Chapter Text
“We lost him.” Scott admitted, voice slightly tinny over the phone’s speakers.
Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation and he gripped his phone so tight that the edges of it pressed painfully into his fingers. He exhaled slowly to bring his blood pressure into normal range.
He must have been quiet for too long because on the other end of the line Scott asked, “Stiles? You there?”
“How to do you lose a rogue Alpha in full alpha shift?" Stiles demanded, opening his eyes, "They aren’t exactly subtle!”
The parking lot around him was dark and empty except for his jeep and a rat scurrying under a dumpster. Sometimes, he wished he could turn Scott into a rat. Not permanently, he’d miss pizza and video game night, but it might be a nice temporary measure when Scott was a dumbass.
He didn’t have to see Scott to picture the embarrassed grimace as Scott said, “We lost his scent in the river that runs through the preserve.”
“I thought you guys were right behind him!” Stiles protested.
As Scott stumbled through another explanation as to how he and Derek lost their quarry, something dark moved out of the corner of Stiles’ eye. Heart pounding, he lowered his phone from his ear and swept his gaze across the parking lot. Nothing obvious was amiss. The dumpster was where it was meant to be, there was no sign of the rat, and the streetlights remained steady with no obvious flicker. The breeze carried no strange smells or sounds. On the surface, all was right with the world.
But something had moved. Stiles could feel the prickle on the back of his neck like something was watching him, and he wasn’t going to write off his instincts. This wasn’t just his anxiety acting up, he could feel the difference. Anxiety lived below his sternum, but this instinct screamed in every last nerve of his body.
Pretending to shiver with cold, Stiles tucked his free hand into his jacket pocket and slid his fingers into the drawstring pouch that held his powdered wolfs bane. He brought his phone back up to his ear and said, “Derek is still with you, right?”
Scott paused and said uncertainly, “Yeah. Why?”
“I think we should stop for the night.” Stiles lied, and prayed that Scott would pick up on the strangeness of the suggestion, “There’s nothing in the shopping center off route one, so you and Derek should come pick me up.”
Another pause from Scott, then he said, “Hang tight. We’re on our way.”
The phone flew out of Stiles’ hand as something struck him from behind. Instinctively, he reached for it, but another blow struck him in the ribs, knocking him to the side. He fought the instinct to brace his fall with his hands. He tucked into himself as he hit the asphalt, and landed sprawled out on his side, one hand stretched above his head, the other still clutching is pouch of wolf's bane. His breath was knocked out of him with the impact, but at least he didn't have any broken limbs.
A dark shape stepped forward as Stiles tried to roll onto his back. It pinned the arm above Stiles' head to the asphalt with its foot. In the streetlights, the dark shape coalesced into a recognizable figure. It was a naked man. A jacked, naked man. Seriously, the guy put both Derek and Peter to shame. Stiles had never met Ennis, but he thought this guy might put Ennis to shame too. His skin was tanned. Deep, twisted scars wrapped from the top of his hip, up and around his ribs, and ended somewhere behind him.
What kind of creature was strong enough to leave scars on an alpha werewolf? How tough was this alpha that he walked away from a creature that strong?
“I was in the middle of a phone call.” Stiles complained, but it came out as a wheeze.
Was it a good idea to mouth off to an Alpha currently ripping his way through Beacon Hills? Probably not. But Stiles’ mouth was disconnected from his higher brain functions. It was a base instinct. As long as he was talking, he was alive. Asphalt dug into the back of his hand, he could feel pebbles digging into his skin. The bones in his arm screamed from the pressure of the foot driving it down.
“Do you ever stop talking?” the alpha asked, sounding almost exasperated. His voice was higher than Stiles had been expecting. “Seriously, I’ve been staking you out for a week, and all you do is talk.”
“It’s my superpower.” Stiles said, flexing the hand still in his jacket pocket. He could feel the fine granules of powdered wolf's bane against his fingertips. He couldn’t use it yet, the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. If he tried to throw it, it would only blow back in his face. He needed the guy to come closer. “I even talk in my sleep.”
The alpha scoffed and said, “I don’t doubt it. God, you’re annoying. I’m going to be so glad to be rid of you.”
Stiles’ heart rate jumped several notches.
The Alpha smirked. He must have heard it.
“I can't be that annoying.” Stiles denied, “Take a look at your priorities, dude. I’m the squishy human. I’m not exactly the gatekeeper of Beacon Hills here.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” The alpha said and ground his heel into Stiles’ wrist.
