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The guy rolls from heel to toe, hands in the pockets of his shabby jeans; and from Scott's point of view on the ground, he's mocking him. Standing right on top of the little hill Scott just fell from and doing absolutely nothing to help. It’s not like Scott can tell right now whether or not he’s being bullied, but an incomprehensible beast inside of him growls and wants to pounce, tear, and sink it’s teeth right into a pale neck.
Wait. He was doing something, wasn’t he? Scott was at the party— Allison. He left her alone, fuck. This… this thing has started and he sprinted out of there as fast as he could. Oh, no. The first date he ever gotten, ruined so badly.
“You’re so unlucky, my dude!” Whoever he is, the guy laughs with glee, but his eyes are thoughtful, as if he is considering whether to help an inattentive child. “You’re a werewolf now, no take backs!” He apparently decides something for himself and jumps down, forcing a growl from Scott’s mouth but it's more defensive than aggressive. The monster inside that made him do reckless things in recent days – and especially now – doesn’t want to take risks.
It’s afraid to lose, and Scott couldn’t even think something could scare it, but this scrawny teenager does, for some reason. “Good doggo, you know who you shouldn’t to bite,” he bares his teeth, and the guy smells like an animal much worse than a wolf, “call me Mischief, and if you’re willing to trust me, I’ll teach you how to control it.” Mischief holds out his hand and smiles, not predatory this time - just cheerful, interested. Friendly, nice, and the difference in attitude is so jarring Scott has to shake himself a little. It’s like Mischief is waiting to see if it's worth it, if Scott's worth the effort. Scott doesn’t think he can trust anyone right now, but he was alone these few days – not able to explain to anyone what’s happening, why he has no asthma now, how he healed. Allison has been a huge help and comfort, nice and kind, but he’s too afraid to accidentally hurt her. He already has to fix his room door after he gripped it too hard yesterday, not able to control his changing body. And then there was Derek — threatening, scary Derek.
"I'm Scott McCall." He wheezes out and shakes Mischief’s hand. He frowns at Mischief’s weird name but doesn’t comment. He may not be in the best state right now, but even Scott can guess that he probably shouldn't agree, that Mischief obviously has his own agenda. What will he have to give up for this help? But he has no other options. The rage inside comes in waves but doesn’t break out due to the smell of danger, and it involuntarily helps not to completely lose control. Even without doing anything Mischief has helped, and he smells all weird and wrong and tired, Scott thinks. But at least he doesn’t seem to be on the way to kill him, not like whatever has bit him.
"Now let's go, Scotty, you and I need to get through the night and I'll try not to let you kill anyone." Thin-looking Mischief's grip is surprisingly firm as he almost drags Scott back to the edge of the reserve. The jeep Scott sees looks old, and badly damaged during god knows what, and Scott is pushed into it, with Mischief promising terrible punishment if he breaks something.
****
Ridiculous, to expect control from a werewolf during a full moon, yes, but what can you do? The reserve is a much worse idea, with confusing smells and competition for territory, and Mischief really doesn’t want to meet the owners this soon. Also poor rabbits.
The thrill of the hunt. Mischief is almost jealous.
“How long since you got bitten?” Mischief asks as he drives, making sure the speed is nice and slow, and his passenger doesn't do anything risky. It seems that this was the kid’s first full moon, and hardly anyone told him what it was and who he was now. Educational conversations with Mischief, almost like talking to your parents about sex.
“A week ago.” Scott replies hoarsely, breathing deeply. He tries to control himself so badly, he really does, Mischief can see the effort in the overwhelming tension, in the grinding teeth. But it’s still not enough.
“And you didn’t find that alpha, nor he found you? God, I hate people like that, you need to take responsibility for those you turned, that’s just good manners! Otherwise, it always ends up in more trouble.” Mischief grumbles and glances at the lengthening claws, realizing they don’t have time. “Now listen to me, cub, do you have relatives? Family, friends, love? Don't give in, you're the boss here, Scott!”
“Mom, no friends…” the teenager hisses through force. Allison’s face flashes across his eyes but he feels more ashamed than anything else. He has to be better if he ever wants to be with someone like that. She’s so pretty, smells oh so nice and she’s new in town. Has no idea that Scott has asthma and has been bullied for it most of his life. He can be someone else with her.
Mischief throws a knowing look at him and stretches his lips in a smile - fewer problems.
