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His mom and Mason are helping him to the car when his phone rings. For the first two, Scott doesn’t feel the vibration in his pocket, too focused on trying to make the gaping holes in his insides heal. There are still sticky rivulets of blood leaking down his jacket and onto his boots, still open slashes where Liam’s claws had dug deep, and Scott’s going to need to thank both his mom and Mason ten years down the line. (There are a lot of apologies needed, too.)
He levees his arm off of his mom’s shoulder and digs in his pocket, catching the call right before it hangs up.
“Stiles?” His tone is breathless from both pain and surprise. “You okay?”
“Oh my god you’re okay. God, okay – Scott, I need – I don’t know, okay, I’m okay, but my dad-”
Scott’s insides go cold. “Where are you?”
Stiles tells him with shaking words, and Scott keeps him on the line as he turns to his mom. “We need to go, Mr. Stilinski’s hurt.”
“I’m taking you home first,” she says, demand in her voice, and he doesn’t know if it’s because the wolf is still so at edge since bringing him back, but his eyes bleed red and he feels white hot all over. This is Stiles, this is his dad, it’s pack. He won’t run.
Her eyebrows raise, and he lowers his gaze until he can tamp it down, shove the animal back, go back to a place where reason wins out over emotion. “Sorry,” he says, sounding it. “But you know I gotta go, mom. We’re wasting time.”
Mason trails behind wordlessly, and Scott puts his empty hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, trying to put as much sincerity in it as he can muster, because Mason stayed where he didn’t have to, he tried to help. “Go find Liam, okay? He’s gonna need you.”
Mason looks like he’d rather argue, eyes darting to Scott’s still bleeding chest, but Scott shakes his head. “I’ll be alright. Go,” he says, and it’s not a command. Mason nods after a beat, but brings his own hand up to Scott’s shoulder. It takes him a second, as if trying to decide what exactly he wants to say.
“I’m glad you’re okay, dude.”
Scott smiles and says nothing.
“If you’re coming with, we gotta go,” his mom says, and Scott nods, climbing into the car deftly. He opts to lay in the backseat on an old flannel he left in here the other night, using the thick material to try and stem the bleeding. She looks at him through the rear view, and Scott has a chance to see the tears in her eyes, hear the shaky breath before she pulls out and drives away.
The smell is familiar through the gore, and he realizes this is a shirt he’d stolen from Stiles the last time he’d slept over. The thought sends a pang of longing that he has to swallow to keep from turning into a sob.
Stiles, who is still on the phone. “Dude, sorry,” he says to the phone once he clears his throat, chasing the emotion away. Stiles makes a noise that sounds like a muffled sniffle.
“It’s fine. I just-”
“My mom’s here, she’s gonna get a good look at him, Stiles, it’s gonna be fine, okay?”
“There’s so much blood, Scott.”
“We’re coming, Stiles. He’s gonna be okay.”
“Just – please, just get here.”
He hangs up, and Scott holds the phone to his ear for a beat before doing the same. His breathing’s getting tight in his chest, but he’s too tired to deal with that on top of everything else, can only see Theo’s face warp in his anger, Stiles yelling at him in the rain.
Scott doesn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until the car skids to a stop, shifting him into the back of the passenger chair. Hand pressed to his gut, he tries catching his breath before climbing out of the car after his mom, who’s already jogging ahead. He takes a moment to scent the air, to take in the sounds around. All heartbeats accounted for, and no Theo in sight. But, like Stiles said, there’s a lot of blood, and Scott doesn’t know if he’s prepared to see John that way, but knows he’s going to have to.
He catches up just as his mom kneels at the Sheriff’s side, checking pulse and examining the injury. Stiles is standing over her shoulder, and he doesn’t turn until Scott’s in his space, both breathing louder than they should be but for different reasons.
It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since, and it shows. Scott can’t stop inhaling, grounding himself in the scent of his best friend, hating the reek of anxiety and misery that wafts off; instead, he tries focusing on the cool mint, the detergent, that one other scent that makes him unerringly Stiles.
He doesn’t notice that his eyes are closed until Stiles says his name, and there’s more panic in the air. Since he’s never really been able to deny him, Scott opens his eyes.
He doesn’t know what he expects, but Stiles looking two seconds away from collapsing is not it. “Stiles?”
“You said you were okay!”
“I mean,” Scott says, trying to recount their conversation and finding it a little difficult, “I don’t think I said either way?”
Stiles’ lips are quivering, and he’s shaking a little bit, and shit, okay, nothing’s okay. Scott’s hands come up right as Stiles pitches forward, his hands grasping Scott’s shoulders like he’s about to drown. They go down together in a sort of pile at John’s feet, the skin at Scott’s stomach pulling painfully and making him gasp.
Melissa seems to take that as her queue. “Boys, it’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay,” he says, kneeling down to them. “I’ve called an ambulance, I’m gonna go with them to Beacon Hills General. He’s going to be fine, Stiles. You did great with applying pressure.
“I want you to drive Scott home now, okay?” Her hand is in Stiles’ hair, and he gives a shaky nod before Scott can argue. “I want both of you to sleep, okay? There’s nothing else you have to worry about tonight.”
