Archive of Our Own

"Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell," Holly advised him. "That was Doc's mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods."

— Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's

1.

Stiles and Scott are camping.

Almost, anyway.

They're sitting under a beach towel, the worst tent Stiles has ever made. He's great with blanket forts, but the towel is different, and the agave plants in Scott's grandmother's backyard aren't good supports. Even with Scott helping, it had taken him a long time in the sun to figure out how to balance the towel right.

It's hot. Stiles is hungry, his skin tight and itchy and pink with sunburn. And it's getting dark. They'll probably have to go inside soon.

But not yet.

Stiles is hoping to catch a gecko first.

They're everywhere, multiplying as the sun sets, small and darting, climbing up plants and walls and windows. 

Stiles has been trying to catch one for a while. Stalking. Plotting. Setting increasingly elaborate traps. Geckos, it turns out, don't care about people-snacks, so Stiles sacrificed them for nothing.

He doesn't want to do anything with them, besides hold one for a bit. They need habitats, Scott has reminded him, like the kind they made for the hamster in homeroom, and Scott's grandmother doesn't have any supplies. Stiles has asked.

"No, Stiles," everyone has said, with that familiar tone.

Stiles has maybe asked a lot. 

It would be so cool, though, to have one. Bring it home. Show Mom. Maybe Dad, too, even though Dad doesn't always get how things are cool, not the same way Mom does. He didn't seem all that excited, when Stiles told him maybe he'd catch one while he was with Scott. But he's busy, with Mom back at the hospital. That's why Stiles got to go with Scott on this trip, when his own mom decided they were going to see his grandma for a bit. So maybe it worked out.

Scott was excited. He was the one who told Stiles about the geckos in the first place. And the cacti, and the rocks shaped like a spaceship behind his aunt's house, and all the stars you could see at night. He made it sound so fun. 

It is fun. They went swimming and there's all this food he's never tried before. Scott's aunts live nearby and they visit and one of them does impressions. Tía Isabella. She's Stiles' favorite.

Most importantly, he gets to hang out with Scott all day. They get up together and stay together all day and at night they push their beds together and make blanket forts—or towel tents, if necessary. No one minds. Scott has shown him all the hiding places he's found. Together, they figured out how to climb the big rocks. His asthma's not so bad here—because it's a dry heat, says his mom. 

She hasn't said a lot, this trip, and has let them do more than usual: eat Oreo O's for breakfast, and play outside all day, and stay up late if they want.

It's awesome. 

The towel chooses that exact moment to slip a little bit, but Stiles catches it.

Maybe they can make a big blanket fort outside and sleep in it. Or a tent. Like real camping.

But first Stiles wants to catch a gecko. Like Scott can. He's gotten four today. Stiles doesn't understand how he's so good at it.

Stiles just wants to be able to do it.

"Here," says Scott.

He has one on his hand.

"No," says Stiles, same as the last four times.

"It's okay."

"I want to do it."

"Why won't you let me help?"

"Just tell me how to do it!"

Scott blows out a big breath through his nose.

"Tell me."

"You have to hold still," Scott finally admits. "If you wait, they'll come to you."

Oh.

Stiles isn't great at holding still. Everyone is always telling him that. Too much energy. He's always getting in trouble about it.

Scott is very good at staying still.

He's been still a lot, whenever they get sent outside. 

Stiles can hear yelling, coming from inside, every so often. People are arguing. Scott doesn't move at all whenever that happens. Stiles can't figure out what he's thinking. Like his face is a mask.

"Do you know what they're talking about?" Stiles had asked, the last time it happened.

"Dad," Scott had said, very quiet. Like it was a secret.

"You wanna get closer? See if we can hear?"

Stiles is good at sneaking places, and finding ways to listen to grownups when they try to shut him out. It's how he knows Mom needs more tests. No one likes to talk to Stiles about it.

Stiles hates that. 

There's a window by the room where the grownups like to talk here. Stiles could get it open from the outside, maybe.

But Scott had said no.

And sat unmoving, half hidden under the towel, eyes on the house.

He's not looking at the house now, though. He's looking at Stiles, with a gecko on his hand, and he's smiling. He's probably hungry too, because he shared his snacks after Stiles used his in the traps. 

He's explained the difference between a gecko and a lizard. People think they're the same, he keeps saying, but they're not. Geckos have no eyelids. That's so weird. The gecko has such large black eyes for something that can't blink. They're out of place on its pink round body. It's so round everywhere, its round pink tongue darting out every so often, quick as a flash, there and gone again. Only its claws are narrow, tiny and delicate-looking where they rest lightly against Scott's palm.

"Okay," Stiles allows. He does want to touch it.

But the gecko skitters away as soon as Stiles tries.

That's okay, though. It doesn't matter.

Scott's there.

2.

It takes Stiles a long time to realize, about Scott and animals.

At first, it seems like Scott just likes them. He does a report on a different one every year in elementary school: tree frogs, cheetahs, sharks, everything. Whenever the school pet has to go home for the weekend, Scott takes it, every time, every year. He knows every dog in the neighborhood, greets them all when he and Stiles take Roxie out for a walk.

Even Tracker, the one who kills her.

Stiles isn't there for that one. His mom's back in the hospital for a scan, so he just hears that Scott is in the hospital for an asthma attack. It's only later, when his mom and Scott are both back out, that he hears about what had happened with Roxie.

Scott worries about Tracker. It's all he'll talk about.

"They can't kill him," he keeps saying. "It's not his fault. He was just scared."

Stiles thinks that's dumb. He liked Roxie, misses her, and Tracker is mean. Everyone knows that. But there's no arguing with Scott when he gets like this. 

In the end, they don't kill Tracker. Two months after he kills Roxie, Scott is petting him whenever they run into him.

Tracker always licks Scott's hand.

Maybe Stiles should have put it together then.

But it doesn't seem that weird. 

"There was too much yelling," Scott says, when he talks about what happened. "He doesn't like it when people fight."

Scott's dad yells a lot.

Scott hates it when people fight.

By middle school, Scott has a regular gig walking half the dogs in the neighborhood. Even then, it doesn't seem weird. Scott's a total nerd about animals. He scares Harley off by talking too much about dolphins when she says she likes them one time. When Stiles learns that Lydia takes horseback-riding lessons, he thinks about her in one of the outfits, with the boots and the hat and everything. Scott just wants to talk about weird facts about horses.

Their legs are toes. They can't throw up.

It's pretty cool, actually.

Stiles likes learning things, and he doesn't care what as long as it's cool. He spends three hours reading about UFO sightings and he forgets to do his math homework and he memorizes all of the police codes because then he can listen for the good stuff on his dad's radio. Stiles sponges.

Scott specializes. If it's about animals, he's interested. Very interested. One of the only fights they have in eighth grade is when they do a squid dissection in bio and Stiles pops the eyeballs on Scott's squid—because Stiles has already finished and he's so bored and it's funny—but Scott gets upset instead of laughing. Serious upset. The kind of upset he never gets, where he doesn't want to talk about anything.

Over squid eyeballs.

There's little things, maybe, that Stiles pays a passing glance to. Scott feeds the surly orange tom—Coach, everyone calls it—that lurks by the school. He keeps little bits from his sandwich at lunch and waits until it's dark after practice. Coach is the biggest, meanest, ugliest cat anyone has ever seen, but it will come sit at the edge of the field and let Scott throw bits of turkey at it. It blinks in a way Scott says is deliberate, and friendly.

Stiles isn't so sure.

Scott seems to know what he's doing, though. He feeds a couple strays in town—cats, birds, even a few local squirrels. Scott actually feeds those, like with his hand, holding out nuts that they take from him with their dumb little paws. 

But who cares? Cats blink. Squirrels eat. Scott likes animals. The facts of Stiles' life.

The ones he cares about, anyway.

By freshman year, Scott's working for Roxie's old vet, Dr. Deaton. It's an adjustment. Stiles had gotten used to spending weekdays after practice and weekend afternoons hanging out with Scott and some combination of neighborhood dogs. Stiles isn't welcome at the clinic when Scott's working, even if Deaton isn't there. 

It's suffocating. His house is so quiet. Stiles listens to the radio and he rummages through his dad's case files and waters down his booze and waits for Scott to get off work.

Deaton starts a trap-neuter-return program with Scott, for Beacon Hills' stray cats, which means Scott goes out to get them in the evenings, when they're active. It started, Scott tells him, with a couple of cats he found around the clinic, but the rest live in a colony downtown. 

Hell yeah. They're going.

Scott tells his mom he's going with Stiles' dad, and Stiles tells his dad that Scott's mom is coming, and gets the Jeep out of it that way, too. He's not supposed to be driving at all, but his dad eventually caved and gave him special dispensation to practice—but only with an adult around. 

He'll probably be pissed if he finds out Stiles was driving it with just Scott. 

He's easy, though, especially the way he is these days. Once his dad gives an inch, he can be pushed to crumble altogether. Stiles could do it.

And he's not going to find out, anyway. No one's around at night. It's the perfect time to practice.

