Work Text:
The tang of blood lingers in Scott’s mouth, the redness clinging to his teeth. He’s caught by the image of it when he goes to floss and brush in the bathroom, like a car crash he can’t look away from. He brushes aggressively, and he isn’t entirely sure that his own blood from his gums doesn’t join Stiles’ in dyeing the toothpaste bubbles red. He uses listerine, after, in the hopes that the strong taste of it will wipe out the vividness of Stiles’ pale face, his pleading voice.
Scott bit Stiles, panic in his heart, because in that moment, he knew what the consequences could be. He could lose Stiles, in so many ways. The Nogitsune could reject the bite. Stiles’ body itself could reject the bite. Nothing could happen, and the Nogitsune could continue its reign of terror, only to be ended at the hands of Mrs. Yukimura. It would’ve been Scott’s fault, and he would have to walk through the halls of Beacon Hills High every day with the knowledge that his best friend wasn’t there because of him.
Even worse is the fear that it wasn’t Stiles asking for the bite. The horror of the Nogitsune twisting his friend’s features, forcing Stiles into begging for something that would only hurt him. That fear still lingers. The night may be over, but Scott can’t predict the future, and there’s still a very real concern that things may not be as they seem. After all, Scott couldn’t tell his friend from the Nogitsune until there was a sword buried in his chest. He was taking a risk, with no way of knowing that things would work out.
The bite took. The Nogitsune seems to be gone. Nothing went obviously wrong, but Scott finds himself uneasy about getting too optimistic so soon. It all seems a bit too good to be true.
The shock of the night still hasn’t worn off, but now that the adrenaline from the night is finally running thin, he feels drained, only kept awake through the ride home by the newness of the offshoots of a bond to Stiles. His beta. Scott keeps waiting for the rush of power that he’s heard comes with building up a pack, the rush that Derek chased so much, but all he feels is exhaustion and dread, tinged just around the barest edges with hope.
They’d all survived the night, at least, which is more than Scott could have possibly expected. But there’s a lot of waiting and seeing in his future, and even if the dust settles, things are going to be different.
He’ll have to work with Stiles, now that he’s a werewolf, because it’s something that doesn’t come naturally to anyone, not even born wolves. Scott knows better than anyone the challenges that come with being a brand new wolf. The constant flare-ups of strong emotions he didn’t know he had in him, jealousy and anger so hot they burned him up inside, leaving his stomach sour. The challenge of keeping his new fangs and claws in check, of not giving everything away. The headaches that come with being able to hear and smell everything, that make focusing in class difficult.
Stiles knew what he was getting into, when he asked to be turned, and Stiles is going to have a less absent and less fucked up alpha. Stiles knows objectively what comes with being a werewolf, and is used to having to help Scott make accommodations. Dealing with it himself, though, will be an adjustment, especially when Scott has no idea how Stiles’ ADHD will interact with his newly gained werewolfhood.
Scott cracked a joke that, if nothing else, he could lobb a few lacrosse balls at Stiles. But, really, he plans on taking a softer approach. It’s going to require some time and some patience, but if everything is as it seems to be, and the Nogitsune is actually finally gone, he thinks he and Stiles will be able to get through this.
Scott keeps waiting for Stiles to break.
It’s not that Stiles’ control is good. It isn’t. He goes to jerk off and shreds through his underwear. He texts Scott, with his boxers in tatters, telling him there’s an emergency, and he needs help. Scott finds him with his eyes squeezed shut and his claws out, asking through fanged teeth if Scott can “be a bro, dude, just lend me a hand”.
Scott says no, because as pitiful as Stiles looks, sitting there with his fingers wrapped carefully around his dick, avoiding his claws, Scott knows it would be a terrible idea. He’s definitely tempted, though. It would be easy, and he would finally get to know what Stiles looks like when he comes undone, instead of risking the headache of headphones and awkwardly stuffing his earbuds in when Scott spends the night and Stiles gets off in the shower a little too loudly.
