Chapter Text
McCall Residence,
January 6th 2011,
Thursday 8:37 PM.
Stiles grunted softly as he heaved himself onto the roof, his sneakers scuffing against the shingles. Scott—his best friend since forever—wasn’t answering his phone, and Stiles couldn’t wait. There was no way Scott was going to believe what Stiles had just overheard.
Keeping low, Stiles crept along the roof toward Scott’s window, his heart racing as the cool night air pressed against his skin. He tried the window, but it wouldn’t budge—it was locked.
“Of course it’s locked,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.
Knocking softly on the glass, he leaned in closer, squinting to peer inside. The curtains were drawn, giving him only a hazy, distorted view of the room beyond. “Scott,” he hissed, rapping on the window again. No answer.
Suddenly, the curtains shifted, and the window flung open. Scott and Stiles screamed, startling each other.
Scott, recovering first, lowered the wooden bat he was holding. “Stiles, what the hell are you doing?” he asked, grabbing his friend by the arm and dragging him inside.
“You weren’t answering your phone! Why do you have a bat?” Stiles shot back, gesturing toward the weapon.
“I thought you were a predator!” Scott defended, looking offended.
“A predator? Pfft.” Stiles shook his head. “Look, I know it’s late, but you have to hear this.” He grinned conspiratorially. “I saw my dad leave like twenty minutes ago. Dispatch called. They’re bringing in every officer from Beacon and even state police.”
“For what?” Scott asked, his brow furrowing.
Stiles leaned in, voice dropping. “Two joggers found a body in the woods.”
“A dead body?”
Stiles shot him a blank look. “No, Scott, a body of water. Yes, dumbass, a dead body.”
Scott crossed his arms, the robe he was wearing rustling with the motion. “You mean, like, murdered?”
“Nobody knows yet. Just that it’s a girl, probably in her twenties.”
“Okay, but if they already found the body, then what are they looking for?”
“That’s the best part.” Stiles smirked, sliding his hands into his pockets. “They only found half.”
Scott’s eyebrows shot up.
“We’re going.” Stiles grinned, his excitement unmistakable.
Beacon Hills PRESERVE,
January 6th 2011,
Thursday 9:01 PM.
"Are we seriously doing this?” Scott asked as he climbed out of Stiles’ Jeep, his voice heavy with skepticism.
“You’re the one who’s always complaining that nothing ever happens in this town,” Stiles countered, slamming his door shut and clicking on his flashlight.
“I was trying to get a good night’s sleep before practice tomorrow,” Scott muttered, dragging his feet as he followed Stiles.
“Right, because sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort,” Stiles shot back, his tone flat and dripping with sarcasm.
“No,” Scott snapped, his voice suddenly filled with determination. “Because I’m playing this year. In fact, I’m making first line.”
“Hey, that’s the spirit!” Stiles said, slowing down just enough to clap a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Everyone should have a dream—even a pathetically unrealistic one.”
Scott glared at him, but before he could respond, he asked, “Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?”
Stiles walked a few steps in silence before letting out a sheepish laugh. “Huh. I didn’t even think about that.”
“And, uh… what if whoever killed the body is still out here?” Scott asked, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket and glancing nervously around the dark woods.
Stiles’ head jerked toward him. “Also something I didn’t think about.”
The pair grunted as they climbed up a steep hill, leaves crunching under their feet with every step.
“It’s comforting to know you’ve planned this out with your usual attention to detail,” Scott muttered, starting to wheeze from the effort.
“I know,” Stiles responded cheerfully, unfazed.
“Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight, huh?” Scott leaned heavily on a tree, pulling out his inhaler and taking a quick puff before forcing himself to continue up the incline.
As they finally crested the top of the hill, both of them dropped flat to the ground. Stiles clicked off his flashlight, and they peered down at the scene below. A police search party was combing the nearby tree line, the sounds of radios crackling and dogs barking cutting through the still night air. Flashlight beams danced across the ground as officers searched for something—or someone.
“Hey, come on!” Stiles suddenly exclaimed, jumping to his feet and taking off at a sprint.
“Stiles! Wait up!” Scott whisper-yelled, scrambling to his feet in a panic. He started after him, trailing behind and stumbling over the uneven ground. “Stiles!”
Stiles was already several feet ahead, darting between trees, his flashlight bouncing wildly in his grip. He glanced back to check their surroundings, a wide grin on his face.
“Stiles!” Scott called again, his voice urgent
Stiles had a strange nagging feeling in his gut, like he was being watched.
Suddenly, Stiles was startled by loud barking and snarling. He stumbled back, landing on his ass.
“Hold on, hold on! This little delinquent belongs to me,” came the familiar voice of his father—Noah Stilinski, Sheriff of Beacon Hills.
Stiles scrambled to his feet, brushing mud off his pants. “Dad, how are you doing?”
“So, do you, uh, listen in on all my phone calls?” his dad asked, crossing his arms.
“No.” Stiles hesitated under his father’s scrutiny before adding, “Not the boring ones.”
Noah gave him a long look before glancing around. “Now, where’s your usual partner in crime?”
“Who, Scott?” Stiles scoffed, waving off the idea. “Scott’s home. Said he wanted to get a good night’s sleep before the first day back at school tomorrow.” He shook his head. “It’s just me. In the woods. Alone.”
Noah wasn’t convinced. He lifted his flashlight and aimed it toward the trees. “Scott, you out there?” He called. “Scott?”