There’s at least seven things Scott thinks they need to handle in the next hour, let alone the whole night, but he sees the sense in it. He’s not entirely sure he’ll be able to get off the pavement without help, after all. Stiles seems to know, or assumes, seeing as he’s now got a gross layer of blood on his own shirt now, because he’s pulling Scott up and giving him his shoulder.
It’s like nothing’s different between them. Like he didn’t tear their friendship apart by being less than human.
His mom, of course, has no idea. “You boys always did better when you slept together,” he says, and both he and Stiles sputter before she waves them off. “Take care of each other, please. I’ll see to your dad, kiddo,” she says, then turns her back to talk to John in low tones, effectively dismissing them.
Stiles leaves Scott at the passenger side door and climbs in the driver side, turning over the engine before Scott’s fully leveraged himself down in the seat. He gives a shaky breath once he’s down, abdominal muscles no longer threatening to set themselves on fire.
Stiles waits until they’re on their way before asking. “What happened?”
“Theo,” Scott says, once he’s not focused on making sure no blood’s creeping up his throat. “And, uh – Liam.”
Stiles’ mouth opens and closes, hands clenching and unclenching, clearly at a loss. “The Supermoon, it pushed Liam over the edge when I said I wouldn’t give Hayden the bite,” Scott adds, saving Stiles the trouble of asking. “Things got a little…heated.”
“Theo?”
“Showed up after Mason, of all people, chased Liam off. He came to tell - Hayden’s dead, Stiles.”
There’s hot grief mixing with guilt in his chest, head angled away and out the window. Another body to add to his list of failures. An amazing girl, filled to the brim with possibilities, gone because he wasn’t enough.
“Damn,” Stiles says, voice tinged with regret. There’s a quiet moment before he asks. “What did Theo want?”
“Liam to kill me.” Scott says it on a low exhale. Talking hurts, everything hurts, but Stiles needs to know. “He’s the only one that can take my power. Theo wanted to kill Liam to become an alpha, then make you all his pack, I guess.”
It hits him in a panic, and he swings an arm around to catch Stiles. Stiles yells out his surprise, but Scott’s already on edge, clenching his teeth as he undoes five minutes of healing. “I think he has Lydia. He had her phone. It’s how he lured me there.”
“Son of a bitch,” Stiles says, hand pressed over his mouth in a fist. He’s back to shaking, and Scott wants to cover that hand with his own, but doesn’t know if he has that luxury anymore.
“We’ll find her,” Scott says, because it’s all he can say.
“You focus on not bleeding all over your mom’s car, please,” Stiles says, turning and looking at him. Scott sort of freezes under his gaze, and they hold it for longer than strictly necessary.
I almost lost you, it says.
Stiles looks away first, because yeah, okay, he’s driving, but Scott continues to re-memorize the angles of his best friend’s face, like he’s done countless times over the years. The tightness of his lips, the hollow points of his cheeks, the clench of his jaw, the moles dark on pale skin. He eventually just settles for staring at his neck, watching his pulse jump. Scott’s eyes drift shut as he finished his catalogue, a bump in the road forcing his teeth to clench, and listens to Stiles’ heartbeat as the road stretches before them.
He wakes from a fitful doze when Stiles stops the car. It’s a thick silence, as if everything was suddenly given time to catch up with the words they’d thrown like barbs in the rain. Stiles shoots him a glance that Scott can only blearily return before he’s out of the car.
Scott honest-to-god humors the thought of just sleeping in the car, thanks, but the door’s opening and Stiles is reaching in and grabbing his arm. “C’mon, buddy.”
Emotion draws his throat closed, and something must show on his face – longing? Guilt? – because Stiles’ expression wavers, but he pulls Scott to his feet anyway.
The house is quiet and smells like comfort, and it eases Scott’s nerves as they turn on every single light on their way to the kitchen. Stiles pours a glass of water and Scott leans on the counter, eyes at half mast until the water is shoved in his face.
“Drink,” Stiles says, looking cross. Scott grabs it on reflex and downs half of it before he has to stop, a tickle in his throat threatening a cough. He drinks the rest once he’s back in control, and grimaces at the blood left on the glass. Stiles notices it, and his throat works as the glass is set in the sink.
“Let me see it,” he says.
Scott wants to tell him no. It’s a ridiculous urge, but his mouth’s already working to form the word. The look on Stiles’ face gives him enough pause to wonder if the fight’s really worth it. They’ve been doing enough of that lately, at the very least.
Tugging his jacket off is the worst, but Stiles is there in a heartbeat, pulling the sopping material off gently, the shredded shirt following it. They’re deposited in the sink with a wet plop.
Scott moves to assure Stiles that it looks worse than it is, but is interrupted by an angry growl. “If you try to tell me ‘it’s not as bad as it looks’ I’m going to punch you in the jaw.”
Despite everything, Scott has to laugh. It’s sad-sounding and short, but it’s a chuckle, and it’s punctuated by a snort from Stiles.
“Predictable.”