+++

Driving around downtown is fun. It's only fifteen minutes away but feels like a different city. It's got the kind of fancy lofts and condos Stiles has only been in a handful of times in his life, with old brick and soaring arches. Nothing like the endless bench of Stiles' daily life. It's like they're in a movie. 

Scott doesn't seem to think so. He's half-napping in the passenger's seat, slumped against the window instead of looking out it. 

It's boring, but Stiles tries to let him sleep.

Only when they park, does he finally ask, "Are there any cats in the old train depot?"

That would be cool to explore. Stiles is pretty sure there's an actual train car still inside it. He's been doing a lot of reading about Beacon Hills, and all the stuff that's happened in or around it.

"Don't think so," Scott murmurs, shaking himself. He seems distracted as he goes around to grab the cat carriers from the back. There's a distant look on his face as he squints at the street around them. "Do you hear that?"

Stiles doesn't hear anything. "Is it a cat?"

Scott's frown deepens. "Not sure. Sounded like an animal."

"Maybe it was a bad guy."

Scott scoffs. "A bad guy?"

But he's hooked now, Stiles can see, staring at him instead of the dusk.

"What?" The chance of it being anything serious is zero—nothing interesting happens downtown, Stiles checked—so Stiles hams it up. "There could be bad guys. A whole Beacon Hills mafia, or something."

Scott tosses a cat cage at Stiles. "This town isn't cool enough for a mafia."

Stiles tries not to flail as he catches it. "Sure it is. Beacon Hills is full of cool stuff. Did you know there was this car crash out by the preserve, like, five years ago? Afterwards the whole family got slashed up by coyotes—one of them so bad there wasn't even a body left. They ate it."

Scott's eyebrows twist, his eyes large with disgust. "Even the teeth?"

Questions like that are why Scott is his best friend.

"Even the teeth," Stiles assures him.

"That's so gross." Scott sounds impressed. "Not mob stuff, though. Unless there's a coyote mafia."

"Sure there is. Ha, probably led by Vito Coyote-one."

"I don't get that reference," Scott throws over his shoulder as he walks off, with that innocent tone that says he's riling Stiles on purpose.

Just for that, Stiles bullshits about the coyote mafia for the next few blocks—coyote families and coyote dons and coyote assassins—until he knows he's gone too far. People are always telling him that. He sounds stupid.

But it doesn't matter. Scott is snickering and rolling his eyes and shoving at him with his shoulder. He's grinning so hard. He's awake and alert and only looking at Stiles.

That's all Stiles wants.

Then they get to the warehouse where Scott says the colony lives.

+++

It's massive, a dark cloud of a building, with the words ARGENT ARMS INTERNATIONAL painted across the front. They get in through a busted side door. The large room inside is covered in grimy tarps, which lie draped on the floor and over the pipes, rustling from the wind that whispers in through a shattered glass window, roiling through the fetid air. There's a light somewhere, diffuse through the sheets of plastic, dim and green and eery.

"This place is awesome," Stiles breathes.

Scott sniffs. "It stinks like cat pee."

"You stink like cat pee. Hey, you think there are leftover weapons here somewhere?"

"Only if those count," replies Scott, nodding at a few broken office chairs that have been piled in a corner.

"Do you seriously not get how cool this place is? I bet they—oh, I bet they sold to the mob. Internationally." The usual synapses begin to fire, connecting things. "Hey, I wonder if they—did I ever tell you about the blinded guy?"

"No," Scott replies, still scanning the empty room. 

Looking for cats, probably.

"There was this big fight in one of the old distilleries outside of town, not that long ago—bunch of people died and Deputy Tara says one guy got his eyes stabbed out. With exploding arrows. I wonder if they got them here."

Stiles hasn't gotten the file for that one yet. His dad keeps it locked up tight at the station, along with everything else Stiles actually wants to know. 

But Stiles has his ways. He's found out a little.

Scott snorts. "Exploding arrows? Why would anyone even make those?"

"Because—they—I don't know, do I look like some kind of arrow-ologist?"

"You look exactly like an arrow-ologist."

"Oh, shut up."

"You shut up."

He's still not looking at Stiles.

Stiles pushes him playfully.

Scott laughs. Pushes him back.

It escalates from there: dropping the cat cages, sprinting through the cavernous rooms of the warehouse, tearing through the tarps. Scott doubles over laughing while Stiles tries to extract an office chair to wield at him. Joke's on him, though, since it means he's too distracted to dodge when Stiles finally pushes it towards him. 

It ends when Scott starts wheezing. He left his inhaler at the Jeep, it turns out—he gets distracted, sometimes, when there's animals involved—but Stiles has the spare. 

"You gotta do it twice," Stiles reminds him, after Scott has taken a puff.

"I know how to do it," Scott crabs up at him from where he's hunched over. He says it's easier to breathe that way, when he gets like this.

Two puffs are the most effective dose, but Scott only ever wants to take one. Inhalers are expensive. Scott stresses about it. Which makes his asthma worse. Stiles has one hand on his back, steadying, and he can feel how tense Scott is under it.

"I know you do," Stiles soothes. "You're doing great. Just keep your mouth on it and try not to choke."

Scott sputters at that, but he's giggling too.

The muscles in his back are less stiff.

"Try using your tongue," Stiles goads, just so Scott shoves at him. He's always easy when it comes to jokes about doing it.

Stiles puts his hand on Scott's back again, afterwards, looking around the warehouse as he waits. They haven't found anything yet—not even any cats—so maybe they could come back.

Maybe they could skateboard here sometime.

It takes him a while—six of Scott's slowly easing breaths—to notice.

There's a shadow on one of the tarps that hadn't been there before.

It's big.

Not a cat.

Stiles is frozen.

The shadow begins to move.

Scott is still panting next to him, bent over and staring at the ground. He hasn't noticed. For a disorienting moment, it's as if it's only Stiles there—with this monster.

The shadow steps closer, its shape rippling against the tarp, shaggy and nebulous. Stiles can't hear anything over Scott's breathing. His own hammering heart.

Then the tarp billows in the wind.

The animal steps out past it.

It's a dog.

A big one, with short dark fur reflecting colorlessly in the strange light. It has a deep chest, pricked ears, and a long muzzle. It stares at them with its head lowered.

Stiles pushes at Scott blindly. He can't take his eyes off the dog. "Scott."

Scott turns—then freezes.

The dog looks at him. It mouth falls open, tongue lolling out.

Scott crouches down, angled oddly so that he's facing away from the dog, looking out at it sideways. He offers the inhaler back to Stiles with a grateful look, bizarrely unconcerned.

Then he holds out his hand—to the dog.

His breathing has gotten a little better.

Stiles' has gotten a whole lot worse.

"What are you doing?" he hisses.

The dog begins to come closer.

It's just a dog, Stiles thinks frantically, synapses in a circle. Not a coyote. Not anything else that eats people. It looks kind of thin. It's not even baring its teeth.

It's just as big, up close.

It's reaching for Scott.

Stiles wants to bat Scott's hand away—grab him, yell at the dog, kick it, do anything, but he can only watch in mute terror as the dog opens its mouth.

Closes its jaws around Scott's hand.

Tugs.

The sequence takes seconds to lurch together in Stiles' head, the way things sometimes do. Everything is jumbled at first, a clutter of information, dominoes he has to arrange.

The dog tugs on Scott's hand again. Backs up a step. It blinks at Scott.

Scott shifts, dropping one knee to the ground to brace himself against the dog's tugging, and looks up at Stiles. "Should we?"

Stiles is finally caught up. "Hell yeah."

When the dog tugs on Scott's hand again, he goes with it, still half-crouched. 

+++

Stiles follows at a careful distance, close enough to be there if something happens. But the dog only takes them a little ways, to a back room next to some storage shelves. There's a huddle of blankets on the floor in one corner. It draws Scott to the edge of them and then stops.

Stiles takes a cautious step closer. 

The dog doesn't do anything. 

This close, he can see patches in the fur on its head—scars. There's no white on its muzzle, though. It's young. 

And had babies recently. Stiles doesn't know a ton about dogs, but that part is very obvious. "You think its puppies are around here somewhere?"

Scott whips his head up at that, so abruptly Stiles worries he's said something weird.

But Scott's gaze is only large-eyed. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth. The way he does when he's stressed.

"Maybe it wants us to find them," Stiles babbles, to stave it off. "Gonna set us up on a fetch quest, ha ha."

"Maybe." 

Scott sounds so hesitant.

"What do you think happened to them?"

Scott shrugs awkwardly, one arm still trapped by the dog. "I like your version better."

The dog starts to—not chew Scott, exactly, but move its mouth over his hand. Restless. Aimless. Its pink tongue curls around the edge of his palm. Scott's hand is shiny with saliva.

Scott holds it out patiently.

"Kinda gross that it's, like, making out with your hand there," Stiles jokes, unsure what else to do. "It could at least buy you dinner first."

Scott makes a face and flips him off with his free hand.

Like always, Stiles opens his mouth and fakes like he's gonna put Scott's finger in it.

As usual, Scott waits until the last second and then pushes his face away.

"Tease," Stiles mock-complains against Scott's palm.

"I'm spoken for," Scott says lightly, turning to the dog again. He scratches at its chest with his free hand.

The dog wags its tail.