Silence.
Lowering the flashlight with a sigh, Noah turned back to Stiles. “Well, young man, I’m gonna walk you back to your car.” He grabbed the back of Stiles’ coat, tugging him along. “And you and I are going to have a conversation about something called invasion of privacy.”
As Noah dragged Stiles toward his car, Stiles huffed, half-heartedly trying to shake him off.
“Dad, come on, I was just—”
“Spying?” Noah cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Lurking? Meddling in things you shouldn’t be meddling in?”
Stiles scoffed. “Okay, first of all, spying is such a strong word. I prefer investigating—it sounds way more official. And second of all, you wouldn’t be so mad if you knew what I was actually doing.”
Noah stopped in his tracks, turning to face Stiles with a skeptical look. “Oh, really? Enlighten me, then. What exactly were you doing alone in the woods at this hour?”
Stiles opened his mouth—then promptly shut it. Because technically, saying “I was trying to find the other half of the body out of curiosity." Wasn't going to fly.
Instead, he cleared his throat. “I was… exercising.”
Noah’s expression remained blank.
“In jeans?”
“Cardio comes in all forms, Dad,” Stiles said with an exaggerated shrug. “It’s called survival training. You never know when you’re gonna have to outrun something in suboptimal clothing conditions.”
Noah sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Okay, you know what? We’re done here. Get in your car and go straight home.” He pointed a firm finger at Stiles.
Stiles let out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”
Under his father’s watchful eye, he climbed into his Jeep, started it up, and pulled out of the lot.
Once he was a safe distance away, he muttered under his breath, “Sorry, Scott,” before turning down the road—back toward home.
Beacon Hills High school,
January 7th 2011,
Friday 7:25 AM.
"Okay, let’s see this thing,” Stiles said excitedly, watching as his friend lifted his shirt to reveal a bandage over his side.
“Ooh!” Stiles reached out to touch it, but Scott swatted his hand away.
“It was too dark to see much, but I’m pretty sure it was a wolf,” Scott said, picking up his bag and heading toward the school entrance.
“A wolf bit you?” Stiles asked, eyebrows shooting up as he followed after Scott.
“Uh-huh.”
“No. Not a chance.” Stiles shook his head.
“I heard a wolf howling,” Scott insisted.
“No, you didn’t,” Stiles countered.
Scott shot him a confused look. “What do you mean, ‘No, I didn’t’? How do you know what I heard?”
“Because Beacon Hills hasn’t had wolves in, like, six years, okay? They were hunted to extinction here.”
“Really?” Scott asked, clearly perplexed.
“Yes, really,” Stiles said, gesturing emphatically.
Scott sighed. “All right, well, if you don’t believe me about the wolf, then you’re definitely not gonna believe me when I tell you I found the body.”
Stiles’ eyes widened, excitement lighting up his face. “Are you kidding me?”
"No, man, I wish. I’m gonna have nightmares for a month,” Scott sighed.
“Oh, god, that is freaking awesome.” Stiles clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I mean, this is seriously gonna be the best thing that’s happened to this town since—” He caught sight of Lydia over Scott’s shoulder. “—since the birth of Lydia Martin.”
He straightened up, putting on his best grin. “Hey, Lydia, you look…” His lips pressed into a thin line as she walked past him without so much as a glance. “…like you’re gonna ignore me.”
Stiles let out a defeated sigh, kicking at the ground before turning back to Scott. “You’re the cause of this, you know.”
“Uh-huh,” Scott said, smirking.
“Dragging me down into your nerd depths.” Stiles pointed a finger accusingly as the bell rang, signaling the start of class. They headed inside. “I’m a nerd by association. I’ve been scarlet nerded by you.”
Beacon Hills High school,
January 7th 2011,
Friday 3:03 PM.
"Can someone explain to me how the new girl has been here for all of five minutes and is already hanging out with Lydia’s clique?” Rebecca asked, shaking her head as she watched the group interact.
“Because she’s hot,” Stiles said, leaning back against his locker.
Rebecca turned to give him a blank look.
“Beautiful people herd together.” Stiles shrugged.
“Just like we outcasts hang on the walls like flowers,” Rebecca sighed.
“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes,” Stiles said, glancing at her with a furrowed brow.
“Whatever, you know what I meant,” Rebecca huffed.
“Why do you care so much anyway? Didn’t you just say last year how glad you were not to be involved in popular girl drama?” Stiles asked, arching a brow.
Rebecca shot him an annoyed look before walking away.
“What?” Stiles lifted his hands, watching her leave. He turned to Scott. “What’d I say?”
Scott blinked several times, clearly having not been paying attention. “What?”
Stiles gave him a blank look.
Beacon Hills High school Lacrosse Field,
January 7th 2011,
Friday, 3:12 PM.
"But if you play, I’ll have no one to talk to on the bench. Are you really going to do that to your best friend?” Stiles huffed as they ran across the field with their gear.
“I can’t sit out again. My whole life is sitting on the sidelines. This season, I make first line,” Scott said, dropping his stuff by the bench.
Stiles shook his head, placing his own gear down more neatly before sitting.
He watched as Coach approached Scott, catching something about him playing goal.
“You got this, Scott!” Stiles shouted, grinning as his friend took his position on the field.
As practice kicked off, Stiles leaned forward on the bench, eyes locked on Scott as he took his position in goal. His fingers drummed anxiously against his knee.
Scott had always been decent, but today, something was different. He was faster, sharper—almost like he could predict where the ball was going before it even got there.
