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“McCall!” Finstock bellows as soon as they hit the locker room after practice. “What the hell was that out on the field?”
Scott just shrugs, eyes downcast, as he stows away his gear. He knows he hasn't really been trying, knows he should take his role on the team more seriously, even if he's been demoted from co-captain to 'barely playing if he's lucky' these days. They're all exhibition games at this point, since the championships ended, but Coach has always been a firm believer in practice making, well, more practice.
Finstock refuses to give ground, gets right up in his face and points, stubby finger poking his bare chest and oh, give me a reason, Scott thinks, letting the wolf rise dangerously close to the surface. That's been a hell of a lot harder lately, too, since – well. No matter what he'd said to Allison about waiting, he still doesn't want to think about it.
“I've given you all the chances I can, Scotty-boy, and believe me, that's taken a lot of special favors on my part, if you catch my drift.” Scott seriously doesn't want to think about what sort of 'favors' the coach might be talking about. “And now here you are, not only failing three classes, but dropping passes, tripping over your own feet, and daydreaming about god only knows what on the field. I'm about out of sympathy for your shenanigans.”
“Sorry coach,” Scott mutters. “I've just had a lot on my mind lately, that's all.”
“Well, you'd better pull your head out of your ass and get your mind back in the game, or don't even bother showing up for try-outs next season.” Finstock retreats with a parting glare, somehow instinctively feeling Scott's hackles rising in defense.
A warm hand rests tentatively on Scott's shoulder, still making him jump until he catches on to the familiar heartbeat behind him. Isaac. His shoulders settle, the wolf slinking back down as he turns into the comforting touch. “Who pissed in his cornflakes today?” Isaac asks, watching Finstock stalk into his office and slam the door.
Scott laughs, and Isaac smiles, glad to see the tension lifting. There isn't much he wouldn't do to put a smile on Scott's face, these days. “There's still time, you know,” Isaac mentions hopefully, but only gets a blank stare in return.
“For what?” Scott asks, pulling a t-shirt out of his locker.
“To get your grades back up,” Isaac says, smacking him lightly on the chest. “I mean, nothing we do at this point is going to get you straight A's, but you might be able to manage a couple of C's. That'd keep you on the team, right?”
“We?” Scott asks, his lips curling in confusion and Isaac just rolls his eyes.
“Look, I know Stiles has been a little … distracted, lately,” Isaac starts as Scott interrupts with “Yeah, if by distracted, you mean moping.” Isaac actually means over-thinking the symbolism of the Alpha triskelion to cover his fiercely broken heart, but Scott has always had a particularly blunt method of summation. He's learned to let it go.
“Right,” Isaac continues slowly. “And I know you'd rather go to him if you needed help with school work, but maybe, you know, if you wanted - I could help you study sometime?” His voice grows softer with each word, fingers ticking nervously at his sides.
Scott smiles up at him, somewhat bewildered, but looking grateful for the offer nonetheless. “Sure, man,” he says digging his bag out of his locker. “I mean, I really used to study more with Allison, but, uh, we never actually ended up studying, if you know what I mean.” He blushes a little, and Isaac shuffles his feet, not being particularly interested in what they did end up doing. “I won't turn down actual help, though,” Scott continues, and Isaac's face brightens again. “You should come over and stay for dinner sometime, my mom makes a killer lasagna.”
And that's how it starts, the two of them riding their bikes over to Scott's after practice and hauling out the books. Even after Lacrosse finally ends (until camp starts up again in July), they'll sometimes stop for ice cream or milk shakes or generally anything unhealthy enough for Scott's mom to frown upon. They sit at tables outside the local Dairy Shack and Isaac reads questions from hand-made flash cards, genuinely pleased as Scott's answers progress from glum disavowal to confident and correct.
After answering a particularly difficult question about the Haymarket Riot, Scott fist pumps the air and manages to smear chocolate/vanilla swirl across his chin. Isaac laughs, something Scott had been noticing more and more often these days, and then leans in to wipe the ice cream away with his thumb. It's a simple gesture, something Scott never would have thought twice about with Stiles (though Stiles would have mocked him the whole rest of the day, possibly making up a new and unflattering nickname in honor of the incident). Isaac's heart speeds up, ever so slightly and Scott thinks he might see a slight blush coloring his pale, freckled cheeks. He doesn't say anything, just ducks his head and asks if there are any more questions before finishing his ice cream cone. Isaac decides to let him off the hook for the day.