Stiles bit back a yelp of pain and dug his teeth into his lip hard enough he thought he tasted blood. It fucking hurt. He could feel the bones grinding together, creaking, threatening to break.
“You hold both Alphas in the palm of your puny, pathetic, little hand.” The alpha said, “Those two would do anything for you.”
Even with his brain clouded over with pain and fear, Stiles was confused. Sure, he and Scott were a bit codependent. Okay, a lot codependent. But Derek? On his best day, Derek offered Stiles a tight lipped smile and ignored him. He had never bent over backwards for Stiles in the almost three years they had known each other. Most days, Stiles was pretty sure Derek was as annoyed by him as this rogue Alpha was.
“Destroying you, will destroy them. Weaken the leaders, weaken the Pack. Then Beacon Hills and the Nemeton will by all mine.”
In a moment of clarity, Stiles realized that he wasn't going to get out of this. No one ever gave a villain monologue to someone they intended to keep alive.
The Alpha lowered himself to one knee, careful to keep Stiles’ wrist pinned to the asphalt, then lunged forward with a snarl. Stiles barely processed hot wet breath against his skin before it happened. Pain. Piercing, crushing pain exploded in Stiles’ throat. He wanted to scream, but the pressure on his vocal chords was too intense. He couldn’t breathe. He could feel his heartbeat in his eyes, and the hot, wet drip of his blood mixing with the Alpha’s saliva. What stuck out most was the smell. It would have been comforting if the Alpha's breath smelled like meat and decay; animal smells that meant the Alpha was out of control. Instead, it barely smelled of anything, like he regularly brushed his teeth.
Somehow, a thought cut through it all. Clear and bright, overriding the panic and pain. One arm was still free, and the Alpha’s eyes were open.
Stiles slammed his handful of powdered wolfs bane into the Alpha’s face.
The pressure on his throat lifted and he sucked in a deep, wet breath. Blood gushed wet and hot down his front, but he couldn’t stop to staunch the bleeding. He had a brief moment of relief when he realized that the Alpha had not ripped out the flesh when he retreated, but the Alpha was still above him. He was roaring in pain, but the wolfs bane burns were already starting to heal. Stiles snatched another hand of wolf's bane, surged to his knees, seized the Alpha by the back of the head, and ground it into the Alpha’s eyes.
The Alpha reared back, clawing at his own face.
“Stiles!” A familiar voice shouted.
In the chaos, Stiles couldn’t tell if it was Derek or Scott, but he knew it was the cavalry. He had back up. He was going to be okay.
He scrambled backwards on his ass, dragging himself out from under the flailing form of the Alpha. Stiles clamped his own hand around his throat to stop the bleeding.
Two familiar figures fell on the Alpha.
Derek drove his claws deep into the Alpha’s chest, and the Alpha’s eyes bulged in the weak street light. Dark blood bubbled at his lips, but he swung at Derek with his own claws, raking them down Derek’s back and side. Derek roared his own pain and drove his claws in even deeper.
Scott launched himself onto the Alpha’s back and clung like a koala as the Alpha thrashed. He lifted his hand and drew it in an awkward swipe across the Alpha’s throat.
The Alpha’s roars cut off with a sick, wet gurgle. Blood bubbled from between his lips and dripped down his chin. He swayed on his knees, eyes unfocused. Then he slumped forward onto Derek.
Derek ripped his claws out with a squelching noise, and let the body collapse to the asphalt.
“Stiles!” Scott cried. He scrambled to his feet and charged towards Stiles, calling out, “Are you okay? Did you—”
He fell silent and stumbled to a stop a few paces from Stiles, eyes wide as they dropped to the tight clutch of Stiles’ hand.
“What’s going on?” Derek asked, wiping his claws on his jeans as he approached. He too stopped a few paces from Stiles as his eyes fell to the bite.
Stiles swallowed. It hurt to swallow. The bones in his throat pressing at the thin edges of torn skin.
Scott looked horrified, which Stiles had been expecting. He could handle Scott and his guilt. What he had not been prepared for was the look on Derek’s face. He thought Derek would feel sympathetic. He wasn’t actually an asshole, just did a really good impression of one. But the Derek standing in front of Stiles didn’t look sympathetically sad, he looked personally devastated. Lips pulled tight, jaw clenched, eyes watering like he was trying not to cry; devastated. Heartbroken. Like he had looked after Boyd’s death.
