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When they get back to the clinic, Scott tries to help get the ice baths ready. He carries the bags of ice they got at 7-11 in from the cars—he, Isaac, and Allison split that duty because they're the strongest, they'll do it faster than Stiles or Lydia or Deaton—and he tries to help fill up the metal tubs with water.
But when he starts unfurling the hose at the side of the building, Deaton pats him on the shoulder and tells him not to worry about it. Deaton uncurls the hose himself, drags it inside, has Isaac turn on the water and Scott just has to stand there in the darkness, wondering what the Hell he's even doing here. What good is Scott to anyone if he can't even help get an ice bath ready, if he can't help out with something so simple? How is he supposed to stop Deucalion's pack and Jennifer if he can't even be trusted to turn on a hose, to dump bags of ice into tubs? He's meant to be some hero, some True Alpha, but he can't even get things ready. He can't even help himself.
Scott flexes his fingers, making a fist and then letting it go, whipping out his claws and then putting them away again, watching the way his hand moves in the moonlight—and definitely not thinking about dragging them along the insides of his wrists or perhaps somewhere less noticeable. Absolutely not. Scott would never think of doing anything like that.
(Even if Scott were thinking about that, though, he doesn't know why it would matter. It would hurt to claw at himself, sure it would, but he's the only one who would be in pain. It wouldn't even leave a scar behind, because his body would heal itself—and maybe the physical pain would be better than this. Maybe anything would be better than this. Whatever this is. Or whatever it's supposed to be. Scott has no idea. He knows the funeral dirge beat of his heart and the way his hands won't stop slightly shaking, and he knows this itch at the back of his neck that he can't put a name on, and he knows the sick, heavy, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach—he hasn't eaten since lunchtime yesterday and his head is swimming but he still doesn't feel hungry or anything.
Which is probably kind of weird. Worrisome. At least, it would be under any other circumstances. But Scott can't really worry about it right now. He doesn't have that kind of luxury. Not when they have to find Mom, and Stiles's dad, and Mister Argent before Jennifer gets the chance to kill them.)
"Scott?" He doesn't really startle at the sound of Isaac's voice, just inhales sharply as he looks up from his hand and he wonders if he stopped breathing somehow. He wonders why Isaac's looking at him like that—why Isaac's brow is knotted up and his eyes are wide, and why his voice trembles ever so slightly when he says, "Scott, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Scott lies without even thinking about it, without feeling his heart beat faster (so maybe Isaac won't hear any indication that he shouldn't believe Scott, maybe Scott won't have to deal with any more of this. Of course he's fine—why shouldn't he be? He's completely useless, but he can handle it. After all, he always does). Sighing, he shakes his head and rolls his eyes more than he likes. "Really, Isaac—I'm fine. I just wish I could do more right now."
"I mean it, Scott: don't worry about the preparations," Deaton tells him again, even though Scott hasn't said anything, even though he hasn't done anything since carrying in the bags. Maybe there's something wrong with his face, something making Deaton think that he's not okay, something that would explain the strained, wan smile Deaton gives him and the way he squeezes Scott's shoulder. "You've been through Hell in the past weeks, Scott. And it's about to get so much worse for you. We can get everything ready—you should go prepare yourself for what's about to come."
Scott doesn't say anything to that—he has no idea what he can say to that. He just nods and goes back inside. No one really knows what he's been through, even just in the past twenty-four hours, since he went off with Deucalion and left Stiles alone on the hospital roof. They'll all know what happened by now, but they don't really know any of what happened. They don't know the cinnamon and lavender scent of Deucalion's penthouse or the way he had Kali put on an old Frank Sinatra record or how he sang along to, "Too Marvelous For Words" as he trailed his fingers along Scott's shoulder.
They don't know how Deucalion led Scott to his master bedroom, all in the name of examining the maps Deucalion had of Beacon Hills and the telluric currents, and once he had Scott sitting on the bed, offered him a pomegranate.
("Come on now, Scott," Deucalion said when Scott refused him, smirking like the edge of a knife. "You must be hungry—and if you're worried about the quality of the food, I can guarantee you that I don't buy anything less than the best. And I make a point of not poisoning the members of my pack. Poisoning people is such a dirty business anyway, more fitting for one of those druids than for someone like us."
"I know the story about pomegranates," Scott told him, looking him in the eye even if Deucalion couldn't see him doing so, curling his fingers up in the ridiculously high-thread count sheets and not sure how he managed to keep his voice level. "And anyway, I'm fine. Not hungry at all. The only thing I want is to stop Jennifer. And don't forget: maybe I'm with you now, but I am nothing like you."
"No, no, of course you aren't." Deucalion's drawl and his breathy huff said that he'd let Scott believe this for the time being, but that sooner or later—and probably sooner—something would transpire to prove that he and Scott were one and the same after all.)