Feelings, though, make casual sex hard for Scott, and he has a decade’s worth of feelings for Stiles. So he tells Stiles to take care of it himself, and to save code red for things a little bit more serious than sexual frustration.
He doesn’t see Stiles’ eyes, though. Stiles keeps them shut through their entire conversation, which is. Admittedly a little bit weird, even for Stiles. But Scott dismisses it as Stiles not having had his morning coffee yet, because Stiles barely opens his eyes until he’s strongly caffeinated and has to get behind the wheel.
Scott heads home, and he plans to keep a better eye on Stiles. He watches at school, when Stiles accidentally snaps a pencil or two and gets frustrated with himself, when an asshole cuts in front of Stiles in the parking lot and Stiles goes a little hairy, only calmed by Scott squeezing his thigh and turning the music up to distract Stiles. Stiles nearly wolfs out on Isaac for no reason at all, presses himself so close up to Isaac with his claws out that Scott is positive they’re gonna tear each other’s throats out. Scott has to put himself between the two and break things up, but it’s a wake-up call that he needs to sit Stiles down and have a serious talk about controlling his shift.
The whole anchor theory is something that Stiles figured out with Scott, and then Derek confirmed, the first time around, so Scott assumes that Stiles is thinking about it. Scott doesn’t know who or what his anchor could be; his dad, maybe, or his mom, from before things got bad. Maybe even his Jeep. He figures that if Stiles doesn’t figure it out in time, they can chain Stiles up the first full moon, if things get bad, or Scott can… ask Derek if he knows anything about alphas being able to calm their betas during the full moon. Based on Isaac’s stories about his, Boyd, and Erica’s first full moon with Derek’s pack, Scott would guess probably not.
But he tries to work with Stiles. He talks through how everything feels, helps him sort through all of the new smells and tastes and sounds. Stiles adamantly refuses to tell his dad yet, though Scott offers to give him a practice run, when he decides to, so he can figure out what he wants to say ahead of time. Stiles always balks at the idea, and Scott wonders if that’s why Stiles can’t seem to control his shifting. If Stiles’ anchor is his dad, and he’s feeling disconnected because of the secret he’s keeping, it would explain why nothing is helping.
Scott’s just glad there hasn’t been a big blow-up yet, or, at least, an extremely public one. Stiles is never on the field in lacrosse, which has been one of their few saving graces. Jackson isn’t around anymore, which is another one; no one could rile Stiles up like Jackson could. Not even Isaac gets Stiles as irrationally angry as Jackson did.
So they’re just lingering in a state of constantly on the edge of being discovered, waiting as Stiles gets more and more frustrated with himself and hoping things turn out okay. Scott figures it should be a good thing; no emergencies yet, with no one hurt but Stiles’ wardrobe and wallet. But with their luck, it’s only a matter of time before things go south.
The full moon is coming close, and Stiles’ chemosignals are making Scott’s nose itch.
Stiles is normally pretty amped up, and it isn’t hard for Scott to keep track of things. Stiles doesn’t hide his annoyance well, at all. Or his frustration. Or his sexual frustration. When Stiles is scared or worried, it’s everything Scott can smell, sharp and consuming in his nose, blocking everything out. Scott knows the power of a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, a reassuring smile, even when Stiles doesn’t want to talk about things. Scott can smell the difference it makes.
Things are so intense right now, though, that Scott can smell Stiles from all the way across the hall, and no amount of casual touch seems to be helping. He’s shields up, snapping at Scott, even, and it’s worrying.
When things finally fall apart, it’s just Scott and Stiles, in Stiles’ room.
Scott has been talking himself up to a Serious Conversation with Stiles, and he thinks he knows what he has to say. But he never gets the chance. They’re playing Mario Kart, and Scott edges Stiles out to beat him at the last moment. Scott turns his attention closely on Stiles, because he can practically feel his emotions spiking the smell’s so strong. He can hear the faintest scratch of claws against the controller. Stiles’ face is turned away, and Scott wants to tilt it back. His hand hovers above his lap, too unsure whether it would be crossing boundaries to bring his hand up and cup Stiles’ cheek, to gently guide him back towards Scott.