Stiles sat up straighter as Scott lunged to the side, deflecting a shot that should have easily gotten past him.
“Whoa…” Stiles muttered under his breath.
Coach blew the whistle and clapped his hands together. “That’s what I like to see, McCall!"
Scott glanced toward Stiles, wide-eyed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done either.
Stiles gave him a thumbs up. “Dude, since when are you a freaking ninja?” Stiles murmured, to himself as people cheered.
Scott just shook his head, looking as confused as Stiles felt.
Beacon Hills PRESERVE,
January 7th 2011,
Friday 4:39 PM.
"Smell things? Like what?" Stiles asked, swatting a low hanging branch out of his face as he followed Scott. They were retracing the steps to where Scott had claimed he'd seen the body-and gotten attacked by a supposed wolf.
"Like... mint mojito gum in your pocket." Scott said, glancing back at his best friend. His nostrils flared subtly as he inhaled the familiar scent.
Stiles smirked, stopping mid-step to dig into his jacket pocket. "I don't even have any mint Mojito..." His brow furrowed as his finger tips brushed something. When he pulled it out, his smirk faltered. Sure enough it was mint mojito gum. He couldn't remember the last time he'd bought gum.
Stiles looked up at Scott, raising a brow. Scott gestured dramatically. "See?" He said, as if the gum proved his point. Stiles rolled his eyes, slipping the gum back into his pocket as they continued walking.
"So all this started with the bite," Stiles said, hurrying to catch up. His mind was already racing with references to supernatural thrillers, scenes of unlucky characters bitten by vampires or werewolves flashing in his head.
"What if it's like an infection?" Scott asked, his voice edged with worry. "Like my body's flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock or something."
Stiles fought a grin but quickly wiped it away, pretending to think seriously. "You know what? I actually think ive heard of this. It's a specific kind of infection."
Scott's head whipped up, his eyes wide with alarm. "Are you serious?"
"Oh, yeah." Stiles nodded solemnly. "I think it's called... lycanthropy."
"What's that? Is that bad?" Scott asked, his brow furrowed.
"Oh yeah, it's the worst. But only once a month." Stiles bit back a laugh as Scott's confusion deepened.
"Once a month?" Scotts repeated.
"Mmhmm. On the night of the full moon." Stiles grinned, finally deciding to throw Scott a bone. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Awooo" He howled, smirking when his Scott punched him in the shoulder.
"Hey! You're the who heard a wolf howling," Stiles teased, raising his hands in mock surrender.
"Something could be seriously wrong with me," Scott muttered, clearly unimpressed.
"I know! You're a werewolf!" Stiles growled and made claw gestures, baring his teeth playfully. When Scott just glared, Stiles sighed."Okay, fine. Obviously, I'm kidding. But if you catch me melting down silver in shop class, you'll know why. Full moon's coming."
Scott didn't answer, too busy glancing around the forest. They stopped, and Stiles folded his arms. "Dont tell me you're lost." Stiles said in exasperation.
"No, I could've sworn this was it." Scott muttered. He crouched, sifting through leaves. "I saw the body, the deer came running... I dropped my inhaler."
Stiles scratched the back of his neck. "Maybe the killer moved the body."
"If they did, I hope they left my inhaler," Scott grumbled. "Those things are like eighty bucks."
Stiles had that nagging feeling again in his gut-the same one from last night, when his dad had dragged him away. He tore his gaze from Scott and froze as his stomach flipped. A man just ten feet away, watching them.
"Scott," Stiles whispered, nugging his friend hard on the shoulder to get his attention. Scott straightened, glancing at him in confusion.
The man--tall, dark, and looking for trouble--apparently took that as an invitation to approach.
"What are you doing here?" the man asked, his voice low and even, though his sharp gaze flicked between them.
Stiles hesitated, glancing nervously at Scott before looking away. How were they supposed to explain they were looking for a dead body? And yet, there was something strangely familiar about the man. Stiles just couldn't put his finger on it.
"Huh?" Scott offered helpfully, clearly caught off guard.
Stiles resisted the urge to groan.
"This is private property," the man said, unimpressed. His eyes lingered on Stiles a moment longer than necessary, sending a small shiver down his spine.
"Sorry, man. We didn't know," Stiles said quickly, gesturing between himself and Scott. He flashed what he hoped was a charmingly sheepish smile. "Thought we were still in the preserve."
"Yeah," Scott added, his voice wavering slightly. "We were just... looking for something, but..." he trailed off, his nervousness plain as day.
The man raised his brows, his expression sharp and impatient.
"Forget it," Scott muttered under his breath, his shoulders stiff with discomfort.
Before either of them could react, the man reached in his pocket and tossed something to Scott. Scott caught it instinctively, his reflexes quicker then his thoughts.
Stiles' eyes widened as the small object came into view. It was Scott's inhaler.
His lips parted, surprise flickering across his face. How did this guy have Scott's inhaler?
Scott stared at it in his hand, clearly just as confused.
When Stiles glanced up, the man, was already walking away, his strides confident, his broad figure soon disappearing into the shadows of the trees.
And then it hit him.
"All right, come on man I gotta get to work." Scott said, starting to turn.
Stiles grabbed Scott's shoulder, his hand gripping tighter then he intended, "Dude, that was Derek Hale."
Scott frowned. "Who?"
Stiles stared at him incredulously. "Derek Hale. Remember? He's only like a few years older than us."
