Chapter Text
Since that night at the bowling alley, there has been an itch. It’s a shadow over every action he takes and every thought that drifts through his mind. It’s a seed that niggles in every corner. There’s something that he needs to see, touch…have, but he can’t…or doesn’t know what it is. His skin feels too tight, too warm.
His dreams are filled with pleasures he barely remembers the next day. The only physical evidence his phantom leaves are stained sheets, and the smell of teenage werewolf wet dream. There is also the sensory memory or imagined stimuli of the scent of spring. It’s not that he hasn’t tried, but he cannot find that scent on Allison, even underneath her mild body wash. And every time he scents her all he can smell is thorns and wolfsbane. His nose burns, his temples ache and his stomach roils.
He snuggles deeper into his bed. He never wants to stop dreaming. It is the only place where he can meet his beloved. But the microscopic gap between window and frame is all too noticeable to the young wolf, and he groans in irritation when the air currents shift. The sun will dawn soon. He throws an arm over his eyes too late. The first dust of dawn teases his eyelids.
He opens his eyes just as the birds begin to chirp, even before the sun’s rays begin to warm his face. He barely needs his alarm clock these days. He breathes deeply. He can smell the cool bite of frost beginning to coat the green and brown outside. He longs for Spring.
Today’s a good day, I hope, but the Alpha is still out there.
As per his routine since the Bite, he’s got time to go slow. His mom has late shift tonight and he wants to spend some time with her, so it’s a good thing he gets up so early these days. He pulls out five pieces of bread, three eggs, onions, peppers, tomato and cheddar strips.
He greases the pan and chops everything quietly and quickly. He beats the egg mix with a spatula and heats the cheese slightly on the stove with its ceramic plate. His mom needs sleep and it won’t do to wake her up after last night’s late shift. At least she hasn’t been on the graveyard shift. He swills the egg, adds a bit of milk, tests the pan for heat and pours it into the pan watching it sizzle lightly. He adds some cheese, all the peppers and onion. He mixes it together watches as the egg begins to bounce and solidify. He adds in the last of the cheese and all the tomato. He pulls the omelet off the stove. It’s still slightly runny, but that’s fine. Its cheesy and delicious aroma wafts upwards and his stomach grumbles. It’s clearly not enough protein for a growing werewolf, but it won’t do to make his mother suspicious. Three pieces of toast aren’t enough to warrant much suspicion. Besides, he can grab a snack along the way. Maybe he can mooch something off Stiles…
He coats four pieces of toast thinly in butter, the fifth and last piece is treated to a peanut butter spa – that’s one of his snacks. Yay for preservatives and plastic packaging that scrapes his taste buds raw. At least it’s got protein that he’s still able to digest.
Light taps upstairs indicate his mother’s awake and getting ready to face the day. He tunes her out and sets the table, keeping everything heated on the stove. The omelet is perfect when his mother walks down. She goes directly to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of milk – they still do milk deliveries in Beacon Hills.
“Toast and an omelet for two, mom. Coffee?” He turns to the cupboard above the coffee maker and pulls out a cup.
“Thanks Scott.” She kisses him on the cheek, as he hands her a fresh cup of steaming caffeine. She pours in the milk and hands it him.
They sit down together at the table and Scott divides the omelet equally.
“Mm. This is good,” his mother raises an eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”
He smiles at her, dimples deepening. “We haven’t spent as much time together these past weeks and I wanted to hang out.”
“Aw baby,” murmurs his mother. “That’s really sweet of you.”
“Thanks mom,” Scott blushes and ducks his head. “I miss you, you know?”
“If you told your young lady that, she’d most definitely swoon, especially if you use that card after only a twelve hour separation,” his mother smiles slyly. “I haven’t heard much about her lately.”
“We, uh,” says Scott. “We’re friends, nothing more.”
“I see,” says his mother, “there’s not one true path when it comes to love and romance. Sometimes there’s a fork in the road.”
“I guess,” says Scott, returning to his breakfast.
He can’t tell her everything. He doesn’t say, it isn’t that I don’t want to stay on that path, but we’re just too different. He doesn’t know whether Allison knows about hunters and hunting werewolves, or if she is one. If she doesn’t know, she will soon with Kate Argent in the picture. And if she already is, she seems the type to be more willing to toe the line and it scares him. I can’t trust her to make a good call.
He wants to protect the town, but not at the cost of making the decision to put down or neutralize threats to the community. The kill blow is the very last resort, if at all.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” his mother says.
“Not right now mom,” he keeps his head down, slowly eating his food, rather eating it the same way he always has even though his stomach gnaws a little.
He cannot let his mother in on his secret. It’s too dangerous to involve her. He hopes that she never gets involved. It is bad enough that Stiles is in this mess, not that he’s forgotten his idiot best friend’s role in it, even as he’s forgiven his like-a-brother.