Stiles isn't sure why that does it. Maybe it's that the dog looks a little bit like Tracker: big, grizzled, with a long snappish mouth. It's holding Scott's hand so gently, its gleaming fangs nuzzling his skin. Whatever it is, it makes things fall together like dominoes. 

Stiles never did catch a gecko.

Scott caught them so easily.

The dogs.

The cats.

The fucking squirrels.

Sometimes, Scott has little things in his hand: bottle caps, paper clips, the occasional nickel. He says they're from the neighborhood crows. Stiles has never thought twice about it. It's just a Scott thing.

At this point, if a baby deer walked out of the forest and curled up in Scott's lap, Stiles wouldn't be shocked. Not as much as he should be, anyway.

He nudges Scott. "Don't you need, like, traps and stuff? To catch a feral cat?"

It seems absurd, suddenly, that they'd shown up with nothing but glorified boxes to put them in. 

Scott shrugs. "Cats can be friendly."

Like it's that easy.

"How'd you get the ones outside the clinic?" Stiles probes.

"Cats get nervous if you put pressure on them. But if you act like it's no big deal, they come over."

"Deaton show you how to do that?"

"No, dude," Scott says dryly, "I figured out how to pet a cat all by myself. Dogs too—watch."

And he runs his free hand along the dog's head, over the scars, ruffling between its ears.

It's a strange thing, Stiles decides, to be in something and outside of it at the same time. 

They're both standing in an abandoned warehouse with this fanged animal, but Scott is the one with his hand in its mouth.

And Stiles is the one who understands what it means, while Scott seems to have no idea.

"You're really good with animals, Scotty," Stiles tries to explain.

Scott looks up at him from where he's still curled over the dog. His hair falls in his eyes. He smiles, tentative. "You could pet her too, y'know. She's friendly."

Stiles sighs.

Maybe the dog would let Stiles pet it. As long as Stiles doesn't try, that's still possible. He's only a step away, instead of the increasing distance he would be, if the dog skittered away as soon as Stiles reached out.

Or worse. If it snarled at him.

Or bit Scott. 

A nameless worry nips at Stiles. That this dog will take Scott away, somehow. Lead where Stiles can't follow. 

Stiles fights the urge to take Scott's other hand.

"Hey," he says instead. "You wanna go to that distillery sometime?"

Scott blinks. "… The exploding arrows one?"

"Deputy Tara said there were big symbols carved into the walls. Could be weird cult shit."

"Weird cult shit," Scott echoes. 

He turns back to the dog. Gently removes his hand from its mouth, and starts petting it with both hands, a practiced massage around the muscles of its skull.

"Okay," he says quietly, still studying the dog. "Sounds cool."

3.

She'd been their English teacher.

Somehow, that's the part Stiles keeps coming back to, as he drives to school. 

The air whipping into him is crisp with the coming fall—warm, still, but the kind that says it will last only as long as the sun does.

Stiles has been up since before the sun.

He gave up on sleep at about four in the morning.

It was autopilot, finally, to get dressed. Eat something he didn't taste. Check websites whose words blurred in front of his eyes. Get in the Jeep and drive.

At least he didn't fucking crash, this time.

He pulls into the parking lot and stomps on the break. Checks his phone.

There's an hour until school starts.

They've got a new English teacher now. 

A new chemistry teacher.

A new music teacher. 

Jennifer had waltzed right into the classroom with a flock of dead birds. 

And Heart of Darkness.

They've got a new one of those too.

Stiles keeps having nightmares about the tree.

He remembers Scott reaching out to touch it with one mesmerized, reverent hand. Then looking to his own arm.

Just something I trace with my fingers, Scott had said, when he'd gotten the tattoo. Stiles had watched him do it all summer.

Drawing out the tree they'd all die for, months in advance.

For so long, nothing had made sense, and then suddenly everything had: his dad gone, Jennifer revealed, the history of the Alpha pack all tumbling down into each other.

Heather gone. Tara gone. Erica gone. Boyd gone.

Scott an Alpha.

A True Alpha. Another thing that didn't have meaning until all of a sudden it did. 

He'd saved all of them.

Stiles had only just barely saved his dad. And he'd almost been too late. A fucking car crash, of all things. Years of driving, and Stiles had never once crashed it—not by accident, anyway.

Stiles kicks at the Jeep and regrets it immediately, hissing at the pain in his foot. The Jeep doesn't deserve it.

"You okay?" Scott asks, appearing from nowhere by the driver's window.

Stiles startles. He wants to hiss at that too.

He's so jumpy, these days.

"We are getting you a bell," he grumbles.

He is okay, is the thing, with Scott there. The sun is warmer, the dead more distant. Scott is wearing the jacket with the little American flag patch on it, which makes him look like a dork. It always smells nice, though, like a fresh breeze, because Scott wears it to ride his motorcycle. Scott's hair is boyishly ruffled from his helmet, the way it has been pretty much permanently since he got the bike, but he still looks so much older, with it cut short. 

Stiles has been letting his own hair grow out. He's not a fan, really, but cutting it seems like such an effort these days. 

Stiles is so tired.

They head for history class. They've got a substitute, for now, until a new one can be hired.

Because Jennifer murdered Mr. Westover.

+++

The day passes like a dream.

Some things happen the way they always do. Lydia is brilliant. Isaac is annoying. Coach is incomprehensible. Stiles plots his destruction idly. Mischief Night is coming.

Almost normal.

Then he catches Allison standing in the hallway, staring at empty space.

She jumps when he taps her on the shoulder.

"Nothing," she says loudly, before Stiles can ask. Then she darts away.

Right.

+++

"I'll talk to her," Scott says immediately, when Stiles tells him after class.

He's got a darting look of his own.

"You all right?" Stiles asks.

"Fine," Scott says quickly. "Just, um, gotta get home. Deaton asked me to take care of this litter of kittens, and they kinda need to be fed… right now."

It's the sort of lie Scott tells from time to time, where he tries to throw a poorly made mask over the truth. Stiles has been able to suss them for years now. He feels the usual flash of irritation that Scott is creating unnecessary trouble.

And then a strange novel taste in his mouth: sudden as Scott's lie, sweet as cotton candy, just as evaporating.

Confused, Stiles licks his lips.

Scott's eyes flash red.

Stiles jolts. "What?"

"Nothing." Scott looks away, starts to put his helmet on. "Just gotta go."

Stiles grabs the helmet. "Can I help?"

Scott pauses. He could yank the helmet out of Stiles' grip easily—so easily—but he doesn't. "With the kittens?" 

"With the kittens," Stiles agrees, because they'll probably make this easier.

+++

Scott still won't look at him when they get to his place, keeps glancing along the ground like he's looking for something. It takes him a long time to find the keys to his front door.

"Would you hurry up?" Stiles crabs, to fill the silence. "It's getting cold."

"Yeah," Scott agrees. His tone is distant. "Shadows getting longer."

And then he's unlocking the door, moving away before Stiles can ask him what.

Stiles grabs him as they come to the living room. "What?"

Scott looks back at him with his wide brown eyes. "What?"

So it's gonna be like that.

The kittens are in a crate in the corner. There's four of them: small, fluffy, climbing the bars as best they can, mewing pathetically. 

"Hey, kitties," Scott murmurs.

Most animals tend to wiggle and purr when Scott gets close.

The kittens hiss.

Stiles scowls. "These guys are assholes."

Scott bursts into laughter—a real one, big and warm. The kind that makes him dimple, his bright teeth flashing, eyes crinkling. 

The kind that makes Stiles want to say dumb shit, just so he'll do it again. 

"Nah," Scott replies. "They just need to be socialized. They got rescued from a burning building over in Hill Valley. No owners. You wanna hold one?"

"Pass." Stiles isn't really an animal person these days, and not just because woodland creatures have recently been crashing into his classroom windows and his friend's car. 

They move to the couch, where Scott spreads the kittens out a designated blanket—an old one, faded green with worn braided edges. Stiles remembers staring up at it from under hundreds of blanket forts during sleepovers with Scott. Telling scary stories. Playing games. Talking about the future.

The kittens bite and scratch at it aimlessly.

Assholes.

Stiles takes the other side of the couch, watches as Scott picks each kitten up and uses a blunt syringe to help them gulp down goopy kitten food.  Kittens are graceless eaters, it turns out. But very enthusiastic. And very hungry.

Scott coos at them. Stiles can practically count off Scott's muscles as they loosen. 

"So what was with the eyes thing?" Stiles asks, when Scott is one the third kitten.

Scott wipes food off of the kitten's face while it meeps and claws at him. "Nothing."

"Seemed like something."

Scott puts that kitten down and grabs the last one. "You don't have to worry, Stiles. I've got it under control. No urge to eat all the marrow from your bones."

"Yeah, okay, word to the wise, buddy? If you want to inspire confidence, don't immediately specify that."

Scott ducks his head. "Got it."

Then he looks up at Stiles through his lashes. Bites his lip.

Messing with him.

Stiles shoves at his shoulder. "I hate you."

He's so solid under Stiles' hand. Barely rocks under the blow.

Stiles lets him finish feeding the last kitten. 

