerks up in surprise. His red eyes find Isaac's inquisitive ones in the mirror. His face is scrunched up in a mixture of concern and curiosity as he quickly scans the room before focusing back on Scott. And Scott can't help but notice the little scar high on Isaac's cheekbone, right under his right eye. Isaac is now frowning, why is he frowning like that –
“You okay? I knocked but you didn't answer so…,” Isaac trails with a glance behind him and a shrug. Scott blinks, and blinks again. He didn't catch the knocking. Isaac's face creases with worry in the mirror.
“What happened?” Scott blurts out, gesturing to Isaac’s face before he remembers he shouldn’t.
“Uh—” Isaac frowns in confusion, bringing his hand up to his cheek. “What do you mean, what happened?”
Shit.
“Oh no, it's okay!” Scott says, trying to reassure Isaac with a genuine smile. Scrambling to follow the plan his brain came up with in his half-dazed state, Scott raises his hands to hold on the towel, only to remember that his towel is still in its usual place next to the sink.
“I, uh, was just, you know,” Scott adds, encompassing the bathroom with a hand gesture, before finishing with what he hopes is a convincing, “busy.” Fumbling around for said towel, Scott slips it round his neck as he gives Isaac another wobbly smile.
Scott wants to move the towel so that his stomach is covered. He has to remind himself that Isaac can’t see the scars. Nobody can see them. Not without red eyes. And the only alpha Scott knows of anymore is Deucalion.
That’s not a pleasant thought.
Isaac apparently isn’t so willing to move on.
“There something on my face?” Isaac asks, glancing at his reflection over Scott’s shoulder.
Scott shakes his head, “No dude, your face is, uh, good.”
Isaac’s face does that complicated thing when the corner of his mouth curls up as he frowns, as if he wants to smile but ultimately his worries prevail. Isaac’s expression turns then all serious. “What did you see?”
Scott, feeling hot all over and not knowing what to do under Isaac’s undivided attention, can only let out a small, “What?”
“You said ‘what happened’ as if something happened to my face.”
“I, uh–”
“What did you see?”
“No, I meant–” Scott tries to divert the conversion. Isaac interrupts him by saying his name, firm but not loud. “Scott.”
The beta takes a step a little closer, but without being too close and overwhelming him, as he tries to catch Scott’s eyes. Scott doesn’t look at him. He’s struggling to change the way their conversation is heading, but he can only open and close his mouth without making a sound.
“You’re not alone.” Isaac says gently. And it’s all it takes for Scott’s attention and eyes to snap back to him, though a bit confused.
“That’s what you told me the first night I slept here, you remember?”
Scott nods, he remembers. Isaac had trouble falling asleep that night. He was lying wide awake on Scott’s extra mattress, tossing and turning restlessly. Until Scott told him gently that he wasn’t alone, silently willing Isaac to understand that he could count on him, that he was there for him. Until he promised him that he could stay however long he wanted, no one would mind, they were even happy to have him over.
Isaac is looking at him, earnest, as he says: “Well, same goes for you. You’re not alone.”
I’m here for you, you can talk to me, Isaac doesn’t say, but Scott hears it all the same. Taking in the boy in front of him, Scott knows Isaac will drop it if he asks him. But the thing is, Scott doesn’t want to keep that to himself. He trusted him with his mother’s well-being and safety when he was worried about the Darach, so he can trust him with this.
“You have a scar there.”
Isaac blinks, confused, so Scott taps lightly on his own cheek.
“And when I,” Scott stops briefly to flash his red eyes before resuming, “I can see it.” Scott pauses before adding more quietly, “And I guess it kind of freaked me out.”
Isaac hums pensively. Scott is a bit surprised when he sees him trailing a finger exactly over where his scar is, as if Isaac can still feel it.
“Yeah, my dad was mad at me because I got a D in chemistry and he, uh, he threw a glass at me. I dodged most of it, but yeah.”
Scott nods in understanding. Like every time Isaac told him about his father, Scott’s incredibly pissed, and so relieved that Isaac got out of it. Even if the circumstances were less than ideal.