They spend the rest of breakfast silently eating.
He doesn’t rush out the door. There’s no need. There’s still quite a bit of time before the bell rings. He bikes at a little over human speed. He wants to speed up, but he knows better. It’s dangerous with the Argents here.
He’s always enjoyed biking – it had been his first love before lacrosse. He’s worked hard enough to get here with his asthma and all. It is one of the things he’s worked at to strengthen his cardio response, and that was before he started using it as a mode of transportation to and from school. He doesn’t want to lose that privilege. And he certainly doesn’t want to get dead, thanks. He is close to the school, when the scent hits him.
It’s the scent of spring – fresh cut grass, soil, spearmint, leather, and –––– it’s beautiful, but faint. He wants to know what it is. He can’t help but speed up a little. It smells too good to let go. It snakes its way into his nasal receptors and leashes him. But the current dies, and the scent almost never was.
Scott blinks. The slight traces of it grows stronger, as he latches onto it, inhaling deeply. He wants, needs, to imprint it in his memory so that every nuance of it is there when he is lonely at night. He barely understands, but here is an undertone of bitter cold intertwined in that scent as if it never wants to leave winter or that the frost clings so deep that even if it wanted it cannot escape.
Scott shudders. The closer he gets the more he wants it. I’m in love. Logically, he knows he’s putting himself in danger, but he can’t help it. It’s not just “love”, he’s high on it. He craves it, needs it. Mate. Protect. He cannot forget that frightening chill that seeps into the sweet spring he scents. All he can do is follow it, the groups of students talking and walking through the doors blur together and he barely registers entering the school, until…
No! It can’t be. Leaning against the lockers, one beside Danny Mahealani’s, is the Hawaiian boy’s best friend Jackson Whittemore.
He skids to a halt. The shock kicks his frontal lobe back into high gear. He groans. Fuck. Why does Jackson smell so good?
He flinches and staggers, attempting to resist the urge to lunge towards it – him. Doesn’t matter that it’s still the most delicious, and fragile, scent he’s ever encountered, he can’t take it when it’s a person, especially not if that person is Jackson Whittemore. He really wants to reach out and ––––
I have more control than that. He can’t stop the rumble in his chest, but he stifles it before he growls. His eyes flash gold. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. Shit. The scent invades his nasal cavities and he has to curl his fingers into fists to stop himself from reaching out.
His finger nails dig into his skin. The dull shock throws him out of his daze for a moment, but the scent drags him under its spell again.* He barely notices the shoal of students hurrying around him. He shuffles awkwardly toward his locker and slumps against it, banging the back of his head against it rather gently for a werewolf and really hard for a human. He groans.
It’s been weeks since his first transformation. He and the wolf are more integrated now than they were before. Derek’s said that this wasn’t common in Turned wolves. Great. I’m special. Sarcasm intended thanks. His senses and reflexes are not only sharper, but better accessed. Yet, they’ve just betrayed him.
Why does he think Jackson Whittemore smells good – beautiful, even? Why does he think the jock needs protection? Like what the fuck? And why is his limbic system telling him to mount the jerk? There’s no answer other than obvious – he smells good enough to eat. He has an image of Jackson wrapped in a red cape and nothing else. Better yet, just naked in the woods. But he can’t not until he knows his mate will accept him, will feel safe with him. He swallows. Mate. Fuck. A thump beside him shocks him out of his thoughts. He inhales and blinks rapidly. He is only just able to hold back a full transformation, but growls low, eyes flashing gold, “Stiles.”
“Yo. Dude something’s bothering you. You didn’t notice me at all, and by notice I mean scent,” says Stiles, leaning against the abused locker with an abused shoulder. Ouch.
“I was only able to catch your attention when I slammed like my shoulder into the poor locker. It’s okay baby. I’ve got you.” Stiles caresses the locker like it’s precious to him.
“Huh?” Scott stares.
“Normally you’d have snorted by now.” Stiles glares at Scott. “You’ve got that look on your face where you’ve been hit over the head by falling in like with something or someone.”
“I don’t!” cries Scott.
“Now you’ve got the one where you do that thing,” Stiles points at Scott’s eyebrows, “when you have something to hide.”
“What thing?” Scott frowns at Stiles.
“The thing that you do when you used to decide to text or see Allison even though it’s a freaking bad idea!” Stiles flails, unable to describe the face that his best friend and brother makes.
Scott sighs, sliding down his locker. “I’ll tell you about it later, at your place.”
“How serious is this?” Stiles hitches his backpack up higher, it slipped a little while he was flailing.
“I-I’ll tell you later, okay?” Scott closes his eyes.
“Fine.” Stiles taps his foot impatiently and holds out a hand for his best friend to take.
Scott sighs, grasps Stiles’s hand and stands up. “Good. Let’s get to class.”
