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mhalachaiAt AO3
Summary: Caught between hunters and werewolves and wendigos, Stiles almost doesn’t have time to wonder much about the hot new redheaded Deputy Sherriff or the bow-wielding sarcastic gym teacher. Almost.
Rating: PG
Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Sheriff Stilinski, etc.
Warnings: Secret identities, secrets upon secrets, the usual
Disclaimer: This is fanfic, I own nothing of the characters/worlds/franchises etc. All recognizable characters belong to their creators etc.
Chapter Warning: Action! Wendigos! Stiles and Allison are superheros. You know, the usual.
"Just another awesome Saturday night," Stiles muttered into the darkness. It was September in Northern California, and the nights hadn't yet turned cold. But the light from the half-moon could only penetrate so far into the pitch blackness of the forest.
He shivered in his hoodie, wondering why, for the tenth time in the past hour, he'd let himself be talked into waiting by the car.
It's dangerous, Derek had said. You'll slow us down, Derek had said.
"Not nearly as dangerous as it would have been if you'd gone out on your own, you furry grumpy freak," Stiles said. Maybe it hadn't been Derek's words; god knew Stiles never listened to Derek in the past. More likely it had been Scott's puppy dog eyes that had made Stiles hang back.
Stiles didn't want to be the one to distract the werewolves from the hunt.
Three days before, they'd finally figured out what the wendigo was up to, how its seemingly random attacks on pets and livestock in the area were actually showing a pattern. Derek wanted to kill the thing before it got up the focus to attack a human, and for once in his life, Scott agreed.
So sure, the werewolves got to go and play, which left Stiles waiting by the car.
Alone.
In the dark.
While a creature that ate human flesh roamed the woods.
"Great thinking, genius," Stiles told himself. He shook his hands to bring some warmth back to them, then reached for his only weapon, the axe his dad kept in the garage for chopping firewood. The blade wasn't as sharp as Stiles would have liked, but it was better than basting himself in barbecue sauce and presenting himself to the wendigo as dinner.
Barely.
Stiles tried to focus on the soft sounds in the woods, but his normally keen survival instincts were distracted by the morning's revelations that a) his personal hero Iron Man (okay, Tony Stark, same thing) had once had a pregnant girlfriend who'd been eaten by werewolves, b) that Deputy Natasha Rushman was interested in the cold case and c) his dad was involved in the mix somehow.
You'd have had Stiles at Iron Man... okay, Stiles would have been on board for anything Deputy Rushman was interested in, but still. The whole mix was a tantalizing mystery that Stiles wanted to dig his metaphoric claws into, but no, he had to tag along on a wendigo hunt and get his skinny human ass abandoned by the car by the wolves.
All alone in the silent woods.
Wait.
Not silent.
Stiles' breath froze in his throat at the soft sound of leaves shifting on the forest floor. Something was moving out there, and all Stiles had for protection was an axe.
Oh god oh god he was going to get eaten by a cannibalistic monster and-
"Stiles?"
Stiles squeaked, halfway between terror and relief, and lowered the axe. "Allison, what the hell?" he demanded. His heart hammered in his mouth and he kinda wanted to throw up. "What's wrong with you? It's dangerous out here!"
"I know!" Allison whispered. As she moved closer, Stiles could see that she was dressed in head-to-toe black, a deadly looking contraption in her hands. "Why do you think I'm here?"
"Because you have a death wish?" Stiles snapped. "Go home!"
"No!" Allison stooped beside the jeep. In the faint moonlight, Stiles realized that she was holding a crossbow. "Scott told me what they're after. I can help."
"And, what, you decided it was time to get some Hunter street-cred and go after the big bad monster that makes the werewolves piss themselves?" Stiles paused, his hands tightening involuntarily around the axe handle. "Is your dad out there? Did you decide to turn this into some kinds of Hunter party game?"
"No, of course not!" Allison shook her head, her hair falling over her shoulders. Her eyes were very large, and Stiles had never seen her look so determined.
"Even better, you're out here by yourself." Stiles rested the axe on the hood of his jeep and shook the tension out of his hands. "Oh man, we're both going to die."
Far away, across the forest, a wolf howled. Closer, two wolves responded in a haphazard harmony.
"Scott doesn't know what he's up against, none of you do," Allison said. "I did some research, I came to help."
"Wait, when did you talk to Scott about this?" Stiles demanded. "Last I heard, he was playing the part of sad puppy because you wouldn't let him chew on your shoes anymore."
"He told me about this, this is important."
"Death wish," Stiles muttered. "We're both insane. It's like Lydia is the only person with any sense left in her head-"
From deep in the shadows, something snapped.
Stiles swung around, everything falling out of his head except for the concept of wendigo.
Allison raised her crossbow, the metal tip of an arrow glinting in the moonlight. Stiles kept both hands on the axe, knowing it wasn't going to be enough.
In the deep blackness of the woods, a shadow moved. It was just a dark shape, nearly indistinguishable from the other blackness around it, but Stiles' skin crawled at the wrongness of it.
Allison made a small whispered "No," as the darkness moved closer, closer, too tall and too thin and everything wrong.
The wind shifted, and Stiles nearly gagged at the stench of decay and corruption on the air. He'd run from the creature the week before, but had never been so close, had never seen how the thing moved--
The wendigo stepped into the moonlight.
It was tall, taller than Stiles thought possible. He could just barely make out the lipless mouth, the sharp jagged teeth, the black-on-black pits where eyes had once been.
The monster let out a breath, like wind rattling through bones in the trees, and the sound brought Stiles back to himself. He elbowed Allison in the side. "Run!" he hissed.