They've all warmed up to him by this point, the way animals do, made a home out of him. One curls up on his knee. Another doggedly climbs his shirt and perches on his shoulder. One pounces on his jeans over and over again, killing every wrinkle. Only the last keeps trying to escape—a little white thing, with squinty colorless eyes and a tendency to squeak. It seems baffled every time Scott gently picks it up and turns it around.

It seems like as good a time as any. "Have you noticed anything different, lately? Since… everything?"

Scott freezes. A blink-and-miss-it moment. Becoming an Alpha has made him so much faster. Almost too fast for Stiles to follow.

He looks at Stiles again.

"Different how?" he asks. Masked.

"I dunno. Different different."

Sacrifice different. Nightmares different. Sleepless different.

Alpha different. Stiles has never met another True Alpha before, but he's met a lot of regular ones, and they've all sucked. Deucalion, Kali, Ennis, the twins. Fucking Peter.

Even the ones who got better started out really bad. 

I'm the Alpha, Derek had bragged, while Isaac had cowered in the corner.

"There used to be some rats that lived in the alleyway outside the clinic." Scott picks up one of the kittens, cradling it in one hand as it attacks the fingers of his other. It keeps trying to bite the flat of his palm, its teeth gnashing against him fruitlessly. "They're not there anymore."

Stiles has gotten very used to learning shit he doesn't know what to do with, but this is a new one. "The rats?"

"They all disappeared," Scott continues, like Stiles is confused about that part. "The day I came back as an Alpha."

Stiles tries to be patient. "What else, though?"

Scott shrugs. "Same kind of stuff as when I first turned. It's been a bit worse, with cats. Pretty sure that's why Deaton asked me to help with these ones."

Stiles looks down at where two of them have passed out on him. "I think they like you, dude."

"Eh, kittens are easy. You just gotta be patient."

But Scott sounds pleased.

Stiles tries again. "You been sleeping okay? Any weird dreams? New things you wanna tattoo on yourself, maybe?"

"Have you been sleeping okay, Stiles?"

"Of course I haven't!" Stiles finally snaps. "Our teacher turned out to be a dark Druid and tried to kill our parents and we all died. Why would I ever sleep again?"

Scott's eyes are wide, now. Concerned. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Stiles could strangle him.

What does he think Stiles is trying to do?

"Allison looked like she was seeing something in school, today," Stiles starts again, through clenched teeth. "But there wasn't anything there."

"I said I'd talk to her."

"No, that's not—you haven't seen anything weird? Or had any weird Alpha urges? You don't want to roar at Isaac, or anything?"

Scott scoops up the little white kitten. "Why would I want to roar at Isaac?"

Now he's just being obtuse. "Why do you think?"

Scott's jaw ripples, his lips pursing. "It's none of my business if she likes him."

Stiles closes his eyes and scrubs at them exasperatedly with his fingertips, fighting the wave of exhaustion that follows. "I don't mean that, I mean—"

"I know what you mean," he hears Scott say tightly.

"No, you don't. You're—"

"I said, I know."

"I'm not talking about Allison and Isaac, all right? I'm talking about—"

"I know," Scott snarls, in the thunderous Alpha voice Stiles has never heard from him.

Stiles drops his hands, his eyes snapping open.

Scott is fully transformed, the kitten dropped from his clawed hands. His eyes are blazing red. 

He shuts them tight, shaking his head.

Stiles finally gets it.

"Sorry." Scott sounds very young, his voice thin around the fangs in his mouth. The shift slowly fades from his face, though he keeps his eyes closed. "Sorry, Stiles."

Stiles sighs. "It's okay." 

It isn't. Nothing is. 

But it'll keep. Things are weird, but nothing is actually happening, in an imminent threat sort of way. Stiles' urgency seems stupid, all of a sudden. What was he trying to prove? That the sacrifice left them fucked up? That everything is different now?

Scott knows that.

And he'll talk about it at some point. Stiles is sure of it.

In the meantime, they can spend the afternoon together.

Scott finally opens his eyes.

They're the familiar dark.

"I know you're really tired," he says.

Stiles blinks at him. His eyelids feel heavy.

"Maybe," he admits.

Scott swallows. "You wanna, um, pass out for a bit?"

"You think I haven't tried?"

Scott nods down at the space on the couch next to him. His tone is very casual. Measured. "Try again."

For the first time in weeks, Stiles' exhaustion hits differently. Like an opportunity.

Like he could actually go to sleep.

Stiles stretches out, his head on Scott's thigh. 

He's been on this couch with Scott thousands of times, but never in quite this configuration.

It's good. Scott's thigh is warm, pleasantly firm. His hand lands in Stiles' hair, carding it gently. That's good too. 

Keeping it a little longer was the right idea, maybe.

Stiles stares up at Scott. His dark eyes. His ruffled hair. All different, from this angle. Even his tattoo seems different. Not so unnerving. It means the weird dead magic tree likes him, right?

Maybe things will just get better.

Scott smiles down at him. His smile is very soft.

His lips look even softer.

Things fall together like the opposite of dominoes. 

Stiles wants to kiss him.

He's very awake now.

Scott's eyebrows twist in question.

Stiles has been staring too long. With his control so thin, life-changing revelations about unrequited gay crushes from his best friend are probably the last thing Scott needs right now. 

Or ever. 

Yeah, ever sounds good.

A distraction sounds even better.

Stiles clears his throat, gesturing over his shoulder at where the litter is. "Kitten me."

Scott holds out the little white one.

Stiles braces its back paws in one hand so it can lean its front paws against the other.

The kitten squeaks at him indignantly.

"Yeah, yeah, everyone's a critic," Stiles mutters.

Scott laughs. "That's a friendly sound."

It is. Stiles' favorite sound. How had he not realized before?

The kitten is okay too, Stiles will admit. In an angry sort of way. Even if it isn't as soft as Stiles thought it would be. 

"Their fur is still kind of brittle from the heat," Scott explains. "We're hoping they weren't too close to the fire. They sound okay, so far."

Stiles doesn't really know what kittens are supposed to sound like. This one squeaks a lot.

It's pretty cute.

Then it bites Stiles' hand, its needle teeth sinking into the thin skin between his thumb and forefinger. 

It stings.

At the same time, that strange sweetness floods Stiles' mouth again.

He feels suddenly and intensely hungry.

"See?" Scott asks sunnily. "He likes you."

4.

Stiles can feel the chicken tenders turn to lead in his stomach.

There's a crackle.

The little water bottle they hand out with lunch at the cafeteria is crumpled in his hand.

Stiles puts it down. "Say that again."

"One of Liam's friends lost his pet ball python," Scott repeats, like Stiles had actually meant he hadn't heard. "I said I'd go look for it after practice. Do you wanna come?"

"A ball python."

"Yeah. They curl up when they get scared. Into a ball."

"Wow, Scott, that's a fun fact."

Scott doesn't reply beyond a raising of his eyebrows.

Stiles wants to pick the bottle up just to crunch it again.

It was one thing when he thought Scott didn't want to talk about becoming an Alpha because he was hanging onto control by a thread. They'd all thought, back then, that there wasn't any threat—that there might never be again.

Now they all know better.

One scant week ago, he'd sat with Scott in the backseat of the van on the way back from La Iglesia. Kira had been in Scott's arms. Liam had been slumped against his side. All three of them had been passed out. Spattered with blood.

Scott had still been wearing the berserker leather.

He'd still been covered in fragments of bone.

Stiles had watched them sleep. 

He'd thought about Peter, in the back of the other vehicle. 

He'd thought about Kate, still out in the world.

"One of Liam's friends," Stiles echoes again, since Scott doesn't seem to be getting it. "Liam, the guy who's friends with people who wanna kill you."

"Well, he isn't anymore." Scott's tone is dry. Like this is all a joke. "Not unless there's a lot we don't know about Mason."

"There is a lot we don't know about Mason."

"I could invite him too, then. I think he's also friends with Lucas."

"Invite him? So, what, it's a party? You know, one of those things where people try to kill you?"

Scott breathes out through his nose.

Like Stiles is being the difficult one.

"You used to have a pet snake, right?" Scott asks, incomprehensibly.

It takes a second to remember what he's even referring to.

Stiles had taken care of a boa once, for a week. It had belonged to Heather's brother, and he'd only watched it while the family was away—and while Scott had been living with his dad.

But Scott doesn't need to know that. Stiles had been trying to make him feel better, at the time, about the whole creature of the night thing. 

And he would've fed Scott live mice, if it had come to that, so it wasn't really a lie.

"Yeah," says Stiles.

"So…" Scott spreads his arms wide, with his cut shoulders and muscular arms. Like that's all he needs to do. Like the meaning is obvious.

It isn't.

"Did it ever escape?" Scott prods.

"Nope."

"Oh." Scott lets his hands fall back to the table awkwardly. "Well, this one got out of its cage, and Liam says it's not in the house anymore. Lucas lives right at the preserve. I figure we start there."

"You want to go into the woods?"

Scott shrugs. "It can't have gotten far. It won't take that long."

For a long moment, Stiles is too angry to speak.

