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A whirlwind of shattered glass and mountain ash consumes the anuk-ite and Scott takes a heaving breath. The oppressive air of fear lightens, revealing the familiar scents of the high school library.
Scott turns his head when he detects Stiles approaching quickly from his right, but it’s no use trying to hide his wounds. His skin has been stinging beneath sticky streaks of blood and fluid. He must look like a mess.
The most he can manage is to retract his fangs before Stiles gasps.
“Scott, your eyes!”
“I know. I couldn’t fight it, not without… this.”
“Are you healing?”
Scott shakes his head. “I need to but I—I don’t know, I can’t concentrate.”
“Try again,” Stiles says steadily.
Taking a deep breath, Scott tries to focus through the distractions that flood his senses. Sounds of struggle echo in the hallways of the school. Stiles’ scent clouds with anxiety. Scott’s fingers twitch with the phantom sensation of bursting through the surface of his eyes.
The base of his skull throbs, pounding in his ears in rhythm with his rising pulse, shooting strikes of sharp pain like lightning into the hollows of his sockets—
It’s not working. His headache only increases.
What if this is it?
“Scott!” Derek’s voice breaks through the rhythmic clicking of Lydia’s heels as they both draw closer.
Derek’s scent is—off. Earthier than usual, but still Derek underneath. Nothing like the facsimile when the anuk-ite was attacking him.
“He’s not healing,” Stiles explains.
Gently, Derek takes Scott’s arm in his hand. “Come on, you need to sit.”
Derek leads him backwards and down until he’s seated on the staircase. When Scott slumps back onto his elbows, he slides along the edge of one of the steps, scraping against rough carpeting that burns even through his sleeves.
Even beneath the layers of foot traffic left behind since the night of the supermoon, the scents of death and defeat pervade.
Once again, he’s on the brink of failing everyone around him. Like he failed Allison. And Kira.
“I’m sorry,” Scott whispers.
“Don’t apologize,” replies Derek. He moves his hand up Scott’s arm and takes hold of his shoulder. “How long have they been this way?”
Scott swallows and half-heartedly shrugs.
“If you don’t heal soon, Scott—”
Images of Deucalion’s eyes flash in his mind, milky-red and full of rage one moment, clear and devoid of life the next.
“I know,” Scott says, “I’ve tried concentrating but it’s all just… too much.”
“Too much what?”
Scott opens his mouth to explain and nothing comes out. It’s all stopped up inside him: Allison, Kira. Everyone else he’s lost. Everyone else he’s failed.
“Pain?” Lydia chimes in.
Scott stays silent.
“If you’re in pain, I can help,” says Derek.
The little Scott knows about Derek’s relationship with taking pain is that he rarely does it, and only when the circumstances are dire. Derek sacrificed his alpha spark for Cora. Scott would never allow Derek to put himself on the line to that extreme, not for his own benefit.
He won’t hurt Derek, not again. Not after he came back to Beacon Hills for Scott.
“I can’t let you do that,” Scott says, pushing Derek’s hand from his shoulder.
Derek resists the movement. “You always take everyone else’s pain. Let me take yours. Just enough so that you can heal.”
Scott hesitates. Then, slowly, in desperation, he nods. “Please, not too much.”
Derek cradles the bottom of Scott’s head, spreading his fingertips along the back of his neck, cool against the burning heat of his skin. Like a valve opening, the buildup of pain releases.
“Breathe,” Derek says softly.
Scott obeys, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath. The sensation of pain flowing from his wounds leaves him pleasantly buzzing, almost light-headed. The din of sensory input dampens to a manageable level the more that he leans into his beta’s touch.
“Thank you,” says Scott, voice thick with gratefulness. He grasps Derek’s upper arm with his hand and squeezes. Derek slides his hand from Scott’s neck down to his shoulder and returns the squeeze.
Mind cleared, Scott concentrates once again. The result is immediate: complex optical systems repair, rebuilding the structures of his eyes. He opens his lids carefully and squints despite the low light. The relief of having his vision restored is enough to tide him over as he waits for the sensitivity to pass.
Finally, when he’s able to open his eyes fully, smudges of shadow and blurs of reflective light coalesce into the faces of his pack, including Malia’s as she jogs through the double doors.
“You’re okay,” she exhales, kneeling next to Derek and taking Scott’s hand in hers.
“Yeah,” Scott says. He smiles and nods Derek’s way. “We’re all okay.”