Scott shrugged, clearly still lost. "Remember what?"
Stiles glanced back in the direction Derek had went but he was long gone, disappearing as quickly as he arrived.
"His family." Stiles pressed, lowering his voice instinctively. "They all burned to death in a fire like, 10 years ago."
Scott's brows knit together, the weight of the revolution sinking in. Stiles glanced back into the trees, but Derek was already gone. "I wonder, what he's doing back." he muttered.
Stilinski Residence,
January 8th 2011,
Saturday 7:13 PM
Stiles wiped the condensation off the mirror, his reflection staring back at him as his mind replayed the previous day's events. Scott's nervous rambling, the woods, and, most of all, the strange encounter with Derek Hale. Why had Derek come back after all these years?
The question lingered as he left the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder. He padded down the hall to his bedroom, catching the faint murmur of his dad downstairs. The rustling of papers and the clink of a mug on the table told him everything he needed to know: his dad was still working.
Stiles had warned him earlier that more coffee wouldn't help him sleep, but, of course, his dad didn't listen. The recent suspected murder had him on edge-his movements a little sharper, his patience a little thinner. Stiles hated seeing him like that.
The rhythmic patter of rain against his bedroom window greeted him as he closed the door behind him. It was oddly calming, filling the quiet as he tossed his towel into the hamper by the door.
Stiles grabbed his phone off the bedside table and thumbed through his notifications. A text thread with Scott lit up the screen.
One missed call from Scott
Scott: Stiles!!!
Scott: You're never gonna guess who just came by the clinic!
Scott: Allison! You remember the new girl from our class?
Scott: I asked her to the party next Wednesday
A grin spread across Stiles face. "Way to go, Scott." He muttered to himself, quickly typing a reply.
Stiles: That's awesome man!
Stiles: Now, if I could just get Lydia to realize I exist, we'd be all set.
Stiles placed his phone back on the charger, letting it continue to power up as he decided he was in the mood for a late-night snack after his shower. Humming softly to himself, he padded down the stairs.
“A what?!” His father’s voice boomed suddenly, cutting through the quiet.
Stiles froze mid-step, startled by the outburst. “Did they run it again?” his dad asked, his tone sharp.
Curiosity piqued, Stiles slowed his steps, creeping closer to the kitchen. He kept to the edges of the hall, listening intently as his father continued speaking.
“There hasn’t been a wolf spotted in Beacon Hills in six years.” His dad sighed heavily, and Stiles could picture him rubbing his temples, just like he always did when frustration set in. “Alright, alright. Thanks for calling. Yep, thanks, Carl.”
Stiles tapped his fingers against his thigh, mentally counting to ten. Then, slipping around the doorframe with as much nonchalance as he could muster, he leaned into the room.
“What was that about?” he asked, keeping his tone light and casual, though he knew he was failing miserably at hiding his curiosity.
His dad shot him a tired look. “Stiles, what did I say about listening in?” he groaned, stretching back in his chair.
Stiles grinned sheepishly, but his dad didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he sighed again and gestured vaguely at the papers spread out on the table.
“…But it’ll be public news soon anyway,” he muttered. “The report from the lab in L.A. came back."
Scott missed four calls from you
Stiles: Scott!! Dude call me asap!
Stiles: Dude are you asleep already?! Wake up!
Beacon Hills High School lacrosse field,
January 10th 2011,
Monday 3:39 PM.
Scott missed six calls from you
Stiles: Scott come on man where are you? You'll never believe this!
Stiles finally, finally spotted Scott across the field. He’d spent the better part of the school day hunting him down, somehow always arriving a second too late. Now, seeing Scott within shouting distance, Stiles didn’t hesitate.
“Scott! Scott!” he yelled, his voice sharp and cracking in his haste. “Wait up!”
Scott turned, clearly annoyed, his lacrosse stick slung over his shoulder. “Stiles, I’m playing the first elimination, man. Can’t it wait?”
“Just hold on, okay?” Stiles wheezed, jogging to close the gap. His chest heaved as he tried to pull his thoughts together, his mind racing to find the right words. “I overheard my dad on the phone,” he began, grabbing Scott’s arm to keep him from walking away.
Scott frowned but didn’t shake him off. “Yeah? So what?”
“The fiber analysis came back from the lab in LA,” Stiles blurted, tightening his grip on Scott’s sleeve as if that would keep him focused. “They found animal hairs on the body in the woods!”
Scott’s gaze flicked back toward the field, his attention clearly divided. “Stiles, I gotta go,” he said, shrugging his friend’s hand off.
“No, wait-Scott!” Stiles made a desperate grab for him, but Scott was already walking away, his pace quickening. “You’re not gonna believe what the animal was!”
Scott didn’t stop. He was already halfway to the field, his focus locked on the game ahead.
Stiles stood there, defeated, his arms falling limply to his sides. His voice dropped to a murmur, barely audible even to himself.
“It was a wolf…”
Stiles braced himself before trudging onto the field, mentally preparing for a new year. Coach’s whistle pierced the air, followed by his usual pep talk—part inspiration, part unintelligible yelling. Stiles tuned it out, his attention already wandering as the first elimination round began.
At first, it was business as usual. Players scrambled for position, fumbling passes and tripping over themselves. But then Stiles saw him—Scott.
“Is that Scott?” a voice asked beside him, but Stiles barely registered it.