They walk to homeroom together. They sit in their usual spots next to each other. Scott let’s his head fall onto the table. He knows he can keep some calm here for the next couple minutes before the bell rings.
He can smell him before he comes in. He stiffens. He flexes his fingers and clenches them tight. He can feel his heartbeat begin to drum. He pants. He needs. Mate. Stop.
“Dude. Calm down. You’re getting wolfy,” hisses Stiles. “Breathe with me.”
“Okay.” Scott immediately latches onto the calm of Stiles’s heartbeat and the rhythm of his breaths.
The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end when Lydia flounces in and plants her ass down beside Jackson.
Scott can barely pay attention to their teacher. Stiles takes good notes and if he doesn’t, all the info’s there in that steel trap mind of his. He can just pick his brain later. He lets his eyes glaze over and subtly sniffs and basks in the scent of his newest addiction.
He can smell a change in that beautiful scent. Interest. Arousal. His eyes snap open. He growls. Lydia – a potential rival, which is strange because Danny doesn’t blip the radar as one – dares touch his mate. But she isn’t just a rival, she is a threat to his mate. He snarls when she draws a line from shoulder down to chest a finger down the body that should belong to him, and leans in for a peck on the lips.
“Dude,” Stiles comments, “your eyes just turned gold and your nails were growing rapid-like. Did you just nearly wolf out when Lydia touched Jackson? Do you have a thing for her too?”
“Yes and no.” Scott scrunches his nose.
“Wha- ” Stiles scratches his head, then tilts his head back towards Scott, “oh. Oh!”
That’s when he decides to call it quits. He drags Stiles with him to the field – they’re supposed to be in class, but this is more important – and under the bleachers.
“So, tell me everything.” Stiles’s eyes are wide and expectant.
“I…uh…I…” Scott says and loses his nerve. This is so embarrassing. This is in a whole different league than telling him I’m bi. I already knew he was with his googoo eyes at Lydia and sometimes a flicker towards Danny. Been there done that, we’re okay with it. He ends up blurting it out, “He smells really good.”
“This has got to be a wolf thing. One sec.” Stiles pulls out his phone, and hunches over it working his research magic. “Thank god for data. Here.”
He sucks in a breath. “Well, if this works out we’ll be seeing a lot more Jackson.”
He sucks in his cheeks like he’s eaten something sour. “Guess I’ve got to learn to be nice to him.”
“What?” Scott frowns, the corners of his eyes sharpen.
Stiles watches his friend, letting the suspense build.
“Stiles,” growls Scott, eyes growing gold.
“You look like you’ve got a question mark tattooed on your face, Scottie.” Stiles grins wide and manic, “Scents, pheromones and mating. He’s a potential, heavy on the potent.”
“Explain.” Scott’s eyes dig gold lasers into Stiles’s.
“Remember today last week when you said that there’s always a part of you that can’t commit to Allison? Well she’s not your perfect match. In fact, quote Allison’s perfume makes my nose itch unquote. Wolves choose their mates by scent,” Stiles gesticulates excitedly about all this new information now downloaded onto his brain.
Scott gulps. Shit! I don’t like where this is going. He swallows his unease, and croaks, “And?”
“You just told me you liked the way Jackson smells, and five minutes ago you were flipping out about Lydia touching him,” says Stiles slowly and enunciating each word so Scott won’t have the luxury of denial. “She’s putting her scent on him and you obviously don’t like it. You want to put yours on him and mark him too. Am I right?”
“Shit on a stick,” mutters Scott.
“Yeah,” says Stiles, pausing slightly, “so now what?”
The brunet wolf lowers his head and his expression can only be described as hangdog. “Um…learn to control myself all over again I guess and eventually work up the courage to talk to him?”
“He’ll shoot you down so fast, you wouldn’t even be able to out run it,” the overly energetic human lets his mouth run, lest he is interrupted in expressing what he believes to be a painful truth.
“Stiles!” Scott’s eyes flash gold.
He continues mournfully, “You should have a little confidence in me. I’m your best friend and we’re practically brothers.”
“What?” Stiles’s nose twitches as his brows scrunch together. “He’s a jerk jock and not to mention straight as a board.”
“Damn,” the fluffy haired brunet grumbles, wiping a hand down his face. “What am I going to do?”
“Wait. I’ve got a question,” crows Stiles, “do you think he’s the bitch?”
“There is no bitch,” Scott snarls.
Instinct brings up the image of slamming into Jackson’s plush bottom and knotting him, but the use of the word bitch still pisses the hell out of him. His eyes glow gold, claws push out his cuticles.
“Woah. Calm down buddy. Didn’t mean to offend anyone,” the human backs away slowly, tilting his neck in submission, hoping his friend won’t rip out his throat.
The brunet wolf roars, spittle flying and sucks in a breath. He fades back into his human skin.
Scott’s hangdog expression reappears, this time aimed with purpose at his best friend and brother. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
Stiles nods.