Noticing the faraway look in his friend’s eyes, Scott feels the urge to apologize. “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
Isaac shakes his head. “It’s not bad.”
Scott is ready to correct him but Isaac pulls the rug out from under him and hastens to amend himself. “I mean, I’m not downplaying anything, you know? What he did was fucked up and he sucked, like, big time. He didn’t even care, and I–”
Isaac takes a deep breath as Scott smiles at him, encouragingly.
“And I realized that he could have blinded me. Or worse. So I left, I ran. And I’m so fucking glad I did.”
“I’m so fucking glad you did.” Scott echoes.
Isaac offers him a smile, before saying as softly as carefully, “But it wasn’t just my scar that freaked you out.”
A beat.
“No.”
With the way he said my scar, Scott knows Isaac already knows what the freak out is really about. But he doesn’t say anything, letting Scott decide if he wants to go further or to leave it at that. Scott knows he isn’t alone. He continues.
“I freaked out when I saw mine. Seeing them is –” Scott trails off with a distressed noise. “Because it hurt. And I feel like it hurts, again. And I don’t. I don’t want to be reminded of that.”
Isaac nods slowly, once, twice. Then he starts chewing on his lips, like he wants to say something but he’s afraid it’s not going to be received well. Scott and his mom saw him chew on his lips a lot at the beginning of his stay with them. Before Scott can assure him that it’s okay, Isaac speaks up, albeit a bit hesitantly.
“What if you, uh, change that?”
That gets Scott to huff humorlessly. “Yeah, I don’t think I can change my body.”
“Not your body, what the scars remind you of.”
Scott tilts his head in confusion, silently asking for Isaac to elaborate. “Instead of painful things, you could try to associate your scars with something else, something better.”
“Like what I did, you know?” Isaac adds as he points to his own scar.
Scott’s mind is racing. It would be a great idea if only he could come up with something else, something better. But he can only think about pain and hurt and blood. Having a solution within easy reach and not being able to reach it is slowly crushing him.
“Like what?” Scott asks, trying to not choke on his own breath.
Isaac takes Scott’s wrist in his hand, holding it gently as he answers.
“They could remind you that you made it, that you survived. Even when it was tough.” His voice is not loud but firm, leaving no room for doubt. Scott takes a shuddering breath and Isaac squeezes his wrist once, twice.
“They could remind you of all the people you protected, of all the ones that have your back.” Isaac squeezes again, once, twice, and smiles back when Scott’s lips quiver but curl up in a tentative one.
“They could remind you that you’re you. Kind, forgiving, brave.”
They could. Scott swallows. It’s not an easy thing, but he’s not alone.
Isaac squeezes one last time before letting go of his wrist. Scott immediately misses the warmth of his hold. Isaac glances down at his chest and adds shyly, “Besides, you don’t need to change your body. It’s pretty good the way it is.”
Scott fiddles with the towel but he doesn’t move it. Less because of the scars than because of his own nerves. Is Isaac checking him out right now? Is that really happening? All of the sudden, having ditched the shirt seems worth it.
“Melissa is picking up an extra shift. I thought we could eat mexican? Just the two of us?” Isaac says, a pretty blush coloring his cheeks.
Scott, momentarily distracted by how adorable Isaac is when he's trying to be cocky only to end up sounding a little shy, can only grin in answer. He might look ridiculous, smiling so big and holding on a towel like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, but he finds out that he can't bring himself to care. Not when Isaac is still holding up the take out bag, like he doesn't know what to do with his limbs, either. Not when he's still blushing and smelling a bit nervous. Not in the slightest.
“Dude, I was literally thinking about it,” Scott answers as he steps forwards. Isaac steps back with a soft snort. “What? About eating mexican?” Isaac smirks, watching Scott turn off the bathroom light and put on one of the shirts lying around on his bed.
“No, about spending time together.”
Isaac blush deepens at that and Scott presses a hand on his lower back, guiding him out of his bedroom and down the stairs, his hair spike completely forgotten.
His stomach no longer itches. And he is perfectly fine the way he is, scars and all.