They're in Scott's bedroom, balancing reheated lasagna on their laps when Scott can finally name off every element on the periodic table in descending order and recite their properties by heart. He's close to being able to talk through the ion-electron method for balancing a redox reaction, and Isaac couldn't be prouder if he tried. Melissa knocks on the open door frame, dourly announcing another night shift and then stops. Stares. Because her son has a chemistry book in his hands and he's smiling.
“Whatever you've been doing,” she whispers to Isaac, leaning in close. “Please, for the love of god, keep doing it!” She straightens up and smiles at Scott when she tells him that Isaac is a keeper.
“Yeah, mom,” Scott answers, his mouth half full of lasagna. “I know.”
Melissa ruffles Isaac's hair and he scrunches up his shoulders, staring at the floor in embarrassment. Even from across the room, Scott can still see that he's smiling.
Pleased with the afternoon's efforts (and because they'll have the tv all to themselves), Scott gets them second helpings from the kitchen and pops in Raiders of the Lost Ark. If Isaac nudges a bit farther into Scott's personal space than normal, well, they both pretend not to notice.
“Cameron used to help me study,” Isaac says quietly as the credits roll. “I mean, I didn't have a lot to study for, back in elementary school, but he helped me with my spelling and vocabulary and god,” Isaac laughs, but only a little. “I was the worst at multiplication tables, you have no idea.”
"Yeah?” Scott asks, leaning back against the cushions, feeling oddly like he's being let in on some sort of secret.
“I only mention it because he loved these movies,” Isaac says with a fond, somewhat distant smile. “We used to watch them every holiday over break. It was like a tradition.” He stares at the blank tv screen, neither of them moving to find the remote.
“My mom used to try to help me with my spelling,” Scott says to break the awkward silence. “It never worked, though. I'm still terrible.”
Isaac swats him lightly against the back of his head and they tussle for a few minutes, in the way that sometimes happens at pack meetings, only this is softer and a lot more comfortable and somehow way less about dominance and more about tickling. After Isaac stops laughing and gives up, head thrown back against the armrest, he looks up at Scott with a wry grin.
“I can't think of a single thing you're terrible at,” Isaac says, like he might actually mean it, and something sticks funny in Scott's throat. “Except lying.” he continues. “You're pretty bad at that.” The response earns him another round of ruthless stomach tickles and Scott just helps him to his feet when he inevitably rolls off the couch in defeat.
It's late on a Wednesday and Scott would rather be anywhere – literally, anywhere, than in the dank, humid train station where Derek still insists on meeting. Stiles is pacing, rattling off a stream of archaic and very probably useless details about the Alpha Pack's sigil that no one else seems to understand – and really, what does cthonic even mean? Derek does his part, leaning against the stairs and glaring everyone into submission. Erica examines her claws, Boyd actually has a book wedged behind the backpack on his lap, and Jackson keeps tossing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it. Each toss sends it higher towards the rafters, and Scott's just waiting for it bounce off and land on Derek's head.
Stiles is saying something about Greek warriors and the conquest of Sicily, which hardly seems relevant given that final exams start in less than a week. Scott stifles a yawn, leaning back against the wall. It's warm, and dark, and he's almost asleep when Isaac pokes him in the side. He pokes back, attention shifted, and Isaac just shakes his head, nodding back to where Stiles is, oh my god, still talking. Jackson's toy finally makes its fateful descent, bouncing its way through the rafters and straight down towards Stiles, who throws his arms over his head in awkward self-defense. Scott thinks for a moment that they might be saved from any further lectures and is vaguely disappointed when Derek catches it out of the air. He hurls it across the room, glaring at Jackson, who is still clearly amused by causing a disruption. Scott wrinkles his nose and rests his head on Isaac's shoulder, grumbling about having had enough ancient history lessons for one week. Isaac remembers Scott answering all of his questions correctly about Odysseus and his voyage, and then insisting they go for late night doughnuts, in celebration of the hero's homecoming. He lets Scott lean against him for the duration of the meeting, half-asleep, only moving when Derek sends them all home with a frustrated sigh.
It's the weekend before finals and Scott gets permission for Isaac to stay over, in the interest of serious cram sessions. If he doesn't mention that lately they've been making popcorn, watching movies, and going for runs in the woods more than actually studying, well, it's only a lie of omission. His grades are up, noticeably in fact, and his teachers have started giving him little pats on the back of encouragement. Mr. Harris seems inclined to think he's cheating, and occasionally still finds reasons to give him detention, but at least then he's with Stiles. Stiles, who he's been seeing less and less of lately. Not long ago, Stiles would stop by and interrupt his studies with Isaac for a few games of Modern Warfare, or insist that they go see the newest comic book adaptation, and because he was Stiles, his enthusiasm would usually win out.