He figures it would. “Stiles?” he asks quietly, instead.
“Just stop,” Stiles says. Scott watches as Stiles’ sideburns grow hairy, as Stiles’ nails grow long. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
Stiles throws down the controller, and Scott startles. “You’re always fuckingwatching me. Like you think I’m just about to break, or some shit like that. I’m not fragile. You aren’t gonna break me, and I don’t need looking after.”
Scott can hear Stiles’ teeth growing long from the way his voice goes muffled. He reaches out his hand to hold Stiles’, to apologize, but Stiles shakes him off, even angrier. “No. You’re doing it again. You’re just mad because I’ve been good at this, better than you are, and you keep acting like I’m gonna wolf out just because it makes you feel good about your shitty control.”
“Stiles, no,” Scott says. “Stiles, just. Look at me for a second.” He moves closer to Stiles, but it’s a mistake.
“NO,” Stiles growls, stumbling back from Scott. “I’m going to my room. Just fucking. Leave me alone, for two seconds. Can you do that? Give me some space to breathe for two seconds? Or are you always required to be hovering? Is that an alpha thing you picked up from Peter and Derek? Is constant looming and hovering a requirement?”
Scott watches him go, confused and unsettled. Stiles’ door is shut before Scott can really process what’s happened, and everything about it makes him uneasy. He doesn’t want to leave Stiles alone, but he also wonders if maybe it isn’t just the moon getting to Stiles. Stiles being turned and having to deal with all of this new stuff all at once is partly due to Scott’s actions, and he could be resentful. Scott doesn’t go so far as to blame himself for all of this werewolf stuff - neither of them asked for any of this, and once Scott was involved, Stiles dove in head first. That’s how they are, how they’ve always been. They get through things because they have each other, because they love each other.
Scott has always loved Stiles.
But there are so many lingering insecurities that Scott has to focus on, sitting alone, the Mario Kart theme music playing on repeat. If it isn’t Stiles’ resentment, maybe Stiles has figured out what Scott feels, finally, and doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe Stiles is weirded out because he can hear Scott’s heart beat fast when Stiles’ face presses too close, or maybe Stiles is grossed out because he can smell Scott get a little turned on when Stiles spends too much time with his fingers in his mouth while they still smell like his come.
Maybe it really is just Scott’s concern that’s clogging up Stiles’ nose. Scott knows he’s been keeping a close eye on Stiles lately. He’s been worried. It’s something Scott can’t entirely help. Stiles is his best friend and his beta, and he wants more than anything to keep him safe and happy and in one piece. Just because Chris has quit hunting them doesn’t mean they’ll be safe if Stiles goes loose, and if Stiles hurt someone innocent, things could get bad. But Scott can understand how it could be too much, especially for Stiles.
Scott doesn’t know what to do, or what to say. It’s unsettling, because that part has always come easy, for Scott. Stiles is the one person he’s rarely had to question himself with, and he knows objectively that this will probably blow over, but with all the stress he’s been buried under lately, and with the fact that it’s Stiles, it’s hard not to fixate.
So Scott waits. He sits in Stiles’ living room, his phone in his hand, until he finally hears the sheriff’s car in the driveway.
He slips out the back door, feeling heavy, and he goes home.
He wakes up to a loud crash and a swear, moonlight slipping through the blinds into his eyes.
Scott jerks up in his bed, pulling his covers from where they’re tucked under at the edges so he can wrap them around him protectively. He’s shirtless, though he’s wearing his boxer briefs. He’s disoriented and tired and not exactly in a prime position to be fighting anyone.
Not that he actually needs to be fighting anyone. He blinks and rubs sleep out of his eyes to see Stiles standing in his bedroom, Scott’s hamper tipped over on the floor.
“Stiles?” he asks blearily. Everything slowly filters in, Stiles’ hands on the controller, Stiles’ voice as he snapped. There’s dread in the pit of Scott’s stomach, watching Stiles wring his very human hands.