Then he isn't anymore. "It's not about the time, are you—what if there are more hunters? Someone who didn't get the memo that the deadpool was called off? You were worth the most on that list—if they're still after anyone, it's gonna be you."

Stiles gestures helplessly, trying to get Scott to understand the enormity of the iceberg that is just the tip of. 

What if Jennifer isn't dead either? Her throat was slashed too. Her body was buried too. What if it's her turn to crawl out of the dirt, transformed into some new fucked up thing?

What if someone else is just waiting to trick them all? Lure them away from home?

Betray them?

Twist another sword in Scott's guts.

Like it.

"The assassins enrolled in our school," Scott replies. "If someone's after me, staying here won't matter."

"So, what, you're just gonna go looking for trouble?"

"I'm looking for a snake," says Scott, with that infuriatingly measured tone. "You wanna come or not?"

Stiles picks his tray up and walks away.

+++

"You want me to go with him instead?" Malia asks, when Stiles finds her in the library. The words are half-slurred around the highlighter in her mouth.

Stiles had hoped she would understand.

Clearly, she doesn't.

"What—are you kidding? That is the exact opposite of what I want."

Just the idea of Scott and Malia out there alone—two of the people he loves most in the world—makes Stiles want to hit something. The urge clamps down on him, constricting. His chest aches. 

Peter had tossed her aside like she was trash.

And Stiles hadn't stopped him from coming with them down to Mexico.

He'd known Peter was dangerous. He'd thought he was being careful.

Not careful enough.

Malia puts the highlighter down next to the rest of them, where they all lie in the little valley created by the open pages of her textbook.

"Then what do you want?" she asks. Like it's nothing. Like they're at In-N-Out.

Which is where they'd stopped, on the way home, as soon as they'd crossed the border.

Derek had told them that Peter had woken up, despite all the wolfsbane.

Then he'd bought him a burger.

Stiles keeps getting whiplash. They'd gone home, and been expected to go to school. Stand by while coach yelled at them. His dad had gotten them pizza. 

Malia had told him she was going to hunt down her biological mother. A professional killer. Then she'd asked for help studying for the makeup PSAT—which they were all going to have to take, because the last one had been sabotaged by the Chemist.

Stiles remembers the press of the Chemist's silencer against his forehead.

The warm spray of blood.

How it had taken him long seconds for things to fall together, after that, to understand that it wasn't his. That he hadn't died, alone and at school. 

It's like no one else understands how easily any of it could happen again. How fragile their lives are.

"I want him not to go wandering off by himself."

Malia frowns at him—the way she hasn't in a while now, like Stiles has just explained a fact of human life she finds incomprehensible. She used to look that way so often.

God, he'd said so much shit.

Control is overrated.

Stupid.

"What?" he snarls, because she won't stop looking at him.

Malia closes her textbook. The highlighters clatter together inside it. She's frowning. Concerned. "Are you okay?"

Stiles walks away from her too.

+++

Three hours later, he's at the preserve, flashlight in hand. They're far along enough in spring that the sun is only just setting now, but it will be dark soon enough.

Above him, the trees' new leaves rustle eerily in the wind.

Stiles hates it.

It's not that he doesn't want to be there. All Stiles had ever wanted to do was wander the woods with Scott.

But now he knows where they lead. He doesn't want to go there anymore.

Scott charges in ahead of him like he has no idea.

For a moment, Stiles stands there. In the woods and outside of them at the same time.

He remembers Scott's hand in the dog's mouth. The knife edge of its teeth pressed against his skin.

He clicks on his flashlight.

+++

It takes a minute to find Scott again. He got a new jacket recently, a bark-colored brown leather, and he doesn't make a sound as he walks through the old dead undergrowth. He pauses every few steps. Stiles watches his crooked, angular jaw shift as he tilts his head. Sniffing the air. Predatory. Confident.

The same way he's been ever since Mexico.

Stiles knows he's just pretending that everything is fine. 

But he's been pretending for a long time.

They never did talk, in the end, about what it was like for him right after the sacrifice, after he'd become an Alpha. 

They've never talked about what Stiles did while he was possessed.

They've never talked about Allison.

Stiles is trying to be patient.

But he's never been good at it.

+++

Of course Scott finds the snake—a tiny black and brown splotch in a forest full of them, a scaly needle in the haystack. He does it fast, too, ducking down out of sight too quick to follow, leaving Stiles to scan the trees with his flashlight in alarm.

Then, all of a sudden, Scott is standing right in front of him.

Stiles swings the flashlight up in his face reflexively, the light shining in Scott's eyes. Scott hisses and looks away immediately, one hand flying up to cover his face. He keeps it like that even after Stiles angles the flashlight away.

In the other hand is the snake—curled in a ball, as advertised.

Scott holds it out. "Do you want to touch it? It's not slimy."

His other hand is still in front of his face, palm out, fingers curled loosely by his eyes. He has such beautiful hands. Stiles can see movement between his fingers—Scott blinking—but he can't make out anything more, the shadows of dusk too thick. 

"I know what a snake feels like," Stiles snaps. He hates that he can't see Scott's face. Can't see in the dark. Not like Scott can. "I used to have a boa, remember?"

"Okay," Scott agrees, with that halting smile he gets when Stiles is being a dick.

Stiles is being a dick.

But he can't do this, pretend everything is hunky-fucking-dory. He still doesn't understand how Scott can.

Then a new thought freezes him, synapses firing. Connecting things. Sending them tumbling down together.

Is Scott pretending?

He'd torn the mask off.

Berserkers are supposed to have no humanity left—especially not when they're already werewolves. But Scott had stopped at the first cry from his Beta. 

They're supposed to have no control.

Scott had not only refused to carry out Kate's orders, he'd actually freed himself from her.

They're supposed to die, if the mask is removed.

Scott is standing here in front of him. Alive.

When Stiles had been possessed, he'd done nothing in the cell of his mind—powerless, pathetic, playing games he'd always lost—until Scott and Lydia had shown up. Even then, he'd had to wait for the nogitsune to puke him up, like he was nothing but spoiled food. 

Sometimes, it feels like he's done nothing since but wait for something else to try to eat him.

He'd thought Scott understood that.

But maybe Scott doesn't. Scott once broke down an actual wall of magic. The same night, Stiles had just barely held up a crumbling ceiling with a stick. 

For Stiles, Mexico had been the biggest miscalculation he'd made in a long time.

But maybe it had been different for Scott.

Maybe it still is.

Different different. Alpha different.

Maybe things only get worse from here.

Scott is still holding out his beautiful hand. 

The snake curls defensively in it, head in its coils.

"No," says Stiles. He crosses his arms. "I don't want to touch it."

5.

Fuck the Jeep. 

It's wheezing, chewing up more of the relentless sand with every mile.

Fuck the desert.

Stiles will have to wait til morning to check on it. Even with the moon, it's too dark to see much, and the flashlight Stiles brought is broken.

Fuck the night.

Scott's passed out next to Stiles right now, slumped against the window. His face is so peaceful—his full mouth slack, his heavy brow unknit. Like it's just another nap.

Like there isn't a gaping hole in his chest.

Sometimes it just takes longer, he'd said placidly. Like the wound was a hissing kitten.

Fuck him, for that.

He still hasn't talked about any of the rest of it. 

Stiles had only found out from Mason. The night of the full moon, he'd texted the group chat:

Help 911

Help

Scott is dead

It was Theo

Please I don't know what to do

He'd even called Stiles once.

Then, a half hour later, more updates via text: that Scott was alive, that he'd left with his mother. Questions about where Liam was.

Stiles hadn't even looked at the thread until his dad was out of the operating room. 

He remembered the way his phone had buzzed in his pocket, before that. 

How he'd ignored it.

Stiles had never replied, and hasn't sent any messages since. No one has, even though Stiles can see that everyone—except Lydia—has read Mason's texts.

They're all waiting for Scott to send something. 

He hasn't.

He will, though, at some point. Stiles is sure of it. And whatever he sends will make everything better. It won't be accusatory at all, but it will still leave them all wondering why the hell they haven't sent something yet.

Stiles has no idea what the actual message will be, but Scott will figure something out.

It won't have to be that long. Four words, maybe.

I know the difference.

Scott had sounded so confused.

Of course he had.

Stiles keeps trying to figure out how to explain it better. It had all felt so real in his head for so long. Then he'd found himself talking about a sacred rule in a busted gas station in the middle of the desert, while Scott stood there, listening patiently, with a fucking crater in his chest, and everything had seemed so… small. Pin-sized.

He'd thought he'd known the difference too.

He does, still, about some things.

It should have been me, Scott had said.

Stiles had wanted to scream. 

The whole point was that it had been Scott already—lots of times. With Jackson. Deucalion. Stiles himself, for a while there. Liam, most recently.

People trying to kill him. 

But Scott hadn't killed them. Not even in self defense. He'd found another way. Figured something out.

Stiles hadn't wanted to have that conversation again. Especially not before he knows exactly what happened with Liam. He's made that mistake too many times already.

You'll heal.

This time, Stiles had walked away instead.

He'd known immediately that it had been the wrong thing to do. They were supposed to be talking. Five more minutes.

But Scott had let him go. Hasn't brought it up again. 