That heartbroken look was what compelled Stiles to speak. There was a good chance he might not survive this. He was probably bleeding out. Even if he didn’t bleed out, he might die of Bite rejection anyway. If it had just been Scott, he would have said something self-sacrificing and reminded Scott that they were brothers. But he just couldn’t stand the thought of leaving the mortal coil with Derek looking like that. He couldn’t be another source of heartbreak for the saddest guy in Beacon Hills.
So, he made a joke. Joking and sarcasm was what he did best, and if he could just get Derek to stop looking so heartbroken for one second, at least he would have let the world a little brighter. “I think that guy gave me rabies.”
“Stiles.” Scott said softly and came to his knees beside Stiles, “I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”
Stiles’ heart squeezed with guilt as he watched tears drip down Scott’s cheeks. With his free hand, he drew Scott into a hug. Scott hugged him back so tight, his ribs protested, but he didn’t say anything. For once, he didn’t want to ruin the moment.
“I’m sorry, buddy.” Stiles murmured into Scott’s hair. Every word hurt. It reopened wounds that had only barely thought about clotting, stinging and burning all at once. It was worth it to say goodbye to his friends. He was going to count Derek among friends, even if Derek didn’t count him. At least his obituary would read died among friends. It would make him sound more popular than he really was.
A large, warm hand landed on Stiles’ shoulder. The pain that Stiles had been trying so hard to ignore lifted, and it was like fog lifted from his mind. He could think clearly. He opened his mouth to thank Derek for taking his pain, but Derek beat him to the punch.
“Don’t. Save your strength.” He said gruffly, “I think the wounds might be closing.”
Still keeping pressure on the wounds, Stiles prodded tentatively at one puncture with his thumb. He didn’t feel new skin, but he felt something that might have been a thin scab.
“We should take you home.” Scott said, “Call your dad.”
“No!” Stiles blurted and groaned in pain as it pulled on the punctures, “I don’t want him to find my body.”
“Okay.” Derek said, “The loft. You can stay at the loft until—”
Stiles could read what Derek meant in that hastily cut off sentence. Stiles could stay in the loft until he died or turned. In a way, turning was like death. The Stiles of before would no longer exist.
“Come on.” Scott murmured and wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist.
Stiles bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out as Scott levered him to his feet. Moving jostled every part of his body, and made him aware of bruises and scraped he’d gotten when he’d hit the asphalt. But crying out would only reopen the wounds on his neck.
Derek reached into Stiles’ jeans pocket. The instinct to make a joke about Derek touching him was on the tip of his tongue. Something quippy like buy me dinner first, dude. The words stayed locked behind the hard clench of his teeth. Pain overrode his desire to make his friends stop worrying. Derek pulled the keys to the jeep free, and unlocked the trunk.
Scott transferred Stiles’ weight to Derek.
Later, assuming that he didn’t die, Stiles was sure he was going to be pissed that he got to rest his head on Derek Hale’s shoulder but was in too much pain to enjoy it. In the moment, he was just relieved to have more of his pain taken away while Scott arranged the trunk.
Derek helped tuck Stiles into the trunk and lean him back against Scott. It was an uncomfortable position, tucked between Scott’s legs with his back to Scott’s chest to support his weight, but it was better than standing.
The trunk hatch closed. Then one of the doors opened and closed, and the jeep rumbled to life.
Stiles lost time as they drove to the loft. The bleeding slowed to a sluggish drip beneath his fingers, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good sign. It could just as easily be a sign of exsanguination as healing, especially when he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Faintly, he heard Derek speaking, but he didn’t hear Scott replying.
He came to as Derek lifted him bridal style out of the trunk.
“Muscles not for show.” Stiles joked. It didn’t hurt his throat this time, but his whole body was feeling kind of buzzy and numb.
Derek blinked down at him, then shook his head, and said, “Shut up.” But the words were soft at the edges, like he wanted Stiles to shut up for his own good.
Stiles was hit with a wave of dizziness and nausea. For maybe the first time ever, he actually listened when someone told him to shut up. He collapsed in blurry exhaustion against Derek’s chest.
He lost more time, and came to at the sound of voices. His eyelids were too heavy to open, but he could hear the voices speaking around him. All of them were familiar, even if he couldn’t quite place them.
“Is he healing?” an anxious voice asked. It sounded like it might belong to Malia.