“Now you have good old Mischief, you don’t have to worry, he won’t leave you! Now think about your mother, think about how you can kill her if you don’t control yourself.” In response, a growl is heard right next to his ear, and Mischief thinks that relying on the self-control of a child is the worst idea in his entire life. But oh well. It's his own fault, really. “Scott! You must control the beast for that!”
But nothing works, and Mischief wreaks his brain, what do the wolves use to calm the young? His experience is limited to research and that one werewolf lady he met in the upstate who tried to kill him. The whole situation is dangerous for both of them, but Mischief loved the challenge. Scotty deserves help. Rare altruism for Mischief. And he still has time to bail out and throw the boy out of the car if all else fails.
“Hey Scott, look me in the eyes.” Mischief abruptly pulls over to the side of the road and turns to face the teen. Yellow eyes stare intently in his own, nostrils twitch suspiciously, and saliva drips from fangs. Scott takes a deep breath. “Breathe with me, dude, c’mon. Slow, slow I said! Focus on me and nothing else. If you scratch me, we both going down. Control your heartbeat, breathe.” There is a moment where Mischief’s unsure if its actually going to work, all his theories about werewolves completely false, and grabs Scott’s arm. Hopefully, the guy’s too out of it to remember later the black veins and the sharp pain of nogitsune touch. Mischief just has to hope the shock of pain is enough.
"Okay." Scott says slowly, clutching at his own legs, tearing his jeans apart. That could still be called fashionable. “Okay.” He repeats and Mischief sees, watches with his mouth and eyes wide open as the fangs shrink, as this newly turned werewolf actually wins. How gradually, step by step, the cub stares at him, as if seeing his soul, and calms down. Scott did what is sometimes difficult even for those born wolves — an amazing kid. It seems that the bite was destined for him by fate itself.
And Mischief, apparently, is also here for a reason. Mischief isn't sure if he's happy about it or not, but if that's where he's supposed to be... Then he can stay. He’s romantic like that, believing in the whimsical will of the world and magic. Has to be, when there is frankly nothing not mystical about him. Would be really dumb of him not to respect fate.
"I didn't think you'd actually do it. That’s so cool, dude." Mischief whistles, starting the engine again. He smiles happily, but immediately schools back his expression, not letting the wolf cub — no, not the cub anymore. Wolf. — get cocky. It’s hard to contain his excitement, adrenaline kicking in, and Scott rumbles at his side, preening. He still has a lot to learn, and Mischief isn't a the best adviser for all things dog, but he’s seen enough of the world to teach one tiny werewolf the basics.
***
Scott smiles sheepishly, now fully human, and leans back in his seat, exhaling tiredly. Once you’re holding the beast on a leash, it gets easier, as if it recognizes you, sniffs the air, and finds you familiar. Slowly he realizes that fighting what’s inside is useless, that they are one and the same creature. Scott somehow feels the wolf’s mood in a strange way, weird and new, but pleasant. There's still a long way to go if, as Stiles said, it can't be reversed. He shudders, afraid and feels a hand on his shoulder, and nods his thanks.
“I know it's a strange feeling, but it will pass. You don’t seem to be violent by yourself,” the guy laughs, “and I’ll be there, we can handle it! Most importantly, breathe.” He advises, turning a corner. There doesn’t seem to be a specific direction he’s going in, just circling around the preserve.
“Will it help?” Scott asks with interest, taking a deep breath. It’s the full moon, and everything is so new to him, the feelings are intense, and he smells in Stiles something very deeply hidden and dangerous. But personally to him — a friendly presence, affectionate, and it’s a little reassuring. He can ask later: the suspicious scent has dissipated and his savior seems to be a completely normal person now. Easier to breathe this way, without the threat of danger. Mischief nods.
***
“When you turn, your pulse speeds up quite a bit. It might be difficult, but you should try — a good option in case I'm not around. I think it will help stop the process so that you remain human? Haven't tested it on anyone yet, sorry, it's not often werewolves ask me for help, but I’ve thought it’s worth a shot. Little trick from old Mischief, purely my speculations.” He laughs, raking his slender fingers through Scott's hair, scratching lightly like a dog. Dog jokes never get old. Scott grumbles at the touch but doesn’t resist, calm, kind, gentle, maybe a little confused at his reactions, but not unwilling. Mischief heard that wolves are tactile, and it feels weird — no one touched him without violent intent for a long time. Scott’s hair is greasy with sweat and dirt, but it’s still nice, like Mischief’s stalking a claim. That’s probably what packs do, spread the scent. He pretends not to freak out.
Scott’s soft for a werewolf, but Mischief thinks he can deal with it.
That’s how they met.