Hasn't said much of anything.

It's so dark out. Stiles tries to turn the Jeep's brights on again, but just like the last four times, they refuse to shine. Stiles squints at the night, the dull endless sand.

A sudden flash by the side of the road, reflective in the Jeep's headlights: fur, blood, horns.

An animal carcass.

Scott startles awake suddenly, inhaling hard. "Stop the car."

"What?"

"The deer."

Stiles grips the steering wheel tight. "I'm not stopping for a dead deer."

"It's not dead. I heard it breathing."

"We still can't—"

But Scott is already opening the door. Stiles hears the mechanical click of the seatbelt, and then, too fast to follow, Scott is gone.

Stiles stomps on the break.

The Jeep lurches to a halt, screeching and grinding at the abuse, but Stiles doesn't care, too busy half-falling out of the Jeep to scramble after him.

There's only the moonlight and the red glow of the Jeeps' tail lights to tell him where to go, but Stiles can make out Scott's back ahead of him. The indomitable line of it.

"Scott. Scott!" Stiles demands, his heart pounding.

Scott ignores him. Keeps walking away from him.

Towards the deer.

It's a stag, Stiles is pretty sure. It has horns, anyway. Surprisingly big ones. Stiles has never thought about deer in the desert, but this one seems too large for it. It looks like it came out of the forest, somewhere.

And then it got hit by a car.

Its front legs aren't moving, and there's a splotch of night-black blood on its chest that glistens wetly in the glow of the Jeep's lights. Even so, the deer froths at their approach, kicking its back legs frantically, swinging its neck up and then down again. It lows.

But then, as Scott steps in front of Stiles and gets closer, it stops struggling—still panting, riddled with tension Stiles can see even in the dark. But still. Not fighting Scott's approach.

Of course it isn't.

As Stiles walks closer, Scott kneels down slowly. 

He puts both his hands on the animal's head.

Stiles can't quite make it out, but he knows what's happening. He can picture the black lines radiating up Scott's arms. 

Of course he's taking its pain, even wounded as he is. 

Of course he jumped out of a moving car to do it.

He brought some supplies for his own wound. He'll use them on this thing instead.

Stiles walks closer. He tries to calculate how to make space for the deer in the back of the Jeep. He pictures them rolling up to the Skinwalkers with it peering out from the back.

Scott will probably figure out how to make that work too.

The stag finally slumps against the ground. Relieved. Its breathing becomes expansive, great heaving huffs.

Then, a blur of motion and a rippling crack.

Ten steps away from the—from the carcass, Stiles freezes.

Scott turns back to him. His pupils are shimmering strangely, glasslike—but it's not human tears, and definitely not the preternatural glow of a werewolf. It's just reflectiveness, Stiles realizes, a canine film of photosensitivity.

Stiles can't make out anything else of Scott's expression.

"What?" He doesn't know how to ask what he wants to. What just happened. "What the hell was that?"

The question falls apart as soon as he says it. He knows what it was. Stiles has known how fast death can happen ever since he was sixteen, standing in the hallway of his high school, watching the janitor be snatched away and torn apart.

And he's known about that ripple for a lot longer. People die. Other people live to hear it. 

It's just seeing Scott in the center of it all, standing over death. That's new. 

A thing that has never had meaning, until all of a sudden it does.

Raw? Stiles' synapses fire unhelpfully, remembering the way Scott's face had twisted as he'd asked about eating a rabbit. 

Plaintive. Horrified.

Scott ignores him again, marching back to the Jeep in the same straight line he did before. He hops in like nothing happened.

Stiles catches up to him, sliding back into the driver's seat, but he's still catching up. "Scott, why…"

He doesn't know what he wants to ask. Why Scott hadn't saved the deer? The thing had been paralyzed, covered in gore. The bigger question is why Stiles had thought he'd save it in the first place. He'd been so sure of it. What's wrong with him?

"I'm sorry," Scott says quietly. "I shouldn't have jumped out like that."

"You think?" Stiles blusters. He doesn't know where to put his hands.

"It was stupid." Scott's voice is so small. "I was stupid."

Stiles wants to touch him. To shake him, for being so stupid. To hold onto him, so he doesn't leave again. To check the simple fact of him, confirm with his hands that he hasn't disappeared again.

That he's alive.

"I don't know… " Stiles tries. He can't figure out how to finish.

He doesn't know what to do now?

What he'd do if he lost Scott?

What they're really talking about?

They haven't talked about—the supermoon—at all.

Every thought feels so fragile. Like as soon as he tells Scott, it won't be real anymore. Will tumble down like beams.

Stiles patters his fingers against the wheel. The Jeep is still splayed sideways across the road, but if they're talking about this, he doesn't want to be driving. "What happened?"

"You saw."

"Just part of it."

Scott says nothing.

"I can't see in the dark, remember?" Stiles reminds him, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

Scott turns, then. Even in the dim light of the Jeeps' gauges, his eyes still have that alien gleam to them. "I remember."

Some of us are human, Stiles had screamed.

He doesn't want to scream anymore.

He can't really blame Scott for not wanting to talk.

Stiles drops his hands from the wheel to pick at the hem of his shirt. "I know you were… just trying to do the right thing." 

He still has no idea how Scott wound up in the library, but that seems like as good a guess as any. It's what Scott's always trying to do.

Scott looks away again. "I guess."

"What, then?"

Scott's only reply is to swallow.

He's staring very fixedly out the front window.

Maybe he's not quite ready.

Stiles is still trying to figure out what to say when Scott asks, "You remember those kittens junior year? The litter from the fire?"

Stiles lets go of his shirt, uncurling in surprise. "The ones you took care of right after the sacrifice?"

"Right." Scott shifts in his seat, just once. "They—they all… died."

"… I'm sorry?"

Scott shrugs. 

"What happened?"

"Lung damage. They'd been closer to the flames than we'd thought."

Stiles isn't sure what to make of that. There must have been a thousand other things Scott could have picked to start talking about this. The stuff about the kittens is sad—fuck, it's sad, they'd been so small—but the memory of them is distant, crushed under the weight of everything that has happened since.

Then Stiles realizes. "You haven't said anything. About it. Them."

"I know," Scott replies quickly. He licks his lips.

Stiles tries to sit still. He can't.

The silence stretches on.

"I just don't want it to happen again," Stiles presses. 

All Stiles has ever wanted is to protect Scott, as desperately as he loves him. It's why he wants to know—why he always wants to know. 

"Neither do I," Scott almost laughs. "But it keeps happening. Animals—die. No matter where I go. What I do. So—"

"So you're just gonna give up?" Stiles interrupts, more harshly than he intends.

But he can't stand the idea. All Stiles has ever had is the grit not to give up, coarse as sand. He thought Scott had that too. He knows he does. Scott became a True Alpha. Tore apart the berserker mask. Came back from the fucking dead.

"I'll do what I have to," Scott says quietly. "I promise you, I always will. It's just that sometimes, it's like all I can do is… it's—it's like something isn't real. If I don't tell you."

The pieces of that sit in Stiles' mind, refusing to come together. 

It is real. It happened. It's practically still happening, with Theo out there, smirking about it, Scott here with a hole in his chest.

But Scott's tone had been so final.

The pieces finally fall.

He's not going to talk about it. Not now. Not any of it. Never. The finality of it ripples through Stiles, out into his hands. He gropes restlessly, trying to figure out what to say. 

It's not fair. They've always told each other everything. It's not like Stiles wouldn't understand. Some things are hard to talk about. Impossible. Some things Stiles has said the wrong thing about—straight up lied about—just to have something to say. It's the saying, that's the thing. What else have they got to keep them going, out here in the desert, miles and miles from home? How else are they supposed to fight the world out to get them? The darkness in their fucking hearts?

Scott's sitting so still. Mask-eyed. Silent.

Oh.

Maybe that's the difference.

Maybe it always will be, between them.

Stiles' hand lands on his phone in his pocket.

He digs it out.

Stares at the group chat.

Maybe Scott is never going to say anything there either.

Maybe that's all he can do.

Stiles chews on his lip. 

We'll be home soon, he writes.

Not perfect. Not nothing.

It doesn't feel like enough. Scott's phone pings, but he doesn't pick it up, doesn't react at all besides another look in Stiles' direction, a weak smile.

Stiles clears his throat. "So it's… like Heart of Darkness?"

Something you'll always feel. 

Stiles knows, without a doubt, that he'll feel this night for the rest of his life.

He hears Scott's reply more than he sees it: a rough exhale. Like he's been hit. 

"Yeah." Scott ducks his head. "Kind of like Heart of Darkness."

What's left to say, after that?

The immense night looms in front of them.

Stiles puts the Jeep in drive.

+ 1

Where do you go when you're all out of options?

Montana, apparently.

That's where David Ellis is headed.

He's not the guy Stiles thought he'd be chasing down now, three years ago when the war started. 

But then, he'd also thought the war would end.

It had almost seemed possible, a year ago, when Scott had finally gotten Monroe to agree not only to cease hostilities, but actually help them against the factions that had split off from her for not being extreme enough. Ellis had been on the fringe, then, a former general of hers who'd gotten himself kicked out for his brutality.