Scott was different. He wasn’t just playing; he was dominating. He moved with precision and speed, darting around defenders like they were standing still. Stiles had never seen him like this before. A week ago, Scott could barely make it up a hill without gasping for air. Now, he looked unstoppable.
“Yeah… yeah, it is,” Stiles murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes stayed glued to Scott, watching as his best friend plowed through the field like a machine. Every dodge, every sprint, every move—it was like he wasn’t even human.
No way this is normal. Maybe… maybe it was the extra dose of Adderall this morning but Stiles couldn't shake thought, the idea sounded ridiculous even to him.
But maybe-just maybe-his jokes were right all along.
Stilinski Residence
January 18th - 19th 2011
Tuesday 8:45 PM - Wednesday 8:27 AM
Stiles had spent the last ten minutes pacing his room, his mind spiraling as he replayed the events of the previous weeks. Over and over, the same question gnawed at him: Could Scott really have been bitten by a werewolf?
His gaze darted between his bedroom window and his computer screen. Finally, he caved, dropping into his desk chair. His fingers trembled as he typed the word werewolves into the search bar, hitting enter with more force than necessary.
The screen filled with articles, definitions, and myths. His eyes scanned them feverishly, his heart pounding in his ears. The more he read, the harder it was to dismiss the possibility.
His curiosity deepened, and he typed in another word: lycanthropy. This time, he hit enter even harder.
Minutes passed like seconds as Stiles devoured everything he could find. Legends about Lycaon, accounts of werewolf sightings, the properties of wolfsbane—it was all there, piece after piece of a puzzle he never thought he’d be putting together.
Time blurred. The moon outside his window faded, replaced by the first light of dawn. Stiles barely noticed. He wasn’t done. Pushing away from his desk, he rifled through his bookshelf, pulling out an old mythology book he remembered borrowing from the school library months ago. His fingers flipped through its pages frantically until he found a section on lycanthropy.
His heart raced as everything clicked into place. It all fit—the bite, the transformation, the inexplicable changes in Scott.
“Scott’s a we—”
A sudden knock on his bedroom door made Stiles jump, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. He froze, glancing around at the mess on his desk. Slamming his book shut, he shut his laptop and took a deep breath.
When he opened the door, relief flooded through him. It was Scott.
For a moment, Stiles stared at his best friend, realizing he had completely forgotten that he’d texted him to come over.
“Get in. You have to see this, dude.” Stiles hurriedly shut the door behind Scott, gesturing wildly toward the desk. “I’ve been up all night reading—websites, books, you name it. There’s so much information!” He felt the words spilling out too fast but hoped Scott could keep up. They had a lot to go over.
Scott raised an eyebrow, amused. “How much Adderall have you had today?”
Stiles groaned, spinning around in his desk chair to face his friend. “A lot. Doesn’t matter.” He waved the question away like it was a fly. “Okay, just listen.” Turning back to the desk, he rummaged through the piles of books, notes, and printed-out articles.
Scott, looking unconvinced, backed up and sat down on Stiles’ bed. “Is this about the body? Did they find out who did it?”
Stiles froze for a moment, then whirled back around so quickly he got dizzy. “Ah-ha!” he crowed, waving a stack of papers triumphantly. “No, they’re still questioning people. Even Derek Hale.”
Scott blinked. “Oh, the guy we saw in the woods the other week.”
“Yeah! Yes.” Stiles threw his arms up, agitated. This was not the point. He felt like he’d burst if he didn’t get the words out now. “But that’s not it, okay?”
“Then what?” Scott asked, his brow furrowing slightly as Stiles’ intensity finally started to catch up to him.
“Remember the joke from the other day?” Stiles let out a sharp huff, his nerves climbing like vines around his throat. This must be what it feels like to deliver bad news, like a doctor diagnosing someone with a lifelong disease. “Well, it’s not a joke anymore.”
Scott blinked, clearly lost.
“The wolf. The bite in the woods, man,” Stiles pressed on, his tone tinged with frustration as he waved a stack of crumpled papers. “I’ve been reading—a lot.”
Scott leaned back slightly, still confused. “Okay…?”
Stiles shot to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Do you even know why a wolf howls?”
“Should I?”
“It’s a signal, okay? When a wolf is alone, it howls to let the pack know where it is.” Stiles began pacing, his words tumbling out in a chaotic rush. “So if you heard a wolf howling, that means others could have been nearby.” He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wide and panicked. “Maybe even a whole pack of them.”
Scott furrowed his brow. “A whole pack of wolves?”
“No.” Stiles froze, his gaze locking onto Scott. “Werewolves.”
Scott stared at him for a moment before standing up, his expression shifting to frustration. “Are you seriously wasting my time with this? You know I’m picking up Allison in an hour.” He reached for his bag.
“I’ve seen you on the field, Scott.” Stiles stepped forward, stopping him before he could leave. “Okay, what you’ve been doing isn’t just amazing, all right? It’s impossible.” His eyes searched Scott’s for understanding.
“Yeah, so I’ve made some good shots lately,” Scott muttered, trying once more to move past Stiles toward the door.
“No,” Stiles grabbed Scott’s bag and tossed it back onto the bed. “You’ve made incredible shots. The way you move—your speed, your reflexes—” he gestured wildly at Scott’s whole body, pacing as he spoke. “People don’t just suddenly do that overnight. And then there’s the vision, the senses—” Stiles stopped and pointed at him. “And don’t even think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t used your inhaler in, like, two weeks.”