The word’s said with a quiver, and Scott feels the little burst of amusement die along with it. Stiles’ hand is shaking where it’s clenched on the countertop, splotches of Scott’s blood on his fingertips, and Scott doesn’t know what to do. It’s a common theme.
“Scott, I chose my dad. Theo gave me a choice, he told me you or my dad, and I chose him.”
“Good,” Scott says immediately, following Stiles’ leaping track of mind easily. “You made the right choice.”
“Because you know you’d heal, or because you didn’t care either way?”
Stiles sounds angry, which, yeah, he has that right. Scott just feels tired. His silence must be answer enough, because Stiles throws his hands up and grabs at his hair, a low noise in his throat that Scott can only hear because of what he is.
Because he’s not human.
Scott cranes his head back and stares at the ceiling, and remembers the feel of Theo’s claws in him. Twisting, tugging, shaking with anger and want, and Scott could only think of one thing: that at least Theo won’t be an alpha, after all.
“Fifteen minutes,” he says without thinking, and he doesn’t want to talk about it, not really – doesn’t want to talk about how Stiles might have a better life if Scott was no longer in it (no one at all). “Mason was there. He stuck around after he told Liam about - about Hayden.”
“Is that some sort of sick dig, Scott?” And now Stiles sounds angry. It’s filling the room like toxic waste, curling between them like a snake.
“What?”
“That Mason was there but I wasn’t? That I wasn’t there to-”
“If there was anyone I wanted there least it was you, Stiles!”
“Because you really don’t trust me that much, huh?!”
“Because I didn’t want you to see me die!”
Scott’s at the edge of panic again, amazed that the situations keep turning over again and again – he can’t follow where Stiles’ thoughts go with things like this, and that alone has his stomach sinking down to his toes. “God, Stiles – I trust you. I trust you with my life. But you couldn’t’ve – and neither could Mason. No one could.”
But Stiles still hasn’t spoken, and now Scott’s terrified he’s pushed him too far again, but there’s more than anger on his face - it’s shock.
“What?” It’s a groan, a whisper, a guttural thing.
“What, ‘what’?” Scott asks, because he’s so tired, it’s too much, he can’t keep up with anything anymore.
“You died?”
“I mean,” he says, and sort of curls in on himself. “Sort of. My mom brought me out of it, so.”
“Was that – fifteen minutes?”
This is a disaster.
“Okay, I wanted you there,” he says, because Stiles deserves that bit of clarity. “I wanted you to be the one I saw last, before.” He has to stop to take a breath, to school himself. Stiles is watching him with wet eyes, looking like he’s on the brink of running. Scott wouldn’t blame him. “But at the same time I didn’t want you there, because you deserve better than that.” Deserve better than me.
“You died, Scott.”
It’s said with such misery, and Scott can’t stop the sob that curls in his chest and leaks out of his mouth.
“Yeah.”
Stiles leaps forward, mindless of the blood between them, and pulls Scott into a hug reminiscent of their hug on the MRI scanning table. They’re both shaking and at least one of them is crying, judging by the hint of salt in the air, because he was scared, okay, he didn’t want to want to die, and he doesn’t – doesn’t want to die. Wants to be here, with Stiles, where they trust each other with everything again.
“I’m so sorry, Scotty,” Stiles says into his neck, and he feels twelve again, after he’d taken that nasty spill off the roof of the garage and Stiles had to pat him awake and rub his hair and chest to make sure he was okay, he was breathing alright, he was whole.
“I was scared,” Scott says into Stiles’ shoulder. Scared I’d never see you again. Scared because I was leaving my mom alone. Not scared for the pain, the inevitability of death, but for the ones I love.
“Fifteen minutes,” Stiles says to himself, like he’s choking on the words, like they’re a noose. Scott just nods, feeling guilty for telling him at all.
The air is heavy with their silence, but it smells different now. The constant stink of anxiety still blankets them both, but in it is relief and love, and Scott had missed those smells. They settle his nerves almost as well as the hug has, and he sighs and sags in Stiles’ grip, feeling, for the first time in weeks, truly held.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says after a few more seconds.
“Don’t be.”
“I still am.”
“Your dad’s alive. I’m alive. It worked out.”
The laugh Stiles gives is high and short, bordering on hysterical. He cranes his head back and looks, really looks at Scott. Scott graces him with the same treatment, letting the honesty of the pain of his injuries, the pain of the rift between them, but the hope that it’s mending. The relief that Stiles is okay.
Stiles must get at least some of those things, because his shoulders relax under Scott’s grip, and he leans in and presses their foreheads together. It’s slick with sweat and tacky with blood, but it’s the closeness, the feel of Stiles’ breath, his heartbeat cloaking him like a warm towel that has Scott closing his eyes and just being.
It’s a long time before Stiles speaks. “You’re filthy and hurting. Think you’re up for a shower?”
“Yeah,” Scott says, and it’s only then that they pull apart. His chest aches with the pull of dried blood, but the rest of him longs for the contact again.
Stiles looks at him for a long time, looking an amalgam of unreadable things, before grabbing Scott’s hand. It’s strangely intimate, but not strange at all. Scott grips it back.