They've got Ellis on the run, his followers and allies gone. Their intel says he's hunkered down somewhere outside of Glacier National Park, licking his wounds. There's a local pack there that's on his tail, and they're pretty sure they know where he can be found.

They still want Scott's help finding him.

Scott gets the request while they're all in Spokane, working out the details of a new phase for the northwest with Monroe and Argent. Scott brings it up at the end of the last day, when they're back in the hotel room they've been sharing.

"Why can't they handle it themselves?" Stiles asks. "Ellis is alone, right?" 

"I think it's nerves. The guy who talked to me—Joseph Knox—is just a park ranger. He and his pack aren't used to this kind of thing."

"Didn't they handle a couple cells of Ellis's a few months ago, though?"

Scott shrugs, fiddling with his phone. 

Stiles can feel his hackles start to rise. 

Scott had already become hypervisible as Monroe's first target and most successful adversary, and things had only gotten more intense with the peace talks. People want stuff from him all the time. Stiles isn't surprised at the fact that Knox is asking.

Just pissed.

Stiles will bet anything that Knox doesn't need Scott's help with this. Probably not even help at all. He just wants to be seen with Scott—to be the kind of guy who can get Scott to show up when he asks. Stiles is ready to boo vociferously, the same way he does every other bullshit favor random people ask of Scott.

Then Scott adds, "He also said that while we're there—and after, if we want—we can stay in this cabin he has by the park. He sent me pictures, and it seems decent. It's small, though, so I'm thinking it'd, uh, just be you and me."

Stiles pauses, boo in his mouth.

He likes the pack trips—all of them together, nothing on the agenda but the beach. Things had gotten even better when Kira had come back from the desert last year, the pack finally whole again. 

And it's not like he hasn't had one on one time with Scott. They fight together. For the peace talks, they've shared a hotel room. Even during the school year, on opposite sides of the country, they still talk all the time. They've talked about trying to stay in school when people want them dead. They've talked about homework. Stiles got Scott through his breakup with Malia, and Scott did the same for him when things with Lydia finally fell apart. They've talked about Scott and Kira not getting back together. About Stiles and Malia not getting back together. They've talked about other people they'd dated—new people, that the other hadn't already met. Their first hook ups with guys. Their first boyfriends. Their first breakups with guys.

Just as shitty as with girls, turns out.

They've texted. They've chatted. They've hung around Beacon Hills. They've buried each other in the sand at Big Sur, while the pack took pictures. 

But in the three years since high school ended, Stiles hasn't gone on a trip with Scott. Not just the two of them.

Not since the desert.

"Do you want to?" Stiles asks cautiously, trying to think calm thoughts so he has calm chemosignals.

Scott gives him one of those open smiles that's somehow still completely opaque. "Yeah. If you want to."

Stiles wants to.

He always wants to. 

He's used to wanting, by this point. He's okay with it. Scott's always going to be his best friend, smirking at him from the passenger's seat on the drive to Montana, slouched in the very specific way he says is the only comfortable angle on the lumpy vinyl.

He's always going to be that close to Stiles. He's always going to be that far apart. 

They're always going to be headed for the woods, one way or another. 

And they're never going to talk about it.

At least this time, there's a cabin. It's still not real camping, but it's pretty close. 

Stiles will take it.

+++

Glacier National Park is beautiful—almost unnervingly pretty, movie perfect, the kind of thing Stiles wants to wave at in case it's fake. It's all real, though, and it's all embarrassingly close to how he imagined: the air crisp and fresh, the mountains rugged, the sky a pristine blue. Even the cabin, where Knox and the others meet them, is almost annoyingly charming. It's tiny, with two twin beds in a central room and not much else besides, but it's got real wooden walls and a little fireplace. The windows all have picturesque views of the surrounding forest, the mountains, the cloudless sky. 

Even Knox and his pack—five men, all park rangers, armed with tranquilizer guns—don't seem that big a deal, now that they're here. They crowd around Scott, ravenous for a handshake, but at least they seem just as interested in his future veterinary work as they do his True Alpha status. They all geek out about exotic animal care. They've heard he's good with animals. It could be worse.

They're less pleased to see Stiles there.

"Figured you'd bring another werewolf, is all," Knox explains, practically sulking.

It confirms, for Stiles, that this isn't about them helping. Knox just wants the fantasy—a hunt with the True Alpha—and Stiles is in the way of that.

Scott is scowling, his jaw set in the way it gets before he says something, but Stiles cuts him off with a gesture. The sooner they find Ellis, the sooner they can come back to the cabin.

Stiles is trying to argue less, these days.

Some things just can't be helped.

+++

Scott takes the lead, as they search for Ellis, even though, of all the werewolves there, he's the least familiar with the territory. Stiles can't blame Knox and the others for that one, though. Scott's easy to follow, in the dappled sunlight, careful and discerning as he walks through the woods. The other werewolves fan out around him in a way Stiles has slowly come to recognize as lupine. They all practically snarl at Stiles every time he snaps a twig underfoot, then avert their eyes when Scott glares at them.

They're still half-shifted as they turn back—to watch Scott with glowing eyes.

That's the part Stiles worries Scott doesn't understand. Maybe they're all stray dogs to him, trying to lead him somewhere, asking for help. Maybe he never notices their fangs.

Or maybe he does, and he just doesn't want to talk about it. Like missing puppies.

It doesn't matter. Either way, Stiles couldn't protect him from them, if it came down to that.

That doesn't matter either. All these guys want to do is lick his hand.

Stiles is trying to make peace with all of it.

He has.

Suddenly, Scott pauses. His head tilts.

Stiles follows his gaze. For a moment, through the shadows of the trees, he sees only a hazy outline.

Then the creature steps forward.

It's a bear.

+++

The bear is enormous, shaggy and almost shapeless in the way bears are, thick with fur and fat. It ambles, one lumbering paw at a time, head low, in the direction of Scott but without any obvious intention, as though Scott were simply its natural destination. 

Scott doesn't move as it approaches.

"Shit, it's a grizzly," Knox mutters. "How'd it get so close? Shit, shit, shit."

He starts to gesture at the other rangers—but then Scott holds up a hand.

He's completely shifted, watching the bear approach with narrowed red eyes.

Knox and the other werewolves all glance at each other, but then they back up, readying the tranquilizer guns Stiles is suddenly a lot more grateful for. He backs up even further. This thing isn't as big as the Beast of Gévaudan, and definitely not as homicidal, but it's still a fucking grizzly bear. His stun baton, an Argent special, has enough voltage to take down if necessary, but not without risking serious damage. 

Still, he doesn't go too far.

He wants to see.

The bear is sidling up to Scott, blinking slowly.  Like Scott might throw it bits of turkey sandwich.

As Stiles watches, transfixed, it comes to a stop. Right in front of Scott. 

Stiles glances around, and finds that all of the other werewolves have totally shifted too, their eyes glowing as they watch Scott with animal intensity.

Stiles turns back to Scott.

And sees he's not moving. 

The bear snuffles gently at his face, its broad nose buffeting against him, its breath wet and noisy even from his distance. It licks.

Scott doesn't react at all. He's frozen. 

Deathly still.

Alarmed, Stiles waves at the other werewolves, trying to get them to do something.

They stare back at him, annoyed, uncomprehending.

Fuck this.

"Scott!" Stiles calls.

Scott doesn't respond.

The werewolves bear their teeth.

"Scott!" Stiles repeats, and charges forward, to Scott.

The bear startles, staggering back a step.

But then it grows—standing up on its hind legs. Looming over him.

Suddenly, Scott is right next to him, between him and the bear, eyes and fangs flashing as he roars.

The bear collapses.

It happens so fast that Stiles assumes, at first, that he missed something—a crack of werewolf violence, death-quick.

But the bear is only rolling backwards, paws wide. 

Baring its belly.

It whines. 

Next to him, Stiles can hear Scott start to hyperventilate.

There's the hiss of the tranquilizer gun, then, as the bear gets hit with a couple of darts at once. It relaxes further onto the ground, its breath evening.

"You two should step away now," says Knox.

As soon as he speaks, Stiles feels Scott flinch next to him.

"Back off!" he warns.

"Let us handle this," Knox insists. "Even if the bear's out, he's not in control. He could—"

"I know exactly what he could do." Stiles steps in front of Scott. He doesn't even want Knox looking at him anymore. "Which is why we're leaving. Find Ellis on your own."

Stiles takes Scott's hand.

It lies limp in his. 

It doesn't matter.

Stiles leads him out of the woods.

+++

Scott has stopped panting by the time they get to the Jeep, and by the time they're back at the clearing where the cabin is, he seems to have settled into a numb stupor. He follows Stiles into the house with no expression. 

Compulsively, Stiles wets a washcloth and wipes at Scott's face with it—everywhere the bear touched him. Scott lets him, blinking against the cloth but unmoving otherwise. Eyes dull. Lips slack. Like his face is a mask.

"Scott?" Stiles asks cautiously.

What the hell had happened? The bear hadn't shown any sign of aggression, and definitely no supernatural weirdness. It had just been a bear, drawn to Scott the way it seemed like everything and everyone is, sometimes.