“Maybe.” Derek said, “He’s not bleeding anymore.”
“How long does it take to change?” someone else, Liam maybe, asked, “With me, it was like a day. If he changes in a day will it save him from the blood loss?”
“It took me weeks to heal after Peter bit me.” A voice that sounded like Lydia’s said, “We should have taken him to Melissa.”
“He didn’t want his dad to find out.” Scott said, “I would call him, but if its’ Stiles’ dying wish—”
“We don’t know if he’s dying!” Malia snapped, voice spiking with emotion.
The next voice that spoke caught Stiles so off guard, that it was almost enough to make him sit up and open his eyes.
“How is he doing?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know.” Derek said miserably.
There was a pause, then Peter said, “He’ll make it. If anyone would make a good wolf, it’s him.”
“If he can survive the nogitsune, he can survive this.” Kira said, sounding just as anxious as Malia, “Right? I mean, we all thought he was done for.”
“All we can do is wait.” Lydia said.
There was a long stretch of silence, and Stiles started to drift off again.
Then Liam’s voice returned, saying, “I hate waiting.”
“Me too.” Kira said.
Stiles lost more time.
When he next woke, he could open his eyes. His whole body ached like it was one big bruise, and he was still a little shaky, but the world was clear. He maneuvered his hands under him and pushed.
A pair of hands caught him by the shoulders and helped him sit up, then Scott’s face appeared in front of him. His dark eyes were wide and filled with emotion; hope and hesitance. Like he was afraid to think Stiles might have come through it.
“This is worse than the hangover I got when we drank my dad’s whiskey.” Stiles complained, hoping to ease Scott’s worries.
It worked. Scott grinned and pulled Stiles into a too tight hug. Stiles hugged him back. Somewhere behind him, someone laughed wetly, then his vision was obscured by a fall of red hair. Lydia. One by one, the Pack joined in the hug, until Stiles was practically smothered.
Embarrassment prickled his cheeks. He hated that they were making a fuss over him. It was okay when he thought he was dying, but he wanted them to forget about it and move on.
“I didn’t know I was this popular.” He joked, just to cut some of the tension.
Lydia retaliated by pinching him hard on the arm and saying, “You scared us, Stiles! Don’t be such a dick!”
“Sorry.” Stiles mumbled.
A hand squeezed the back of his neck, and when he looked up he realized it was Derek. Derek offered him a soft, almost-smile, and said, “I’m glad you made it.”
“Me too.” Stiles said to cover for his own confusion. Once again, Derek had implied that he cared about Stiles. Not just in an absent way someone might care about an ally, or a friend of a friend, but someone Derek personally cared for.
What the hell was that about?
“You need a shower.” Lydia said as she pulled back.
Stiles looked down at himself and grimaced. Both his t-shirt and flannel were soaked through with blood and it had dried uncomfortably tacky against his skin. There was no salvaging them. His jeans had been spared the worst of it, but the fabric was still grimy with parking lot substances.
“You can use the shower here.” Derek offered, and pulled his hand back like he remembered that touching Stiles wasn’t something he normally did.
“Thanks, dude, but I don’t have clothes here.” Stiles said, “And I need to talk to my dad.”
“I’ll drive you.” Scott offered.
Stiles nodded and got to his feet. Just between waking up and standing up, a lot of the ache had eased from his bones. Apparently, werewolf healing abilities were the first to kick in. He didn’t have to lean on Scott as the shuffled to the door of the loft, but he could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him.
It made him twitchy.
He paused at the doorway and glanced back over his shoulder. Everyone was watching him, even Peter looked a little relieved. Stiles chose to blame Peter’s reaction on boredom. Stiles was the only one in the Pack who came close to interesting for Peter. If Stiles died, Peter would be left with only Derek to verbally spar with.
“I’m good.” Stiles reminded them all, “I made it.”
“We were worried about you.” Malia said bluntly, “Stop being weird about it.”
Stiles didn’t have a good response to that, so he followed Scott out of the loft.
Scott had offered to help explain what happened, but Stiles turned him down. It was best to do it on his own.
By the time Stiles showered, trashed his shirts, and changed into new clothes he was feeling a lot better. The teeth marks on his throat had faded to nearly invisible irritation. People at school probably wouldn’t notice, and if they did, the marks could be written off as razor burn.
The front door creaked open, echoing over-loud in Stiles’ ears. Then his dad’s voice called out, “I’m home kiddo! Time for you to get your butt to school!”