“Okay!” Scott threw up his hands. “Dude, I can’t think about this right now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Stiles’ eyes widened, his grip tightening on Scott’s shoulders. “Tomorrow? What? No! Dude, the full moon is tonight. Don’t you get it?”
Scott scowled. “What are you trying to do? I just made first line. I have a date with a girl I can’t believe actually wants to go out with me. Everything in my life is finally going right—why are you trying to ruin it?”
“I’m trying to help.” Stiles snatched another paper from his desk and held it out. “You’re cursed, Scott.”
Scott refused to take it.
“You don’t get it,” Stiles pressed on. “It’s not just that the moon is going to make you physically change. It also just so happens to be the time when your bloodlust will be at its peak.”
"Bloodlust?” Scott repeated, staring at Stiles.
“Yeah—your urge to kill.” Stiles sat down in his desk chair, flipping through his papers.
“I’m already starting to feel an urge to kill, Stiles.”
“You gotta hear this.” Stiles rummaged through the mess on his desk before grabbing a book, flipping it open to a bookmarked page. “The change can be triggered by anger or anything that raises your pulse.” He spun back around to face Scott. “And I haven’t seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does.”
Stiles dropped the book on his desk and stood up. “You have to cancel this date. I’m calling her right now.” He reached for Scott’s bag, pulling out his phone.
Scott’s expression darkened, his voice laced with frustration. “What are you doing?”
“I’m canceling the date.” Stiles turned, typing into the phone.
“No, give it to me!” Scott yelled, suddenly shoving Stiles back against the wall.
Stiles flinched as Scott drew his fist back, muscles tensed like he was about to punch him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Scott’s fist unclenched, and he turned, shoving Stiles’ desk chair, sending it toppling over.
Stiles’ heart pounded as he watched Scott’s whole body tremble with barely controlled anger, his breath coming fast and uneven.
“I’m sorry,” Scott murmured, not meeting his eyes. “I gotta go get ready for that party.”
Stiles remained against the wall, swallowing hard as he watched his friend grab his backpack and leave.
“Fuck.” He whispered, letting his head thunk back against the wall.
Martin Residence,
January 19th 2011,
Wednesday 7:00 PM.
You’d think being the sheriff’s kid would automatically disqualify Stiles from being at a party like this—one with underage drinking, pot smoking, random hookups in any available room, and all the other hallmarks of teenage debauchery. But no, here he was. Not that he’d been personally invited. It was more of a “come one, come all” situation. Still, for argument’s sake, maybe being on the lacrosse team would’ve gotten him on the guest list if it had been exclusive. Maybe.
Stiles swirled the red Solo cup in his hand, leaning against the wall like the quintessential wallflower. He hadn’t even been here ten minutes, and already he had that hair-raising, goosebump-inducing feeling crawling up his spine. Someone was watching him.
He shivered, throwing back the drink in his cup and ignoring the way it burned his throat. Whatever it was—cheap beer, maybe vodka—he hoped it’d loosen him up.
“Alright, Stiles, you got this,” he muttered under his breath, licking his lips. Shoving off the wall, he plunged into the crowd, dodging flailing limbs and squeezing past clusters of sweaty bodies.
Martin Residence,
January 19th 2011,
Wednesday 8:15 PM.
Stiles was making great progress. He was hanging out with a group he faintly recognized from chemistry class and talking up the lovely Miss Jackie Cisneros. She wasn’t Lydia Martin, but she was still gorgeous—tan skin he could never achieve even with a spray tan, mid-length wavy black hair, and a Spanish accent that was doing things to his brain.
“You know, I took a couple of Spanish classes in middle school,” Stiles said, taking a cautious sip of his drink—just punch this time. Unless someone spiked it… God, he hoped not.
“Did you?” Jackie’s fingers twirled lazily through her hair as she spoke, and Stiles found himself mesmerized. How soft was her hair? Should he ask what products she used? No, that would definitely be weird.
“Yeah, one of the only classes I got great grades in,” he said with a grin. Her returning smile made his heart stutter. He leaned in, dropping his voice as if sharing a state secret. “Between you and me, though, it’s just because my friend’s mom’s first language is Spanish. She made a no English rule in their house for months when Scott got a B- in class.”
Jackie gasped, her expression scandalized. “He didn’t.”
“Oh, he did,” Stiles said with faux solemnity, nodding gravely. “Inde—Scott?”
His attention snapped away mid-sentence as Scott burst into the room, shoving his way through the crowd. Stiles felt his stomach drop. Despite their earlier fight, his instincts immediately kicked in. Something was wrong.
“Excuse me,” Stiles muttered to Jackie, brushing past her and weaving through the crowd after his friend.
“Scott?” he heard someone else say, and he homed in on the direction of the voice. Finally breaking through the sea of people, Stiles stepped outside, the cool night air hitting him like a slap. He scanned the yard, but Scott was nowhere to be seen. Worse, his mom’s car was gone.
“Damn,” Stiles muttered, running a hand over his mouth. He needed to follow Scott, make sure he wasn’t about to go full werewolf on someone. He turned toward his Jeep, but something caught his eye.
Two familiar figures stood off to the side: Allison Argent and Derek Hale. Derek was guiding Allison toward a sleek black Camaro. Stiles froze. Derek’s head lifted, and their eyes met across the yard.
Derek smirked, the expression sharp and knowing, before sliding into the driver’s seat.