Scott finally moves—to stare past Stiles. Where the window is.

The bear's still out there. 

So is Ellis.

Stiles can't fix any of that.

"Scott?" he tries again, despairing at the same time.

No response.

Of course there isn't.

Stiles closes the windows and pulls the blinds and wishes there were more he could do. Something he could say.

Then he sees the beds.

He almost laughs, it's such a stupid idea.

But what else has he got?

Even without Scott helping him, it doesn't take long. He dumps the pillows onto the floor, in the space between the two beds. He takes the blanket from one of the beds and lays it down on top of them, and then pulls the other blanket more carefully so that it stretches across both beds—covering the space between.

Not perfect. Not nothing.

+++

Scott goes easily when Stiles tugs, until they can crawl under the blanket together.

It's awkward. The space between the beds isn't quite big enough for two twenty year olds side by side. There are a lots of elbows—mostly Stiles'. The edge of one of the beds presses into Stiles' back, and he can see Scott is just as cramped.

Scott finally looks at him. His eyes are so wide. Mournful—the way they always are, at times like this, his face full of something. It's lurking, Stiles knows, just behind his closed lips.

Stiles loves him so much.

He can't stand it.

"You gotta say something, Scott. I don't care what it is, I don't care, but you can't just—anything, Scott, just give me anything, I—"

Then Stiles can't talk anymore.

Because Scott is kissing him.

It takes a long second for Stiles to parse the situation. Scott's warm, full lips are pressed against his. Then, suddenly Scott's whole body is pressed close. Very suddenly. Very close.

Scott starts to pull away.

Stiles realizes he hasn't been kissing back at all.

He cups the back of Scott's head, fast as he can, and then panics, almost at the same time, at the idea that it was Scott who wanted to pull away—just as Scott surges forward again, immediate and eager, his hot tongue licking into Stiles' mouth as Stiles gasps. Then Scott's turning, and his broad hands are on Stiles' hips and then Stiles is being moved, like he weighs nothing, like he's kitten-sized, until he's on top of Scott, his hands reflexively coming out to brace himself against Scott's chest.

He has a nice chest. Fuck, he has a nice everything. Stiles wants to touch him everywhere. Wherever Scott wants. He just wants to make Scott feel good. He wants to keep him safe. He wants to lick his face like honey. He wants to eat him whole. 

He tries to say it with a kiss.

Scott's panting again by the time they finally stop, but it's different this time. His eyes are dark and focused, unblinking as he stares at Stiles, his face flushed pink. He licks his lips, his soft pink tongue there and gone again.

"Sorry," he says.

It feels like Stiles' whole brain lurches to a halt. His synapses fire in a circle. "Oh, wait, was this a for-real kiss or a just-had-a-panic-attack Stiles-shut-up kiss?"

"What?"

"Because it's fine if it is, I—"

"Stiles."

"And it's okay if you don't know, because you're probably still pretty—"

"Stiles." 

Stiles clacks his mouth shut, squirming restlessly. Scott's hands are still on his hips, fingers resting lightly on Stiles' bare skin where his shirt is rucked up, gentle and intentional and exhilarating, leaving Stiles' skin tight and sensitive wherever they brush. 

Scott pets him. "It's real. It's been real for a long time."

Stiles blinks. 

"Since when?"

"Since ever." Scott shrugs awkwardly. "And… I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but—"

"You—" That's so wrong that Stiles is ironically lost for words. "You know that I—that I? No. Scott. Scott. That is—that's—what—"

Then Scott is kissing him again, which is infinitely more appealing than whatever he was trying to say. Scott is cradling his head now, thumbs by the hinge of his jaw, soft and electrifying as his lips. Stiles makes an embarrassingly needy noise when he finally pulls away.

Scott's smile is pleased.

Stiles scowls at him. "I talk."

Scott gives him a look.

Stiles gives him one right back. "I'm always the one who wants to talk."

"No, you're always the one who wants to know." Scott' shifts his hand to stroke Stiles' shoulder. "You don't actually tell people that much."

Stiles scoffs. "What don't I talk about?"

"You just charged a grizzly bear."

Oh.

Right.

That.

Stiles swallows. "What's there to say?"

"It could have killed you," Scott says softly.

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that. He could spout a bunch of bullshit—the stun baton, the tranquilizer guns, the six other werewolves ready to help—but the truth is that he didn't think anything would happen besides what happened. Scott's good with animals. Animals are good for him.

Except this time was different, somehow, for Scott. Stiles still has no idea why. He doesn't want to say anything until he does.

"I do," Stiles admits. "Want to know. I always do." 

Scott nods.

Stiles braces himself for his silence.

He's shocked when Scott begins to speak instead. "I, uh, didn't think it'd be a problem. I had no idea it was there—it was downwind of us—and running can just piss them off. Tranquilizing them is a risk too. But… animals have been afraid of me, kind of, ever since I became an Alpha, so I thought I could scare it away."

"What are you talking about?" Stiles can't help demanding. "Animals love you. You're the animal whisperer."

Scott hums, a not quite laugh, the sound too pained. "Sometimes I can help them get over it—like with those kittens, a while back. It's easier if they're young. Everything is still pretty new for them. I can do it, if I've got time."

A dozen other instances leap to mind just as quickly, and then shrink to nothing as soon as he thinks about opening his mouth.

Stiles remembers the snake in Scott's hand. Curled into a ball.

There's only one other example he can think of.

Scott probably doesn't want to talk about it.

But Stiles wants to know. 

"That deer didn't seem like it was afraid of you," he points out, as gently as he can. "It stopped fighting as soon as you came close."

Scott swallows.

"It… was still pretty terrified," he explains, barely above a whisper. "It just knew it was going to die. It gave up."

Stiles grips him tighter compulsively. Checking the fact of him. 

He wants to get closer.

But he still doesn't know. "What about the bear?"

Scott licks his lips. Shifts again. The pillows threaten to slide out from under him.

Stiles will get up, if Scott needs him to. Let him go.

But god, he doesn't want to.

"It kept sniffing my face," Scott says, eventually. Staccato. "It was like—like it could—smell the—and it was looking at me like it could see—and its breath was the same as mine. When I was wearing it. It smelled like the—skins—that she put me in. And it wasn't afraid of me. It was like—like it—I think it recognized me."

It's the most Stiles has ever heard him speak about being a berserker.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Scott adds, before Stiles can reply. "I'm sorry, I should never have taken us out here. It was—"

This time, Stiles shuts him up.

The kiss is fiercer, this time, almost desperate. Scott pulls at him, biting at Stiles' lips, sucking his tongue into his mouth. Stiles moans at the rasp of his fangs, grabbing Scott's face to kiss him more firmly, cupping his face in his hands. He wants to hold him forever. He wants to drink him in. He bites.

Scott thrusts up against him as he does.

It's almost close enough.

"Don't fucking apologize," Stiles growls.

"Don't charge at bears," Scott says instead. It’s only a little bit better. "I can't lose you."

"You won't." 

"I almost have. Lots of times. I know I can't stop you—I'm not trying to—but sometimes, it's like you don't even care if you live or die."

Strange, to hear his thoughts from Scott's mouth. Inside of him and outside at the same time.

"I guess." Stranger still to realize that Scott's right, that what he wants to say is, "I guess I don't really want to talk about it."

"Okay."

"Not yet, anyway."

"I'll be here," Scott says quietly. "If you ever do want to, I'll be here."

Stiles kisses him again.

It's slow, this time. Sweet. Every time is so different. Stiles wants to do it again and again. 

So does Scott, if the way he licks at him is any indication.

It's so confusing. 

Stiles is so fucking confused. 

He makes himself pull away, again, even if he can't let go of Scott, holding his crooked jaw, petting his soft hair where it curls behind his ear.

"But why'd you think I wouldn't want to talk about this?" Stiles needs to know.

Scott shifts under him, looking uncomfortable for the first time since he pulled Stiles on top of him. "I sort of—you're not that hard to read. But you never said anything."

"Because I thought—I didn't think you felt the same way."

"I do," says Scott. Like it's that simple.

"But—but why didn't you ever say anything?"

Scott looks away again, for a moment. Then up at Stiles, under his lashes, big-eyed. "I guess I figured… if I waited, you'd come to me. If you wanted."

It finally falls together. All these years. Scott holding out his hand, asking Stiles if he wants to touch. Asking Stiles to lie on his thigh. Even the way he'd looked at him, carefully unreadable, when he'd asked about his trip.

Stiles groans, dropping his head down against the soft skin of Scott's neck.

"That was stupid," he mutters into it. "That was so stupid."

"Maybe," Scott laughs, and then keeps going. It's stilted, at first, shadowed, but then it eases, the shadow slithering out of his voice until there's nothing left but laughter.

Stiles wants to soak him in like the sun.

"But," Scott continues, taking on a familiar innocent tone, the one that says he's riling Stiles on purpose, "it kind of worked, didn't it?"

Stiles considers.

He's lying on the floor in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of an endless war. In the middle of the mouth of the world, its teeth all around them.

Scott's here with him. In his arms. 

There's nowhere else Stiles would rather be.

He grins. "Yeah, I guess it did."