“By the way, are you from Beacon Hills? I haven’t seen you before!”
“I moved here just today, aren’t you lucky? Starting today in the Beacon Hills High School, we might even be bros in school!” Mischief fakes a smile and shudders. He never had friends, especially in school. Too weird, too disturbing. It shouldn’t affect him that much, perspective of friendship, but he feels pleased and weirdly emotional. And Scott owes him now, that’s a guarantee of at least one person who’s going to talk to him. That’s nice. “Tell me where to drop you off, buddy.” Scott jumps and quickly directs him and tells him all about his mum who’s a nurse and on the night shift.
“You already have a place? Do you wanna stay for the night, it’s pretty late?” He asks, all adorable and worried suddenly, and Mischief shrugs. He pulls up in front of a completely normal house and turns to Scott.
“Thanks, wolfie, but I’m gonna be fine. Take care of yourself and I’ll see you soon.” He salutes him with his fingers but Scott doesn’t move from his seat. Mischief waits, fidgeting his hands on the wheel. What now?
“Are you sure I cannot go back to being…” Scott swallows and looks like a kicked puppy more than ever. Mischief fights the urge to fluff his hair again. “...me?” He finishes quietly, tentatively. “Why me?” He asks again, more angry this time, frustrated, and his eyes flash unmarred gold.
“Hey, hey, Scott,” Mischief grabs his shoulder quickly. “Listen, buddy, calm down.” Scott looks at his again, fangs growing, but then he shakes himself out of it. “Good, good, nice.” Mischief mumbles, stomping down on his panic. Scott probably can smell it and suddenly he’s closer, holding his hand, worried. “I’m good, yeah, sorry, okay. I don’t know specifically how that stuff works, I’m not the Wolverine here, but I’ve never really heard of a possibility. There is an old legend that you need to kill the alpha who turned you, but honestly, I doubt it.” Scott winces, uncertain. “But don’t worry Scotty it’ll be fine! Most people don’t survive the full transformation, so really you’re lucky, you’re gonna be okay. I heard some pay big money to get turned. Super stenght, white teeth, it's not without its perks.” He looks doubtful but nods.
Scott leaves only after sniffing the air around them carefully one more time, and Mischief waits for him to be scared or disgusted, but nothing really happens – then again, his nose is not as good as a werewolf’s, Mischief can’t read his emotions through sent. Just good old observation. But Scott seems to be more in control now. Small victories.
Really, properly, maybe he should stay with the kid. But it’s only a couple of hours until sunrise, and Scott seems to be doing fine. Moreover, there are worse creature than Stiles lurking around in the dark. He may be of the void, but he’s not the one turning people into werewolves without explaining anything.
Mischief waits until Scott settles and the light in the house turns off before pulling off. The hard part done. Now for the impossible: he still has nowhere to live.
There is a certain allure in taking Scott up on his offer. Mischief may have handled his school transfers himself considering he's old enough to be out of the foster homes, but he absolutely has no place to sleep or live or anything. He has this jeep, left for him by his deceased at birth mother, but nothing more.
He doesn’t follow Scott, though, because he has a reputation to uphold now: pup has to trust him, and believe in him. So he decides to look for other options: sleep is not so essential for him anyway, to be honest. Space to study and live and of his own? Ideal but really more of an impossible dream than something that can truly happen. He won’t need sleep if he’s full, which is easier said than done, but there is a pretty big hospital nearby and he can use that as a start.
A psych ward too, but a mental facility sounds much harder to get into — then again, nothing in this town is simple. Beacon Hills feels overwhelmed with pain, sticky and sweet and a little rotten; Stiles thinks that’s what molasses tastes like. It's like it's fozen in time. He heard stories there used to be a big pack here, but there were no wolves in Beacon Hills for a long time, and without them the forest feels so empty. Haunted. Anyone would probably tell him he sounds mental — even supernatural creatures need to feed, they can taste, god damn it, Stiles dined with a lepricon a month ago, trading funds for all this. Yet for some reason a void fox has to be deprived of the taste of human food.
But this little town is full of pain and suffering – it hangs high in the air, overcharged with magic, earth brimming with barely contained corruption. It’s almost intoxicating: Mischief thinks that’s an alternative to being high or drunk or something like that. Probably. He may be thinking quite a lot about his inability to be normal, okay, and that may be a problem, but Mischief has never been with his own kind. He’s pretty sure there’s only a couple on the whole continent or even in the world. He really believes they just pop out of mid air at random places, without parents or cause or anything, really. Born out of strife and void and pain, resulting in something so fundamentally different. Mischief may have a mother — allegedly, that’s what people in the orphanage said — but he may just be an exception.