Stiles debated going downstairs. He knew that he was going to have to tell his dad what happened, but he really didn’t want to. His dad had been pretty good about the whole supernatural thing, but there was a difference between being involved in the world, and being part of it. If his dad was disappointed in him, Stiles wasn’t sure he could handle it.
The decision was made for him when his bedroom door swung open and his dad leaned into the doorframe. He smiled at Stiles and said, “Hey! You’re up!” then he seemed to process what he saw and said, “You’re up, showered, and dressed. What’s wrong?”
“I’m almost an adult, I can get up without help from my dad.” Stiles bluffed.
His dad just raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Stiles sighed and internally admitted defeat. At least he’d been making his dad eat healthy. The spike in blood pressure wouldn’t give him a heart attack.
“You might want to sit down.” He said.
His dad frowned and sat heavily in the computer chair at Stiles’ desk. He had the same expression on his face that he used every time he took a report from a victim; neutral but with enough concern that it felt safe to open up. It was sheriff face, and Stiles hadn’t seen it since he got his ass kicked by Gerard.
Stiles took a deep breath to steady himself. It wasn’t something he could hide anyway, he reminded himself, eventually his dad would noticed how temperamental Stiles got around the full moon. Or Scott would tell Melissa, and Melissa would let it slip. It was best to rip the band-aid off and get it over with, but the words caught behind his upper ribs and made it hard to breathe.
“Hey.” His dad said softly, and reached out to squeeze Stiles’ knee. Stiles hadn’t even realized that his knee was bouncing until his dad steadied it. “Whatever happened, we’ll figure it out together.”
Stiles nodded, and dug his thumb knuckle into his forehead between his eyebrows. But he just couldn’t get the words out, or look his dad in the eye. In all the chaos, he hadn’t even had a chance to process what happened, and it was all crashing down on him now. He was a werewolf now, or if he was like Lydia, he was something else. Not squishy, human Stiles. He was fundamentally altered, and it hadn’t even been his choice.
Tears stung his eyes and he choked on the words that he forced out, “Something happened last night.”
His dad dug his thumb into the outside of Stiles’ knee; a gentle, but insistent, grounding pressure. “Does it fall under my jurisdiction or Scott’s?”
“Scott’s.” Stiles said and scrubbed hastily at his eyes.
“Okay.” His dad said, but the tone wavered slightly like he was trying to hide his own panic from Stiles. “Did you get hurt?”
Stiles nodded.
“I don’t see any obvious sign of injury. So either your clothes are hiding it or…" his dad trailed off, then said, "You healed.” The final words were delivered flat, like his dad had realized the truth.
“I healed.” Stiles admitted, “It was the Alpha we were looking for. I… got bit.”
His dad exhaled heavily and fell silent. His pressure on Stiles’ knee remained steady, but the rest of him was rigid and unmoving. His face was carefully neutral, but Stiles knew from experience that his dad being neutral didn’t mean that there were no emotions bubbling under the surface.
“Dad?” Stiles asked tentatively.
“Aw hell, kid.” His dad said and rubbed his free hand over his face, “I’m glad you’re okay, but what the hell am I supposed to do with a werewolf?”
Stiles shrugged.
“This is a big change.”
“So was me coming out as bisexual.” Stiles pointed out with a wet laugh. A few hot tears splashed against the back of his hand and hastily wiped his eyes.
“I read parenting books about raising bisexual teens!” his dad protested, “There aren’t any parenting books about raising teen werewolves!”
“I basically raised werewolf Scott!” Stiles defended, “We’ll be fine!”
“Who am I supposed to ask if I have teen werewolf questions?” his dad carried on like he hadn’t been interrupted, “Derek? Peter?”
“God, don’t ask Peter.” Stiles said with another soft laugh, and tentatively met his dad’s eyes.
His dad’s gaze softened and he let out a breathy laugh of his own and repeated, “Aw hell.”
“You’re not mad?” Stiles asked hopefully.
“No.” his dad scoffed and pulled him into a tight hug, “Not at you. I wouldn’t have cared if you chose to get bitten, but it should have been your choice and you should have been eighteen. I’m pissed at the Alpha.”
“If it makes you feel better, Derek and Scott killed him.” Stiles joked.
“What did you do with the body?”