They don't know the cold feeling of his breath shivering along the backs of their necks or the way he traced the tips of his claws along the sensitive skin of Scott's tattoo, made Scott's whole body tremble and feel weak as he whispered, Oh yes, you truly are a perfect specimen, aren't you, Scott—you're young, you're strong, you're brimming with so much potential and I've no doubt that you'll achieve it some day. You're worth all the trouble you've put me through and then some. I'd burn down entire empires just to have you to myself, right where you belong.
Even just thinking about that now makes Scott sick to his stomach. Makes his insides writhe and tie themselves up in knots. He digs his fingertips hard into his bicep, trying to remind himself that it's not real, that none of it's real, that Deucalion isn't here and the oil-slick sound of his voice is just in Scott's head—but he can't grip himself too hard or he'll have to fight to keep his claws back. But for all this makes Scott remember that his memories aren't real and they can't hurt him, not even if they play themselves over and over again in an ad nauseam loop while he waits for the ice bath to be ready, it doesn't bring him back to reality, back to the veterinary clinic. Not in any practical sort of way.
The only thing that really happens is that Scott's skin feels wet, and cold, and slimy—he brushes his fingertips over his forearm and his heart skips a beat when they come up dry. He hears something crackling in the distance, like the sound of the road-flare burning down, and he would swear that he can smell the gasoline all over again. None of which is really any better for him. He blinks at the clinic around him, at Deaton and Stiles bent over the tubs and filling them with water, and Scott wants to throw up because he knows where he is and he knows what's going on but the memory of the Glen Capri's parking lot aches all around him. The same chills shudder up his arms and down his spine and as he draws in a deep breath, Scott wonders if he'll even make it back from what he's about to do.
He wonders if he even wants to make it back. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe what he did at the Motel wasn't just the Wolfsbane talking, and Scott's not sure how he's supposed to feel about that. Maybe it's for the best if he just feels nothing.
After all, it's not as though Scott can spare the time to think about himself right now—how can he even consider thinking about himself at a time like this? Even if he could think about himself, he can't bring this up with anyone else because they don't really know what's happened to him. Isaac and Deaton don't even know what he did at the Motel, and if they knew, he'd just disappoint them, which is something Scott can't live with. He's supposed to be stronger than that. It's bad enough that he almost got Stiles and Lydia killed, and it'd just be worse for everyone to know that he's so weak that he would've welcomed death (that he still might welcome death, now that he's being given another chance to try).
He can't talk to anyone about this, can't even bring it up. They don't know what's really happened, and Scott can't make them know.
But there's still no way that they don't know the basics of the situation. They'll all have heard where Scott went after the hospital and why he wasn't in school today. Scott leans against the wall while Lydia and Isaac start dropping the bags of ice on the floor, trying to separate the cubes that have fused together, and he sees the way they look at him. Every so often, they look over at him with these timid expressions, all pursed lips and wide eyes, like they don't even know who Scott is anymore or maybe like he'll disappear if they don't watch him. Nobody brings it up because it's not all that important, but they know that Scott went off with Deucalion. They don't know what that really means and how could they, but they've already drawn their own conclusions, so the reality probably doesn't matter.
Scott still smells the gasoline as Deaton's warning plays itself over again inside his head—You won't be able to see it, but you'll feel it every day for the rest of your lives. It'll be a kind of a darkness around your heart, and permanent, like a scar—and as he digs his nails into his palm, Scott wonders if there's not a darkness inside of him already. If there's not just something broken in him to begin with.
Maybe Deucalion's right and they really are the same. Maybe that's why Scott can't protect everyone. And maybe Lydia and Isaac are just realizing this now—maybe everyone's realizing this now—and that's why they can't look away from him. Because they're truly seeing him for the first time instead of seeing whatever illusory Scott they built up in their heads. Because they're trying to fathom how they could've been so wrong about him, how they could've let themselves believe that he had it in him to save everyone. Because this is not the Scott Agustín Delgado McCall they thought they knew and they don't know how to process that and they keep thinking that if they look at him the right way, they'll see the Scott they want again instead of the Scott who's real.
Maybe Mrs. Argent had the right idea with her Wolfsbane vaporizer. Maybe it would be better if Scott just died. If he let Isaac or Lydia or Deaton hold him under the water and never came back up.
It's a simple logical syllogism. The world has no use for Scott if he can't save anyone, and he's proven time and time again that he can't. Everything he tries, every decision he makes, every detail he attempts to alter, they always end up going from bad to worse, and no one's willing to say it, but they wouldn't be in this position in the first place if not for him. Deucalion and his pack never would've come to Beacon Hills—Jennifer never would've tried to kill them all and murdered innocent people in the process—if not for Scott. Everyone would be safe right now. Everyone would be happy. Nobody's lives would be in mortal peril—if not for Scott. Maybe he was right at the Motel and the best thing he could possibly do for everyone else is just stop holding on to life, just let himself go.