But the visits became less and less frequent, and before long, Stiles wasn't even coming over on days when Isaac wasn't there. They still spoke at school, still had the looming threat of the Alpha Pack hanging over their heads, but Stiles hadn't been able to find out anything else useful. After letting Boyd and Erica go as some sort of warning, the Alphas hadn't seen fit to deface any other property, which left them at a loss. The entire pack was on edge, watching and waiting, and between werewolf business, school, and his part-time job, Scott realises he's begun to think of his study sessions with Isaac as actually fun. As a relief.
When Stiles throws his backpack down at a separate table in the chemistry lab and actually pulls out a study guide, it's the last straw. He moves over to share Stiles' table and gets smacked in the nostrils by an unfamiliar scent. No, unfamiliar isn't precisely the right term. It's still definably Stiles, but altered somehow, by another familiar scent. He can't place the combination, and it puts him off his game.
“Dude,” he whispers, loud enough to be heard at the city limits. “What gives?”
Stiles cocks an eyebrow at him and whispers back, “What?”
“You smell funny,” Scott says, and heard Mr. Harris chuckle quietly to himself at his desk.
“I don't smell funny,” Stiles answers. “Your stupid wolfy nose is just malfunctioning. Or, you know, maybe you've just forgotten how I'm supposed to smell, since you haven't seen me in months.”
“Dude, I saw you last period in English,” Scott retorts, and Stiles just sighs.
“Look, man, I've got work to do, all right?” Stiles ducks his head down towards a practice Trigonometry test. “I don't have a permanent study-buddy attached at the hip, so maybe you could give me some space.”
“Is that what this is about?” Scott asks, dumbstruck, and Harris taps his ruler menacingly against the side of his desk. Scott lowers his voice. “Are you seriously – are you jealous because I've been studying with Isaac instead of playing video games with you?”
“No,” Stiles fires back. “I'm angry because there's a pack of bloodthirsty alpha wolves out there looking to kill us in our sleep, and you and your new boyfriend spend pack meetings making googly eyes at one another instead of listening, or more importantly, helping.” He tilts his head to one side as if composing the rest of his response before straightening it back up. “And because you're not playing video games with me,” he adds decisively.
Scott's jaw drops and he hangs for a moment at Stiles' shoulder, frozen in place. “It's – with Isaac - it's not like that.”
“Really?” Stiles asks sarcastically. “Then you might want to tell him that.” He runs a hand over his face and for a moment, it almost looks as if he might apologise, but then thinks better of it. “You know, I've got just as much work on my shoulders as you do, and I've been up most nights trying to help Derek figure out where the alphas are hiding and why the hell they came to Beacon Hills in the first place.”
Then Scott gets it. The scent. It's Derek's, and it's all over Stiles, every inch of him, rising from his shirt, his skin, even his backpack. “Oh,” he says, with as little inflection as possible. “Is that all you've been doing with him?”
Stiles blushes down to the collar of his shirt, slowly at first, then spreading quickly like some kind of disease of embarrassment. He opens and closes his mouth, raising one hand in the air as if to make a point, then lowering it back down. “Yeah,” Scott mutters. “I'll leave you alone.”
They spend the rest of detention on opposite sides of the room, books open, pencils moving, and Mr. Harris has never been more pleased with either of them.
Scott parks his bicycle next to Isaac's outside the garage, and wonders if he's been waiting here since school let out. He texted to tell him he got detention with Harris (again), but Scott supposes he could have missed it. He walks in the front door to hear laughter spilling out from the kitchen, and is that – are Isaac and his mom hanging out? Scott supposes that's not too odd, as often as Isaac's been around lately, but his mother's conversations with Stiles had always been sarcastic and slightly disapproving, as if he might break something at any moment. He rounds the corner and stares at them from the doorway, a pile of tomatoes between them on the counter, each slicing vegetables on cutting boards.
“Scott!” his mother exclaims when she notices him. “You didn't tell me Isaac could cook!” Isaac ducks his head, biting his lip.
“I, uh,” Scott fumbles, and wow, isn't this evening off to a great start? “I didn't know?”