Stiles started to answer, then drew up short. What had they done with the body? By the time he was loaded into the back of the jeep, he had been pretty out of it. Had Derek doubled back to get rid of it? Had Peter cleaned it up?
“Oh for the love of god!” his dad snapped, “You would think after close to three years of these shenanigans, you all would remember to hide the damn body!”
“Wait, you’re more upset about the body than me turning into a ravenous monster of the night?” Stiles asked.
“Yes!” his dad snapped, “People are talking about wanting to cull the coyote population because of all the ‘animal attacks’. Hunters have started setting up trail cams. Crap, please tell me you weren’t caught on a trail cam.”
“I was attacked in the parking lot of the shopping center of route one.”
“Thank god for small mercies.” His dad said, finally releasing Stiles’ knee, “All of those business owners are too cheap for security footage. If someone had seen the attack, we would have gotten a call by now. I’ll call Derek and see what happened to the body, for now, get your butt to school.”
“What?” Stiles asked indignantly, “I got attacked last night, why am I going to school?”
“Did Scott go to school the day after he was bitten?”
“Yeah, but—”
“There you go.”
“But dad—”
“School.” His dad repeated and patted Stiles on the knee. He got to his feet and said, “Scott will be there to keep an eye out on you. There rest of your friends will be there. It’s the best place for you.”
Stiles left the house in a daze, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Stiles never noticed before how much Beacon Hills High stank. There was a perpetual undercurrent of something not-sweet that he thought might be mildew. The likely mildew smell mingled with the stench of bodies, and perfumes. Axe body spray was the most egregious, pure chemical with nothing to counter it.
Everything was loud too. Somewhere in the distance someone’s phone vibrated loudly enough to shake the whole school. Each locker that closed echoed loud as a gunshot in his ears. The overlap of voices that used to be manageable with meds was suddenly deafening. It was like Stiles couldn’t tune out the individual voices and every conversation from across the school crowded into his head. The buzzing hum of the fluorescent lights felt like it was vibrating inside his own mind.
It was worse than the times before he was diagnosed and medicated. Overstimulation cranked all the way up.
“Stiles!” Scott called.
Stiles blinked and came back into his body with a thump. He could still feel the energy of the school rubbing his skin the wrong way, but with something to concentrate on it faded into the background the way it had before.
“How long were you calling my name?” Stiles asked.
“A while.” Scott said, leaning his shoulder against Stiles’ locker, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I think the super senses are starting to kick in.” Stiles admitted, “I can hear and smell everything.”
Scott grimaced in sympathy and patted Stiles on the shoulder. “It stops being so bad after a while. You learn how to ignore it and go kind of nose blind.”
Someone slammed their locker door, and Stiles flinched and brought his hands up to his ears. He suddenly had a lot more sympathy for what Scott went through their sophomore year. Although, at least Stiles wasn’t stupid enough to date a Hunter. Then he flinched at his own thought. In the end, Allison had been the best of them.
“I’ll help you through it.” Scott promised, then grinned evilly, “I know where coach keeps the duct tape and extra lacrosse balls.”
Stiles glared at him for the joke and said, “I’m not out of control.”
“Not yet.” Scott said cheerfully, “Come on, English is usually pretty quiet.”
“Are you forgetting about Jennifer?” Stiles asked sarcastically.
“No, but her scheming was always silent.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, but dragged himself behind Scott to class.
What proceeded were the most distracted eight hours of Stiles’ life. It was like he was ten years old again and unable to direct his focus the way he needed, but worse. Now that he knew what it was like to have his system mostly regulated, going back to dysregulation was hell. He could feel his frustrated heartbeat behind his eyes.
In English, he spent twenty minutes trying to figure out who the hell was wearing such strong deodorant, only to realize that it was him. Physics he spent the entire class focused on the argument one of the lunch ladies was having with her boyfriend over the phone. (She had helpfully put the call on speaker so she could prep for lunch and yell at the same time). He was given a brief reprieve at lunch when they all ate outside, but he still had to put up with Malia, Lydia, and Kira all giving him concerned eyes which only kicked off his anxiety. During econ, he almost leapt out of his chair to beat Coach over the head with a textbook for blowing his coach’s whistle indoors. But, to be fair, that was par for the course with econ.
After school was over, he still had lacrosse to get through. He held his breath in the locker room and changed as fast as he physically could and fled onto the field which earned him weird looks from coach and the rest of the team. He was usually one of the last out the door.