Everyone else might be sad, at first, but they'd come around eventually. They'd realize how much better off they are without Scott. Stiles wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. Allison wouldn't have to put herself in danger trying to save him anymore. Mom wouldn't have to worry about paying for the college that Scott doesn't deserve to go to—even with Isaac still in the house, even with Mom still feeling responsible for him, she wouldn't have to worry, because he's going to inherit a ton of money when he turns eighteen. And Deaton could find an assistant who actually assists with stuff, instead of just coming to Deaton with all of his supernatural-related problems. Barely aware of what he's doing, Scott scratches at his arm, he knocks his head back into the bricks and it hurts, but not enough to make everything else hurt any less.
The only thing that makes this all hurt less is the sheer fact of how much everything aches and throbs. There's so much pain that Scott can't really feel anything—not his nails scraping against his skin or his teeth pressing into his lip or the cold wind blowing in through the door. The nausea settles in quite comfortably, becomes a sort of background noise, and the inescapable, drudging tick tock of Deaton's wall-clock falls into lock-step with the tedious beating of Scott's heart.
After the fifth time that Scott catches Isaac and Lydia staring at him, he can't take it anymore. But he can't call them out on it, either, because they're disappointed in him and they have every right to be. So Scott shoves himself up off the wall and stalks off to the bathroom. The lights flicker when he turns them on, and because the bathroom's a one-person stall and the mirror's hanging right there next to him, he's immediately left staring at his reflection, at the hollow look in his eyes and the dark shadows underneath them. He shudders, falls forward and props himself up on the sink. He can hardly stand to look himself in the eye, but still, Scott has to do this—he has to force himself to look up and he has to force himself to take everything in, to really see what's become of him, as much as it shows on his face.
And it does show, at least it does to Scott. For a moment, blinking at the mirror, he doesn't even recognize himself. His eyes are dead—he can hear Kate Argent's voice mocking him, I love those brown eyes, and the click as she readied her pistol, but Scott doesn't have the eyes she was so poisonously fond of anymore—and his jaw is set, and his arms shake like even keeping him upright might be too much to ask from them. Maybe it is asking too much. Maybe that's all Scott ever does anymore anyway: ask too much from everyone, expect too much from everyone, and all he does for them in return is let them down. People keep getting hurt. People keep getting killed.
And then there's Scott over here, holed up in Deaton's bathroom, just thinking of himself—and he used to be such a sweet kid. He used to make his mother proud, not make his mother slated to be some druidic sacrifice.
Scott doesn't know how long he spends standing here, staring at himself. He can still hear Deaton's wall-clock, he could count the tick tocks coming in from the other room and keep track of the seconds that way, but they fade away into some meaningless noise. Nothing changes until the door creaks open, and Scott flinches at the sound of Stiles's voice: "Scott—hey, yo, Scotty? Scott, Deaton's almost got the ice baths ready… You okay to go through with this, still?"
Scott hangs his head and chokes out something like a laugh. It sounds like someone stomping on broken glass. "Of course I'm still okay to go through with this," he says, and wonders if his voice sounds as cracked and dry and lifeless to Stiles as it sounds to him. "Why wouldn't I be okay to go through with this? It's like… If we don't do this, our parents and Mister Argent die. And probably all kinds of more people on top of that. I'm totally okay to go through with this."
Closing the door and leaning against it, Stiles purses his lips. Wrinkles his nose like he's just caught a whiff of something rotten. "Yeah, well… Look, I know you don't want to talk about it—Hell, I don't really want to talk about it either, it was the single scariest moment of my life, ever, I'm totally happy not to talk about it—but… After the Glen Capri? And the gasoline and the road-flare? Like… any of this ringing any bells? Maybe making you think why I might be kinda worried about my best friend going through with something that could kill him for real?"
Scott shoves himself up off the sink and puts his hands in his pockets so Stiles can't see them shaking. "I'm not gonna die, Stiles—not permanently, anyway. Everything's going to be okay."
He thinks he tries to push through Stiles, tries to get out of the bathroom, but Scott ends up with Stiles's hands on his shoulders instead, and he doesn't fight back. He just drops his eyes as Stiles pleads with him, "Scott. Please—if you're not okay, if this isn't okay for you to do, just… let me know, okay? And I'll tell Deaton, and he'll understand, and we'll find some other way to get to the nemeton. There's always another way, right? We always have a Plan B."
Shaking his head, Scott nudges Stiles's hand off of him. "We don't have time to find a Plan B. Not this time," he says. "But it's gonna be okay. We'll both pull through, and we'll save you dad and my mom and Mister Argent, and… it'll all be fine."
And maybe Scott won't make it back from the ice bath. Maybe he'll stop holding everyone back and they'll be grateful that he's gone. And nothing will have to hurt anymore, nothing will have to hurt so much that Scott can't feel anything anymore. Maybe he'll even see Erica and Boyd again—and everything will be okay.