“How do you not know these things about your friends?” Melissa throws back over her shoulder. “Isaac thought that since you've been doing so well, tonight should be pizza night. If I could stay and help, believe me I would, but I'm probably going to be late enough as it is.” She grabs her bag and her keys from the hooks by the door and grabs Scott along with them, dragging him along to the front hallway by the collar of his shirt.
“Mom,” he squeaks. “Ow!” And ok, it didn't actually hurt, but it was the principle of the thing.
“I just wanted to tell you,” she says, smoothing out his shirt where she'd wrinkled it up. “That I'm glad to see you're finally moving on after Allison. Isaac is a very nice young man, and I like him.”
Scott's face pales. “I – Mom, we're not – seriously, why does everyone think we're dating?” he hisses. Melissa looks taken aback.
“You're not dating, but he's been over here more often than not for the past two months, and now he's in the kitchen making you pizza for dinner? From scratch?”
“From scratch,” Scott repeats, mentally replaying his earlier conversation with Stiles.
“If he was fifteen years older and making me pizza,” Melissa whispers confidentially. “I'd want to hit that.”
“Augh, Mom!” Scott all but shouts, shooing her out the door. She laughs and waves goodbye, jangling her keys. Scott closes the door behind her and leans against it, certain that Isaac had heard every humiliating word.
Isaac leans around the kitchen door frame, wincing. “I swear, I did not in any way imply to your mother that we're dating.”
Scott just shakes his head, laughing a little as he walks into the kitchen and looks at the assembled ingredients. “Couldn't we have just ordered in?” he asks, and behind his back, Isaac's face falls.
“I just thought it might be fun?” he suggests. “I haven't really been able to cook much, since, you know, and you have this nice big kitchen, so...” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed.
“Oh,” Scott says, “No, that's totally cool. I just usually stick to microwaving things, that's all. There was an incident, once, with some ramen, and I've pretty much been banned from using the stove ever since.”
Isaac grins. “How do you mess up ramen noodles?” he asks, and Scott just shrugs. “Pure talent?” he suggests, and then they're both laughing, any embarrassment forgotten.
Let people think what they want, Scott decides later, once the sauce is cooling on the stove and the pizza dough situation has been more or less contained. They're both covered in flour from Scott's pitiful attempts at using the mixer (which resulted in a strange grinding noise, followed by shaking and the smell of smoke), not to mention the state of the kitchen, and Scott knows he's going to have clean that up later, but he doesn't mind. Not really.
Besides, he can blame it all on Isaac anyway. Isaac had pulled the pathetic mass of ingredients out of the groaning mixer and told Scott to spread some flour across the biggest cutting board he could find, and Scott had of course responded with a handful to the face before actually doing as he was asked. Isaac, in some subtle attempt at revenge that Scott's not entirely sure he understands, stands close behind him, guiding his hands slowly through the flour, oil and sugar until it begins to resemble a lump of dough. It's hard work, and he winds up sweating after punching and kneading the dough repeatedly for what seems like hours (but is probably closer to twenty minutes). Still, Isaac's patient hands on his ensure that the project isn't a total disaster, and if that inexplicably makes him sweat a bit harder, well, Scott's decidedly not thinking about it. Or the way Isaac smells, a warm and somehow spicy scent drifting over Scott's shoulder as they work, perfectly in sync. He definitely doesn't mark the way Isaac lingers unnecessarily in his space as Scott clumsily bundles two more-or-less even balls of dough in plastic wrap and sits them out to rise, their faces flushed from the way the kitchen has suddenly grown warm.
He ruffles Isaac's hair to disturb the strange and peaceful calm that's descended around them, shaking a cloud of flour out from his curls. Isaac sneezes into his sleeve before reaching out to brush a streak of white from Scott's cheek. “See?” he says, teasingly, a hint of yellow in his eyes. “Cooking can be fun.” Scott swallows hard, a tingle remaining on his skin where Isaac's fingers had been only moments ago and he blinks several times before trusting his mouth to answer.
“Absolutely,” he says. “Kind of messy, though.”
“Kind of worth it,” Isaac fires back, and Scott agrees with a hesitant smile. He coughs, clearing a cloud of flour from the air and abruptly heads over to the kitchen table, digging out several books from his backpack. They do manage to squeeze in some studying before the dough's ready, Scott swearing he still doesn't understand why Grendel didn't win out. “I mean, come on, he was like six times Beowulf's size, and his mother was even scarier than he was!”