Mischief knows he’s a nogitsune, knows it because there has been a fox, a frost one, who was looking at him and hissing like he had killed her whole family and ate her children. She told him, after she calmed down a little as if she could smell him shaking like a newborn fawn. He took too much from her — still thinks about it, sees her in his dreams, dangerous but so weak. At that point he didn’t know so much, knew he was different, running from one foster home to another, only his instincts to rely on. Whispers in his head, chilling but so familiar, urging him to kill and lie and watch them suffer. To feast on pain and conflict, to feel full at last. He used to cry from hunger so often as a child, and now it’s just a dull pain under his ribs.
It was one of the reasons foster parents couldn’t handle him — how could they, when he begged for food and then didn’t eat what was given?
She had helpfully told him a name, explained briefly, unsuspecting of Mischief tenderly taking away her pain almost involuntarily, and then disappeared as if there was no one there. He knew he wasn’t human but boy was it fun to know you’re something literally everyone hates. Most creatures don’t realize what scent it is, but some helpful man from a bar told him he stinks of the void. ‘Nogitsune’ his instincts sang at the name, murmuring happily and Mischief had even more questions than before.
But from there on it was easier, to at least have something to call himself. He also knows other foxes will resent him, but that’s still better than knowing absolutely nothing about himself — his biggest hunger was always for knowledge after all.
Unfortunately for Mischief— his name is unpronounceable for most people, and awfully memorable due to that, so an old nickname it is — his own physique doesn’t provide nearly as much protection against the elements as a werewolf’s. Especially after starving for so long. In fact, he’s probably weaker than a normal human now, unless he finds food.
Bars are the ultimate feeding grounds for the likes of him, for parasites like nogistsune or vampires, feeding off the most unfortunate. But he’s scrawny for his age, and even the baggy clothes don’t work that well. In big cities most were willing to look past his shabby and half dead appearance, but smaller towns are awfully noisy and much more annoying. Bars are less likely to take the risk by letting him in, and if he loses control and eats too much? That will be the talk of the whole neighborhood by sunrise.
What the fuck is he even doing here, Mischief can’t help but think faintly. There is nothing for him here, just like everywhere else. Maybe he should have taken Scott’s offer, but what would have come from that? Revealing how vulnerable he is? No, that’s not the way with werewolves, they need authority, he assumes. With the pack structure and all that. It’s probably a mistake to befriend him, all things considered, but Mischief wants to try his instincts, and those told him to come here.
Nemeton is here, isn’t it? Dead, but can you actually destroy something like that? Those things are dangerous, no wonder the whole town smells like one inevitable tragedy. The fact that Mischief found it interesting enough to visit means others would too, and in that case having Scott on his side would be perfect. To be fair, this misery hanging in the air alleviates at least some of his hunger. In the big cities people are less happy, but also much more hopeful and so diverse there is no definitive emotions there. Here, the suffering is quiet but potent. Stagnating more and more with each passing year.
Besides, he kind of wants to stay. At least for a bit, until the whole thing blows up. Inevitably, it will, it always does. Nogitsune bring nothing but trouble, like he was told so many times.
Flies buzz out from his right sleeve, and Mischief sighs, letting them sit on his hands. Another reason for most not to like him.
“At least you’re not going anywhere.” He whispers and they buzz excitedly, ever so eager to please, and obediently fly out of the window when Mischief rolls it down. He haven’t left any with Scott since he’s probably the only one who could trace them back to Mischief, but they are great for spying. The little perk of being whatever he is — they are on his side, his small agents always there to save his ass. Carrying a touch of his soul.
He experimented with that once: put more onto them, until there was almost nothing left in his body. It feels good to know he has an escape plan, but his body is his own, not borrowed. It wouldn’t feel good to just leave it.
There is a sound of engine coming up, and one of the flies cheerfully shows him a police car, and Mischief groans and sags in his seat. Hopefully, it will pass on its way. Cops are never good.
But of course, why would a void fox be lucky? The cars pulls up right behind him, and a man steps out of it, walking to his window.
“You alright here, son?” The man asks, and there is a shiny star on his chest. The Sheriff, great. And he smells so full of sorrow Mischief has to swallow against the roar of hunger in his chest. It’s far more potent than what Scott had, it feels decades old.