Stiles’ heart skipped a beat, and he ducked his head, quickening his pace toward the Jeep. Whatever was happening, first things first—he needed to find Scott.
McCall Residence,
January 19th 2011,
Wednesday 8:51 PM.
Stiles rushed to park and get inside, relieved to find the door unlocked. Faintly, he could hear the shower running upstairs. “Scott?” he called out, but there was no response.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he sprinted to Scott’s bedroom door and tried the knob. Locked. Panic flared in his chest, and he immediately banged on the door, his heart racing.
“Go away.”
Stiles practically melted with relief at the sound of Scott’s voice.
“Scott, it’s me,” he said, his voice urgent. The door cracked open just a sliver, but when Stiles tried to push it wider, it was like a boulder held it shut. Scott was stronger than usual, and the thought sent a shiver of unease through him.
“Let me in, Scott. I can help,” Stiles said, his tone desperate. Help how, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d talk Scott through some breathing exercises or one of those meditation techniques he’d read about last night.
“No! Listen, you gotta go find Allison,” Scott said, his voice rough with worry. He was breathing heavily, like he’d just run a marathon.
“She’s fine, all right? I saw her get a ride from the party. She’s—” Stiles hesitated. Derek Hale might have stolen Scott’s girlfriend, but this was not the time to mention that. He’d save it for later when Scott wasn’t half a claw away from turning. “She’s totally fine. All right?”
“No, I think I know who it is.”
Stiles groaned in frustration, shaking his head and shoving at the door again to no avail. “Just let me in, man. We can figure this out together!”
“It’s Derek! Derek Hale is the werewolf. He’s the one who bit me. He’s the one who killed the girl in the woods!”
Scott’s voice cracked with desperation, and Stiles froze. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath left him in a soft whoosh as his mind scrambled to connect the dots.
Derek Hale.
Stiles’ thoughts flashed back to the party: Derek leading Allison outside, the two of them getting into his Camaro and driving away.
“Scott…” Stiles swallowed the lump rising in his throat, his voice faltering. “Derek’s the one who drove Allison from the party.”
Suddenly the door closed.
Stiles stared at the now firmly shut door, his breath hitching as he processed what just happened. The faint scraping of claws on hardwood and the complete silence that followed sent a chill racing up his spine.
“Scott?” Stiles called again, this time softer, the worry in his voice unmistakable.
When no response came, he pressed his ear to the door, listening intently. There was nothing—no movement, no breathing, just an unsettling stillness. Panic surged through him, and he rattled the doorknob again, hoping against hope it would somehow open this time.
“Scott, come on!” he shouted, the frustration and fear building with every passing second.
Then it hit him—the sound he’d heard wasn’t just silence or movement; it was Scott leaving. His eyes snapped to the window at the end of the hallway, the faint chill of the night air seeping in.
“Out the window,” Stiles muttered to himself, his voice filled with disbelief. He bolted down the hallway, throwing open the nearest window to look outside. Sure enough, Scott was gone.
Stiles cursed under his breath, leaning halfway out the window to scan the street below. No sign of him—just a faint rustle of bushes. His heart raced as a realization settled over him like a cold weight.
Scott wasn’t just panicking; he was going after Derek.
“Damn it, Scott,” Stiles hissed, pulling himself back inside. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to steady his thoughts. His mind flashed back to Derek leading Allison away from the party, to Scott’s desperate insistence that Derek was the one who bit him.
Stiles couldn’t decide what terrified him more: the idea that Derek might actually be the werewolf who turned Scott, or that Scott was about to do something stupid.
Grabbing his keys from his pocket, Stiles sprinted back downstairs, his footsteps thundering on the hardwood. “Great,” he muttered sarcastically to no one. “Just what I needed tonight—a supernatural showdown and my best friend losing his mind.”
He threw open the front door and headed for his Jeep, fumbling with the keys as adrenaline pumped through him. He needed to find Scott before something—or someone—got hurt.
“Allison,” Stiles muttered, starting the engine. If Derek was as dangerous as Scott thought, then Allison might already be in trouble. And if Scott thought she was, there was no telling what he’d do.
Gripping the steering wheel, Stiles took a deep breath and pulled out onto the street, his mind racing with every worst-case scenario imaginable. “Okay, Stiles,” he said to himself, trying to focus. “Time to play hero… again.”
Argent Residence,
January 19th 2011,
Wednesday 9:17 PM.
Stiles scrambled out of his Jeep, slamming the door in his haste to rush up to the house. He jabbed the doorbell twice, his hands fumbling as his mind raced. What if Scott was already here, wolfed out? What if Allison wasn’t here at all?
“Come on!” he muttered, banging on the door twice more. His gaze darted around, scanning the shadows for any sign of a wolf, a man, or the unsettling hybrid that Scott was becoming.
The door suddenly opened, and Stiles found himself face-to-face with a tall, slender woman with a pixie haircut.
“Hi! Mrs. Argent. Umm… you have no idea who I am,” Stiles blurted out, forcing a nervous chuckle.
Mrs. Argent gave him a look that said she was two seconds away from slamming the door in his face and possibly calling the cops.
“I’m a friend of your daughter’s,” Stiles rushed to explain. “Uh, look, this is going to sound kind of crazy—really crazy, actually!”
She stepped back slightly, and Stiles’ tone rose in panic, worried she was about to shut the door on him.
“You know what? Crazy doesn’t even—”
“Allison! It’s for you,” Mrs. Argent called over her shoulder, cutting Stiles off as she looked toward the second-floor staircase.