Isaac shrugs, reminding him that epics and sagas probably wouldn't have survived very long around the campfire if the humans didn't win, and at least the dragon got the last word in the end. And there is a much, much longer conversation they could probably have about that, he thinks, about the way humans write monsters into their history and yet still don't believe in them, but the dough looks ready, and they're both starving and Isaac doesn't really feel like being a downer tonight, anyway.
Once the toppings are on and the pizzas baked, Scott declares their creations to be the absolute best pizza of all time, and that keeps a grin on Isaac's face all throughout dinner. After his fourth slice and a heated debate over Middle Earth vs. Narnia, Scott discovers that Isaac missed out on The Neverending Story when he was a kid. Even though the film is twice as old as both of them, Scott still pretends to be horrified and insists they rectify the unfortunate situation. So they sprawl across the couch, bellies full of pizza, and Scott watches Isaac's face as he meets Bastian, Falkor and the Childlike Empress for the first time. It's full of wonder and something Scott's pretty sure is happiness, and a warm, soft feeling curls up in his belly when he realises he doesn't have to make Isaac go back to the train station tonight.
He thinks about all the times Isaac's ridden off on his bike after dark, a smile on his face, inevitably heading back to a scavenged mattress on the floor of a filthy, abandoned terminal. Scott swallows hard, wondering why this was the first time it had occurred to him to ask Isaac to stay longer. It settles, sick and squirming in his stomach as he realises that these study sessions were never all about him, and how much of a douchebag it makes him to have ever thought that way in the first place. They were a relief for Isaac, too, spending a brief while in the comforts of home.
On the screen, Atreyu confronts the G'mork, of whom Isaac is ironically and unexpectedly terrified. And all right, Scott actually gets that because he spent his childhood having nightmares about that stupid thing and arguing with Stiles over which was actually scarier, the menacing, well-spoken beasty who rose from the shadows, or the Nothing which stole everything away. Now they're older, he understands Stiles' insistence on the Nothing, but that doesn't mean he can't drag Isaac over to his pile of pillows, wrap his arms around him and let Isaac's head fall against his chest.
“You do realise we're werewolves, right?” he whispers against Isaac's ear, and Isaac just punches him in the shoulder. “We could take that thing in a fight any day of the week.” And yeah, he knows they're cuddling, and it's probably the least manly thing he's done in recent memory, but it's just a pack thing. Totally a pack thing. His wolf agrees, possessive and well-fed as it settles down for the night beneath his skin.
They eventually disentangle themselves when Scott realises that Isaac's fallen asleep, his heartbeat slow and even against his chest and he's beginning to doze off as well. He ushers Isaac up the stairs, doesn't think twice about sharing the bed because that's what he's always done with Stiles, so Isaac shouldn't mind, right? He crosses his arms behind his head on the pillow and stares up at the giant poster of Lon Chaney, Jr. in The Wolf Man that Stiles tacked up there and he never bothered to take down.
“Big fan of the classics?” Isaac asks, more yawn than words, and Scott explains that Stiles just put it there to mock him after surviving his first moon more or less intact. He figures he got lucky; considering Stiles' sense of humor, it could just as easily have been a furry Michael J. Fox. He shudders.
“My dad had all the corny Universal Monsters on VHS,” Isaac contributes sleepily, “and we'd pick one to watch on Halloween. The Mummy was my favorite. I – never actually liked The Wolf Man all that much.” Scott's never seen any of them, never had to work a VCR in his life in fact, and says as much. Isaac makes an amused noise and rolls over to face the wall, his shoulders set a bit stiffly, and Scott wonders if he's thinking about his brother or his father. It keeps him awake far longer into the night than he'd like, wondering how different their childhoods must have been.
Late morning light drags him up from sleep, and Scott feels the warmth of another body pressed tight against his side before he opens his eyes. Allison, he thinks hazily, before processing the important differences. Isaac is all lean muscle and bones, the hard angles of him jutting against Scott's frame instead of soft curves melting into his skin. The wolf is wide awake, leaving his human side struggling to catch up, and the wolf wants.
He rolls over on his side, still not sure if he's awake or dreaming and Isaac's eyes flutter open, hazy blue shifting to gold as Scott's hand settles against his waist. Isaac's mouth falls open, his eyes searching Scott's face with an expression caught somewhere between hope and bewilderment. “Scott?” he whispers, shivering as Scott's hand slides against bare skin where his t-shirt rucked up while he slept. Scott leans in until their foreheads touch, Isaac's eyelashes fluttering against his cheek and that's when the human side of his brain begins to process what's happening. It's not soon enough, Isaac's arm wrapping around his side, fingers sliding gently down his spine as Scott's thumb rubs slow circles against Isaac's hip. Isaac says his name again, low and hungry, pulling Scott in close against him and tilting his head ever so slightly for a better angle. He presses his lips to Scott's, dry and chapped, and for an instant it's perfect, it's electric, even if Scott is slow and hesitant kissing him back and he tries harder, cupping Scott's face in his hand and stroking his cheek.