“Heya Scotty.”
There’s a long silence that neither of them wants to fill. Still, Scott waits, as the seconds drag on, turning into minutes.
“If you were me, I’d make a comment about the hovering,” Stiles finally says. “The awkward bedroom hovering.”
“It is pretty awkward,” Scott agrees. “You can sit.”
Stiles comes over to the bed with Scott, Scott moving his legs so Stiles can sit down facing him. They’ve sat this way hundreds of times before, though usually Scott has more clothes on, and, usually, Scott doesn’t have tacks in his stomach and lead in his tongue.
The silence stretches on.
“I don’t want to see my eyes,” Stiles finally blurts. “I don’t want to see them, and I especially don’t want you to see them. I don’t. I can’t promise they’ll be gold. Not after what I did, not after. I remember all of it. I got close, with Finstock and Kira. And then, the hospital, hearing about all those people… people died, Scott.”
It takes Scott a moment to process that, but once he does, he feels a wash of relief. This is something he can handle, something that he and Stiles can talk about, even if it isn’t immediately fixable.
“You didn’t kill them,” Scott says, as firmly as he can muster. “You didn’t kill them, and your eyes wouldn’t be blue. And if they were, I wouldn’t care, because I know you. You aren’t a bad person. You’re… you’re Stiles, and you do stuff like chase after dead bodies and break into places you’re not supposed to go, but you aren’t a killer.”
Stiles is quiet for a long moment. “You’re just saying that because you love me.”
It’s unfair, hearing Stiles say those words, not knowing what kind of love he’s talking about. No matter what way Stiles means them, it’s true; Scott can’t deny it, not to Stiles’ face. Not even if Stiles couldn’t hear Scott’s heartbeat thumping in his chest. But he still wishes it were clear, or that everything was equally transparent.
“I do love you. More than anyone. Except my mom.”
“See,” Stiles says, like that proves everything. “You’re biased. You don’t see me as a monster because you love me, and you’re my best friend.”
“You were my friend before I loved you. I don’t think you’re perfect. But you’re no more a monster than I am, and if your eyes say you are, then, well. Fuck ‘em.”
Stiles looks at him. “Fuck my eyes.”
“Well, not literally,” Scott says. “But I’ll love you no matter what, and the color of your eyes doesn’t change who you are, or who you are to me. If you don’t want to see them, I can’t blame you. I struggle sometimes looking at my red eyes. But you don’t have to hide them from me. I won’t be disappointed in you.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything, his features lit by the light of the waxing gibbous moon dripping light through the slats of Scott’s blinds. But then, he moves, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows, his mouth parted. His chemosignals shift, until the air is awash with the frustration and anxiety Stiles has been holding in for days. Scott watches in silence and a little bit of awe as his face changes and his features shift.
Stiles opens his eyes, and Scott sees yellow irises staring back at him, more luminescent than even Stiles’ usual brown.
“You should look,” Scott says quietly. “You should look at yourself, and not be ashamed of what you see. I’m not ashamed of what I see. You’ll be relieved.”
There’s a hand in Scott’s, claws and everything, squeezing tight. Scott reaches for Stiles’ other hand, too, and holds them, doesn’t say a word when tears rolls down Stiles’ face and his nose gets runny. Scott only holds him closer, lets Stiles cover his shoulder in tears and snot.
“I love you, too,” Stiles says, when the tears, teeth, and claws are all gone, when it’s just the two of them huddled under Scott’s covers.
The full moon isn’t the disaster Scott expected it to be.
It turns out that with some of Stiles’ guilt issues toned down and with some of his anxiety about shifting gone, things are easier. They have better luck on the control front, though it’s definitely still a work in progress.
Scott doesn’t have to put Stiles in chains, though. He wavers, but he holds firm, holding Scott’s hand in his when he needs a reminder, a push to stay human.
When it’s over, he kisses Scott with blunt, human teeth, and gorgeous, brown eyes.
Scott thinks they’ll be okay, after all.