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Today is a good day to die. A cry from a first nation or a Klingon saying, either way, for the Pack it tended to be said when they were going into a fight they didn’t think they could win.
Luckily, they’d mostly come out of those kind of fights in one piece. A few scrapes, bruise or two, and some blood, but nothing life-threatening. It had become something of a tradition, a superstition none of them wanted to break. One that was even said, or thought, before internal battles.
In this case it was internal. Because this was about how Scott saw him and his Dad and how Scott saw himself. How Scott thought he wasn’t bound by Pack law or Pack Lore, that they weren't something that affected him.
Why Scott didn’t see himself as Pack he didn’t have a clue. Scott wasn't an omega, wasn’t even close, for fuck's sake. What the hell did Scott think was keeping him sane?
Erica tapping out a good day to die in Morse code on the kitchen top with a claw would have amused him in any other circumstance. But right now he was way too pissed off. Enough that it was curling off his skin, filling the air, colouring the tension in the room.
The creak of the one wonky board on the back porch, their way of letting them know that it was a Pack member coming in, spiked his anger to out right fury. Only Peter’s hand stalling his attack.
He and his father were pack, and Scott was about to become not pack.
A good day to die, alright, just not him.