A loud, hollow knock at the door sends Scott reeling backwards toward the edge of the bed and Isaac's hands lose their traction against his skin. “Boys!” Melissa calls from the hallway. “Breakfast in ten!” Scott sits up like a bolt, his back to Isaac as he throws his legs over the side of the mattress. He's breathing hard, his pulse racing and his thoughts terribly, unforgivably unclear.
“I'm sorry,” he gasps, “that was a really stupid thing to do.” He slides off the mattress, hand on the doorknob before looking back to see Isaac curled up on his side away from him, face pressed into the pillow. His heart beats loud to Scott's ears in the stillness, and he can smell the misery washing over Isaac in waves. “I'm sorry,” he says again, the words making Isaac flinch and suddenly Scott can't get out of the room fast enough.
They sit through the most awkward breakfast of Scott's life before Isaac leaves. Scott walks him out, grabbing Isaac by the wrist as he's halfway out the door. “Isaac,” he says, confused and unsure but “Don't,” Isaac warns. “Just – don't, Scott.” Scott stands in the open doorway, watching Isaac ride away until he's out of sight before wandering back into the kitchen, uncertainty plain on his face. Melissa looks like she wants to say something, really she does, but she settles for tousling Scott's hair instead and telling him to wash the dishes.
They settle wordlessly on a strategy of mutual avoidance until exams are over. Scott manages to end the year with all passing grades, if not exactly good ones, and he knows it's down to Isaac's help, wants to thank him but doesn't know how. He skips two pack meetings, making worthless excuses and endures Derek's wrath. He tries to fix things with Stiles, and sometimes it's almost like it used to be, but more and more it seems like Stiles has other obligations, other places to be, and Scott isn't invited. He still smells like Derek, like pack, and sometimes that alone is enough to drive Scott away. He runs into Allison from time to time, but it's not the same, and no amount of wanting it to be can recreate that bond. She smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear, and he feels like he should be trying to win her back, but he just - he doesn't. He can't quite explain why, even to himself, so he just stops thinking about it. He picks up more hours at the clinic, trying to convince himself he's not miserable, and some days, it even works.
It's a hot, full moon night in early July when Isaac lopes out of the woods near the old Hale house, straightening up from all fours. He sniffs the air, hackles rising as he smells the harsh tang of blood. There's a lump at the top of the porch stairs, lying motionless and leaking a steady stream of thick, congealing liquid across the old beams, syrupy black in the moonlight. The overwhelming metallic rush nearly overwhelms the familiar scent beneath it: Scott.
He takes the steps two at a time and howls, calling in the pack. Isaac lifts Scott's body up from the wooden beams and cradles it against his chest, feels the heat of him and a sluggish heartbeat beneath. His chest is bleeding from three long, ugly tears, marks definitely left by a set of claws. Isaac can feel blood sinking into his clothes from Scott's back and knows with a sinking certainty that the damage isn't limited to one area. He howls again as Derek bursts out into the clearing, rocks back and forth wordlessly as the Alpha takes in the damage. Isaac points straight ahead of him, where a crude and blocky triskelion has been drawn across the wood in blood. Scott's blood.
Derek finds his human shape, eyes still glowing red and furious in the darkness. He pulls out his phone and makes two calls in quick succession, growling out as few words as possible with brutal efficiency. The others make their way out of the woods, answering Isaac's summons in pairs. Boyd and Erica are first, eyes still wild from the hunt, Erica's hair soaked in gore. Boyd checks the perimeter of the house while Erica sits on the stairs with Isaac, whimpering at the burden in his arms. Isaac smells Peter and Jackson before he sees them, keeping to the edges of the woods as they circle, watchful for attacks.