So far, it seemed like the uncontrollable rage Scott had felt when he first turned hadn’t touched Stiles. He was more irritated than usual, but he had yet to feel the urge to rip someone limb from limb. (Except for the usual, recurring fantasies about making Coach eat his whistle.)
Warm up was easier than Stiles could ever remember it being. To his annoyance, he didn’t seem able to run his laps all that much faster, but he didn’t get nearly as winded and he decided to take that as a victory.
They lined up for drills and Stiles hung at the back of the group like he always did. Scott used to hang out at the back with him, like a proper bench warmer, but Stiles had long since moved beyond the jealousy of Scott being team captain. Fighting for your life for weeks at a time every few months really put stuff into perspective.
“Stilinski!” Coach bellowed, “You’re up!”
Confused, Stiles reflexively said, “But I’m never first, Coach.”
“I know that. You think I don’t know that? I’m running practice, and since you were so excited to get on the field today, you get to go first.”
Stiles shrugged and stepped to the front of the line for the passing drill. Part of him was excited to go first, eager to test out his new abilities. Scott had been doing back flips within twenty-four hours, and Stiles couldn’t help the buzz of interest and competition to see how developed his own skills had become from the bite. Now that he knew he wasn’t going to die, he might as well try to enjoy the benefits.
Coach blew his whistle, and Stiles shot off across the field, keeping his eyes on Scott. Scott launched the ball from his own stick, opening up Stiles to catch the pass.
It was strange. The ball didn’t exactly fly at Stiles in slow motion. It felt like his brain was processing the information at the same rate as he had before, but his limbs were more responsive than ever before. Before, there had been just the slightest delay between the electrical impulse in his brain, and the movement of his arms, but now there was no disconnected. He saw the ball, his arms snapped up, and he caught the ball in his net.
He stumbled to a stop and stared at the ball cradled in his stick. He couldn’t remember ever catching a pass that cleanly, even in practice. A startled, pleased laugh burst from his lips. Then he let out an excited whoop and held his stick aloft, ball still cradled.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Stilinski!” Coach yelled, “Way to make me believe in the viability of public school sports again! Pass it back to McCall! Dunbar, you’re next!”
Stiles launched the ball back to Scott. Even though Stiles couldn’t see the details of Scott’s face through the grills of their helmets, he could tell by the thumbs up Scott shot him that he was grinning. Stiles held a thumbs up in return and jogged to the back of the line as Liam stepped up to complete the drill.
He completed three more passing drills, each one just as smooth as the first.
Goal drills were next, and Stiles found that he thrived there too. Once again, the delay between brain and movement was gone. He neatly side stepped both defenders and launched the ball towards the goal. It bounced off the frame, but considering Stiles was usually on his back before he could try, it was another victory. When he completed the drill a second time, he barely got the ball in the goal. But a goal was still a goal, and Coach patted him so hard on the back that yesterday, Stiles would have walked away with bruises.
His veins thrummed with triumph. Practice had never been so easy for him, and he found that he enjoyed lacrosse a lot more now that he might be good at it.
“You know,” Liam said as Stiles joined him at the back of the line, “it’s really annoying that you’re this good at controlling yourself already. I’ve been working on it for months.”
Stiles clapped Liam on the shoulder and said, “Don’t feel bad. It’s because I’m so much more mature and cooler than you.”
Liam growled and smacked at Stiles.
Stiles danced backwards out of reach before Liam’s hand could even touch him.
“It’s weird.” Scott said as he tied his shoe, “Liam and I were both full werewolves by now. So why is it taking so long for you to power up?”
Stiles wrangled his hoodie over his head and said, “Maybe it’s because I lost so much blood? My body is still replenishing my blood cell count, and its slowing the infection?”
Scott made a face like he was considering that answer, then said, “I think we should talk to Derek and Peter.”
“You want to talk to Peter?” Stiles asked incredulously, “Crawled out of the grave, talks in riddles, general pain in the ass, Peter?”
“I know he’s not the most reliable.” Scott admitted, “But he’s older than Derek. He might know something if Derek doesn’t.”
It was Stiles’ turn to consider the point being made. They knew Peter was full of shit, so as long as they kept that in mind, it would be fine. Besides, it gave Stiles an excuse to see Derek again. He was curious about what had made Derek change his opinion on Stiles so suddenly.
“Alright.” Stiles said, “As long as you promise to take everything he says with a tablespoon of salt.”
“Promise.”