Mental pain tastes different than physical one, it’s diverse and exhilarating, but not as filling. Physical one is like the way he heard people describe junk food — a guilty pleasure, easy to get, fulfilling and tasty but not good for you. He’s pretty sure they mean health wise, but for him bringing someone that much pain will bring the police on him. He tried once with people who usually like pain, and even to them his feeding was too much. Mischief always is.
“Good evening! Yep, all good, sir!” Mischief flashes the man a grin, but the Sheriff doesn’t look too convinced. Damn, a sentimental one. Those are always a problem.
“I am Sheriff Stilinski. You mind showing me your license? A bit late to be out, where are your parents? I haven’t seen you around here.” There is a beat and then Mischief finally gives him his documents with a huff. This is going to be a pain.
“I’m new here! Only me in the world, Sheriff.” He tries to sound optimistic, but sees in the arch of man’s brow that it’s unsuccessful. He’s too hungry to lie well, god damn it. Mischief swallows and lets the void leak out a bit, the gentle nudge to the mind he tries not to use often. “I’ll be on my way soon, sir, nothing to worry about.”
“No guardians, son?” The man presses despite his best efforts, and Mischief huffs.
“Fresh out of foster care, sir. I can take care of myself.” The bite sneaks into his voice involuntarily and the Sheriff nods slowly at him.
“I believe you, son, but sleeping on the road isn’t good for a child.” Mischief doesn’t want to react so much to it, he endured much worse, he’s used to being dismissed. But he can in fact take care of himself, and while he’s weak right now, he’s still a supernatural creature. He could kill this man and feast on his cries— “Call me Noah. Tell you what, why don’t you sleep at my place? I have a free room collecting dust.”
“Want to take me home?” Mischief can’t help but tease, hopes that’s the reason. This way he won’t feel bad for punching the guy in the face. Unfortunately, the Sheriff’s face looks horrified and carefully blank.
The man doesn’t listen to his attempts to fix it, just goes back to his car to lead the way.
Mischief stares at the police car slowly and pointedly driving forward, stricken. He could run, could press on the gas and go back. But he’d already applied to high school. And the Sheriff doesn’t seem to be the type to let things go. Fuck. There is no way for him to continue to live here without the man noticing.
In the end, he follows the car, feeling so so dumb. This is a mistake.
Funnily enough, the Sheriff drives to a neighborhood not that far from Scott’s, getting out of the car before waiting for Mischief on the front porch. The house is old — surprisingly not that well cared for — and Mischief grabs his duffel and follows Noah inside the house. Inside, things kind of make more sense: the smell of old whiskey, pizza boxes scattered around in the kitchen. The Sheriff is clearly taking care to look presentable on job, but not doing nearly as well of a job at home.
“Sorry, wasn’t expecting visitors.” Noah says awkwardly, before turning to him. “Do you want anything to eat…?” He struggles for a moment. “Slav? Is that the correct way to say your name?” Mischief blinks at him. It’s close enough for a shortened version, he’s surprised the man even knew how to read his full name. Weird.
“Everyone calls me Mischief.” He finally says and the man makes a face. “And I ate recently, sir. Honest.”
“This isn’t the best nickname for a kid.” The man grumbles, watching him closely, clearly thinking Mischief’s lying. But there is no reason for him to pretend to want to eat anything because he doesn’t. If anything, the misery radiating from the Sheriff in waves is the tastiest thing in the room right now. “I live alone, and you’re free to do whatever you want as long as there is nothing’s stolen and your room isn’t thrashed. The bathroom is upstairs. Let me show you the room.”
It’s so fucking awkward, but the Sheriff doesn’t mention any type of payment nor asks Mischief any more questions. Those will probably come tomorrow, he can’t help but think. As good as Mischief’s manipulation is, and as kind as Sheriff seems to be, there is always something. Even good Samaritans need validation as a reward. He can’t stay here for long, but he can enjoy the brief hospitality.
Only when Noah starts snoring in the far room does Mischief risks standing up. He’s so hungry, and he won’t take much. Surely, Noah has enough misery to share? Old men like that carry their wounds close to the chest, never healing. He doesn’t even need to touch him to carefully sip it away, like water from the top of the glass. Only minutes later, when Noah’s breathing calms down and Mischief’s stomach tightens with satisfaction of brief reprieve, he notices a photo of a woman on a nightstand.
Ah, of course, a lost loved one. He inhales more, lets himself taste the pain— wife, that was Noah’s wife. Claudia, it helpfully supplies. Maybe he thinks Mischief can be his son. That works. Mischief can be whatever Noah wants of him if that means he can stay.