And yes, it has occurred to Isaac that all of this could be a trap, a set up, using Scott as bait to catch the pack unawares, but he hadn't cared. He still doesn't. Isaac knows he should feel guilty for responding with panic, but Scott's wounds aren't healing, and if he dies because Isaac chose to be cautious -
It seems like hours before Stiles pulls up in his Jeep, but then Isaac and Derek are lifting Scott across the short distance, blood leaving a trail across the ground, and Stiles turns away, looks for a moment like he might vomit. They get him settled in the backseat, and Isaac hears Derek telling him to gather the pack and head for the train station, hears but doesn't obey, just growls and flashes his teeth before climbing in after Scott. Derek's eyes flare, his teeth snapping and Stiles is shouting at them that they don't have time for this kind of machismo bullshit, and Derek barks his orders at Boyd instead. Isaac settles in against the far door and pulls Scott close against him, his hands locked on Scott's arms, his chin nuzzled against Scott's head. If he can stay in contact with him, he can keep pulling the pain away, keep trying to urge the wounds to close.
Deaton holds the door open for them when they pull up to the back entrance of the clinic, shaking his head at Scott's condition. He's already prepped the exam room, has alcohol, stitches and bandages at the ready. He notes the terror on Isaac's face, the black lines tracing their way across Isaac's skin and tilts his head appraisingly. “Isaac,” he says, his voice a command. “Stay and help me out. You two,” he continues, motioning to Derek and Stiles. “Wait in the lobby.” Derek grunts his displeasure, but Stiles takes his hand and pulls him away down the short hallway. They grumble at one another, and Isaac can hear Derek pacing through the walls, but he blocks out the sound.
“An Alpha did this?” Deaton asks, and Isaac nods, helping him remove the remnants of Scott's shirt and turn him over on the table. Eight long gouges run down from shoulder to hip, still an angry, inflamed red, but the bleeding has stopped. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how much Derek has told him about the Alpha pack, so he says nothing instead, keeping his hands in constant contact with Scott's skin. “He's lost a lot of blood,” Deaton comments, “but of course he'll still heal. Eventually.” Isaac nods, watching Deaton clean out each wound. “Derek knows that,” Deaton continues, “which makes me think you all dragged me out of bed because I currently have the monopoly on Mountain Ash in this town.”
Isaac doesn't answer, doesn't even know how to answer through the haze of worry and fear and suddenly his knees give way beneath him as the world spins far too fast. Deaton catches his arm and guides him into a chair, glancing down at the tangled map of veins beating black just beneath his skin. They've stopped alternating, stopped pulsing and now sit, slow and sluggish, the tar-like stain creeping up along his neck. “Just how long have you been doing that?” he asks, and Isaac just shakes his head.
“Doesn't matter,” he mumbles. “Scott needs sleep to heal, and he can't sleep if -” Isaac coughs his way through a shallow breath. “if he's in that much pain.” It's plain from the look on his face, the set of his shoulders that Isaac knows precisely just how much pain he's talking about.
“Do you have any idea what the long term effects could be on you?” Deaton asks, pressing a hand to his forehead and frowning. He drags Isaac out of the chair, holds him before a mirror on a large medicine cabinet. Deaton lifts up his shirt, shows him the ghostly outlines of three vicious scars across his chest, identical to Scott's. “Everything balances itself out. If you keep doing this, you'll take his wounds into yourself, and they'll be worse, more painful for the transfer. The only one I've ever met who could survive that was an Alpha with a strong pack behind her, so don't even think about trying it.”
Isaac squeezes his eyes shut, tilting his head toward Scott and whimpering. “I just wanted to help,” he explains, and Deaton sighs. “I know,” he answers, guiding Isaac back to the chair and rooting around in a cabinet above the counter. He mixes a tiny sprinkling of herbs into a flask and shakes it up with some water from the tap, wrapping Isaac's hands around it. “Drink that,” he instructs. “All of it, I don't care how bad it tastes. Then you're going to help me fix him up – the normal way.”
It's hours before Deaton emerges from the exam room, bone-weary and wondering why he ever even considered getting involved with werewolf business again. Stiles is asleep on Derek's shoulder, snoring softly while Derek leans his head back against the wall. His eyes are half open, watchful in the stillness.
“Looks like you've got a turf war on your hands,” Deaton states, hands folded across his chest.
“It's more than that and you know it,” Derek sighs. “They're a war party.”
“If that's so,” Deaton acknowledges, “and this was their opening volley, then you're going to lose.” Derek growls and Stiles slides forward against his chest, snorting at the sudden change in elevation. He smacks his lips as Derek shoves him back upright, muttering in his sleep.
“I want to show you something,” Deaton continues, nodding his head back towards the examination room. Derek gets to his feet and follows him down the hallway, pausing at the viewing window. Isaac's head rests against Scott's on the metal table, their fingers entwined across Scott's chest. They're both fast asleep, and a pale blue light runs back and forth between them, following the veins where their skin makes contact.