Stiles froze, gaping as Allison appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Allison?” he muttered in shock. If she was here, then where was Scott? And where was Derek?
“I’ll be right down,” Allison called back, her tone curious but calm.
Mrs. Argent gestured Stiles inside. “Make it quick—it’s late,” she said curtly before heading upstairs, leaving the two alone.
Allison descended the stairs and stopped in front of him, arms crossed as she gave him an expectant look.
“Stiles, right? Scott’s friend?” she asked, her voice carrying a faint edge. Her lips twisted slightly as she said Scott’s name, clearly annoyed about being ditched at the party he’d invited her to.
“Yes!” Stiles exclaimed. “Scott sent me!” Mentally, he patted himself on the back for that quick save. Scott owed him for this. Big time.
Allison raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He sent you?”
“He’s so sorry he had to leave so suddenly earlier. He got really, really sick.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How sick?”
“Coming out of both ends,” Stiles replied solemnly, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “Explosive honesty—it was disgusting. I had to talk to him on the phone about it. Would not recommend.”
Allison wrinkled her nose in disgust, but her crossed arms loosened slightly.
“But!” Stiles added quickly. “He was so worried about you that he called me, begged me to find you, and make sure you got home okay.”
Allison’s lips twitched as though she was trying not to smile. She lifted a hand to her chin, tilting her head thoughtfully. “He did?”
“Mmhmm,” Stiles nodded enthusiastically. “He fully plans to apologize and make it up to you—as soon as he’s better, of course.”
Allison’s arms dropped to her sides, her body language softening. “Tell him it better be a good apology,” she said, though her tone was lighter now.
“I will,” Stiles promised, clasping his hands together awkwardly. “Well, I better get going.”
“Thanks, Stiles,” Allison said, her voice warmer now.
Stiles: You cant see this text right cause your mad to the moon but you owe me big time Scott!
Beacon Hills PRESERVE,
January 20th 2011,
Thursday 6:57 AM.
Stiles had spent the last hour driving the winding roads of the preserve, searching for any sign of Scott—or wolves—when he finally spotted him stumbling along the roadside. Naked.
“Oh, for the love of…” Stiles muttered, slamming on the brakes and pulling over. He rolled down the window just enough to shout, “Get in! Unless you want to get slapped with a sex offender charge. There’s a blanket in the backseat.”
Scott didn’t argue, climbing in quickly and wrapping the blanket around himself.
The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the hum of the engine as they drove.
“You know what actually worries me the most?” Scott finally asked, his voice quiet.
Stiles glanced at him, already bracing for it. “If you say Allison, I swear I’m going to punch you in the face.”
Scott frowned, staring out the window. “She probably hates me now,” he mumbled, clearly disheartened.
Stiles sighed dramatically, gripping the steering wheel. “Ugh. I doubt it. But yeah, you’re probably going to have to come up with a pretty amazing apology.” He raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Scott. “Or, you know, you could just tell her the truth…” He turned back to the road, his tone shifting slightly, almost envious. “And revel in the awesomeness of the fact that you’re a freaking werewolf.”
Scott shot him a grumpy look, clearly not a fan of that idea.
“Okay, bad plan,” Stiles muttered, shrugging. “Look, man, we’ll get through this.” he reached over and patted Scott on the shoulder reassuringly. “If I have to, I’ll chain you up myself on full moon nights and feed you live mice. I had a boa once. I could do it.”
Scott gave him a long, unimpressed look, but then let out a soft huff of amusement, the tension easing just a little.
“See? Everything’s going to be fine,” Stiles declared confidently.
There was a moment of peace before Stiles added, almost offhandedly, “By the way, I told Allison you had diarrhea.”
“What?!” Scott’s indignant shout echoed in the car, and Stiles grinned, satisfied.
Beacon Hills Highschool,
January 20th 2011,
Thursday 11:03 AM.
"Dude, this is awesome,” Stiles said, shoveling fries into his mouth as Scott finished recounting the previous night’s events—his encounter with the hunters and his conversation with Derek Hale.
“Glad you’re enjoying my life-threatening problem,” Scott muttered, miserably pushing his food around on his plate.
“Dude, you’re a freaking werewolf, there are apparently hunters out there—what’s next?” Stiles slapped his hand on the table, eyes wide with excitement. “Do you think vampires are a thing? Oh my god, I need to start eating more garlic.”
Scott sighed heavily.
“Relax, Scott. I’ll help you figure this out, okay?” Stiles shot his friend a reassuring smile.
Beacon Hills Highschool,
January 20th 2011,
Thursday 3:02 PM.
Stiles walked out of the school, heading around back toward the gym and field where practice was scheduled. Students trickled out around him—some heading home, others lingering to watch practice or wrap up after-school activities.
Scott was off somewhere, likely trying to apologize to Allison for his vanishing act at the party. Stiles smirked to himself, amused by the memory of the creative cover story he’d spun for his best friend.
Then it hit him—the familiar, unsettling tingle that crawled up his spine and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He froze mid-step, his gaze sweeping the thinning crowd.
And then he saw him.
Derek Hale.
Standing off in the distance, just far enough to keep his air of mystery intact.
Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet in shock, barely managing to recover as his wide eyes locked onto Derek. The man wasn’t doing much of anything, just standing there—but somehow, he still managed to exude menace.
Derek arched a single brow, his expression calm and infuriatingly smug. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a smirk that said, I know something you don’t.