“It's really all or nothing with your kind, isn't it?” he posits, sounding more intellectually curious than involved. “You've got a powerful healer in that boy. But if he's not careful, he'll kill himself trying to save your pack. I'd rather not see that happen.” Derek nods, staring down at his feet. “If you want a shot at winning this thing, it's going to take more than just brute strength. You have to recognize that there are other ways to fight than just tooth and claw.”
Derek glances back toward the waiting room, feeling Stiles' sleeping pulse wrapped up around his own. “I know,” he says, all the anger drained from his voice.
“Good,” Deaton replies dryly. “And the next time you decide to use me as a shield instead of taking care of your own problems, I'm charging you by the hour. Possibly by the minute, depending on my mood. I'm helping you tonight because this is Scott, and God help me but I'm starting to grow fond of your other little pup in there, too.” Deaton shakes his head. “You wanted a pack and now you've got one, but if you don't learn how to lead them, believe me - someone else will.”
Derek's head rises sharply and he glowers, stalking into the exam room to collect his sleeping wolves.
Melissa's car is in the drive when Stiles drops them off, but all the lights are off and Isaac hopes like hell she's fast asleep. With Scott's arm flung about his shoulders, Isaac fumbles through Scott's pockets for his keys and slowly opens the door. Scott isn't quite immobile, and manages to help himself up the stairs a bit. Isaac keeps his footsteps as light as possible in his wake.
“Scott,” Melissa's voice rings out, thick with sleep. “We are having a serious conversation about this tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Scott answers, managing to sound only a little tired himself. “I just lost track of time is all. I'm really sorry?”
She doesn't answer, and they continue down the hallway, where Isaac deposits him in his bed. Scott groans a little at the feel the soft mattress beneath him. Isaac pulls off his shoes and drapes a blanket over him before heading for the window. Scott's hand catches on his arm, pulls him back. “Stay?” he asks, eyes half open, something pleading in his tone that Isaac's never heard before.
Isaac glances down at Scott's fingers pressed tight against his skin. It's already been a very long night. “Don't you think it's better if I go?” he asks, wishing he didn't sound so hopeful.
“I'm an idiot,” Scott says, and Isaac blinks, an immediate retort on his lips, but Scott doesn't let him finish. “I've been a huge idiot about everything, and you still stayed with me. I could feel you there, keeping the pain away and I just – I don't want you to go right now.” Isaac sits down on the edge of the bed, watching Scott's thumb stroke slowly across his wrist. He doesn't trust what might come out of his mouth if he opens it, so he kicks off his shoes and settles in against the headboard instead. Scott rests his head in Isaac's lap and Isaac bites his lip to contain his surprise. “You never gave up on me,” Scott continues, his hand migrating to Isaac's knee. “And not just tonight. You've been with me this whole time, I just couldn't see it.”
Something clutches tight and fierce in Isaac's chest, and he runs his fingers through Scott's hair. He tugs a little, knowing it won't hurt, knowing just how much Scott can take. “I can be a little slow sometimes,” Scott mumbles, fighting down some embarrassment to say his peace. “I mean, how long did it take me to keep The Iliad and the Aeneid straight, right?” Isaac chuckles a bit at that, resting his hand on the back of Scott's neck. “But once I get something, I hold onto it. I mean it. I just hope I didn't take too long this time.”
“You really are an idiot,” Isaac murmurs, and Scott's head shifts against his leg in wounded acknowledgment. “But not for the reasons you think.” Scott wrinkles his nose and looks up at Isaac, curious. “You try so hard to keep everyone safe that you never look after yourself,” Isaac tells him, his voice gone hoarse in the stillness.
“Someone has to,' Scott retorts numbly. “Might as well be me.”
“But you can't save everyone,” Isaac continues, despite Scott's interruption. “No one can, but you did save me. You helped me remember who I am, and find who I want to be. So I guess you could say I owed you one.”
Scott watches the half-moon light tangling in Isaac's curls and lets his gaze linger there for a moment before pulling Isaac down beside him. “Tell me that's not all this is,” he says quietly, and Isaac understands, really understands that they're finally on the same page. He plants a forceful kiss on Scott's forehead, wrapping one arm around his back.
“Moron,” Isaac whispers, stroking a hand down Scott's cheek and watching his sleepy eyes light up with warmth. “We're not done, we're just even. That seems like a pretty good place to start.”