She didn't move for a long moment, her eyes locked on the wendigo. Then her breath caught in her throat and she turned and ran into the forest, Stiles right on her heels.
Behind them in the clearing, there was a hiss and a loud crunching of bone on gravel, then something screamed in fury as it gave chase.
Stiles tasted true fear in the back of his throat. He was going to die and it was going to be horrible and he really, really, didn't want this to happen.
From all over the woods, wolf calls exploded into the stillness. The pack was coming, they'd heard the wendigo's cry, but it wasn't going to be enough.
Allison veered left and Stiles followed her, stumbling blind down a ravine. They came out onto an old logging road, the moonlight showing the forest silent and dark on either side of the cut.
"Oh great, now it'll have a flat road to catch us on!" Stiles panted.
"There's a stream bed down here, come on!" Allison shouted. She glanced back over her shoulder and kept running, across the road and plunging into the forest once more.
Stiles had no choice but to run after her.
The forest around them was disorienting, distorting the sounds of wolf calls and the menacing bone-rattling wind in the trees. Stiles didn't know if he was running away from the wendigo or towards it. The only thing he could do was to keep Allison in his sights, hold the axe tight so he didn't trip and decapitate himself.
He had to keep running. If he stopped running, the wendigo would have him.
Allison stumbled in the streambed and Stiles grabbed her and hauled at her until she was back on her feet. The sibilant wind grew closer, closer, and all Stiles wanted was to wake up and this be a nightmare, but he would never be that lucky.
The streambed ended in a flat clearing surrounded by trees. If they could make it across, maybe they could find someplace to hide, a warren or another ditch, maybe they could hold off the wendigo until the wolves got there, maybe-
Darkness gathered in the center of the clearing and the wind itself screamed in rage, in hunger, in eternal starvation.
Allison slid to a half and raised her crossbow, firing two arrows at the darkness.
That only enraged the wendigo. Rising up high, so high, nearly as high as the treetops, the wendigo screamed again and lunged for them. Stiles dropped the axe and reached out for Allison, either to shield her or just to have someone to hold on to when they died, it didn't matter.
A gunshot rang out into the night sky, and another. The wendigo jerked with the impact and whirled around. At the edge of the clearing, Stiles spotted someone wearing a distinctive Sheriff's department hat and aiming a handgun at the wendigo.
Someone human. Someone small.
"Hey!" came Deputy Rushman's voice in a shout. Two more gunshots sounded, and the wendigo screamed into the night. "Over here!"
Another shot, and the deputy disappeared over the ridge, the wendigo following her.
Stiles scrambled to his feet and reached for his axe. "Come on!" he yelled at Allison, momentarily forgetting that a girl might not necessarily want to chase after the monster than nearly killed them. But Allison was on her feet and running towards the spot in the woods where the deputy and the wendigo had disappeared.
Stiles had to admit, she was nearly as stupid as the rest of them.
By the time they cleared the ridge, the wendigo had Deputy Rushman cornered against a rock wall. She had her handgun up, but neither bullets nor arrows made any impact against the wendigo.
Wishing this were a nightmare, wishing he were anywhere else, Stiles lifted his axe to run at the wendigo. Tonight would have to be a good night to die.
Out of the darkness, a whistling thunk of a long-distance arrow hit bone, and the wendigo exploded into flames.
Stiles jumped, shielding his eyes against the sudden brightness. "Why the hell didn't you do that sooner?" he yelled at Allison, backing away from the wendigo.
"It wasn't me!" Allison exclaimed, retreating behind the nearest tree.
Another arrow came out of the darkness, then another and another and another. Each arrow hit a different part of the flailing, screaming wendigo.
"Who else brings a bow and arrows to a wendigo fight?" Stiles demanded. Wolf howls were closing in, and half the wolf pack burst out of the trees, in various stages of wolifitude. Erica, Isaac and Jackson stared at the burning wendigo, while Scott took one look at the clearing before dashing to Allison's side.
"I'm fine," Stiles told his best friend, not expecting Scott to listen. He waved his axe. "Just fine."
Stiles caught sight of Derek deeper in the trees, Boyd at his side. Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles, and Stiles tried to stand straighter as he raised his hand in salute.
He was fine.
With a final scream, the burning wendigo collapsed to its knees. Another thunk, and the wendigo's skull was enveloped in a wave of fire.
Deputy Rushman edged around the burning wendigo, looking rather worse for wear. Her hat had fallen off, her uniform was singed to the elbow, and she was covered in dirt.
But she was still holding her gun.
The woman took in the wolf pack, huddled together with Scott and Allison at one side, and sighed.
"Is anyone here over eighteen?" the deputy demanded.
It was such an unexpected question that everyone just looked at each other. Stiles spotted faint movement behind them as Derek and Boyd melted back into the shadows.
"Is anyone hurt?" the deputy tried again.
Stiles tried to shape his mouth into a question, but no words came out. There was a giant burning monster in the middle of the clearing and she was asking what?
"Um," Stiles tried, stepping between the pack and Deputy Rushman. "You? Are you okay?"
She pursed her lips and gave him such an annoyed glare that Stiles ducked his head. "Saturday night fun is over, kids," she said. "Everyone goes back to the car and we all go back to town."
Stiles waved his axe at the burning wendigo body. "Shouldn't you radio in for fire suppression?" he asked. "Everyone has to do their part to prevent forest fires."
Erica snorted, while Isaac jabbed Stiles in the ribs to make him shut up.
Deputy Rushman ignored him. "I know that not a single one of you is legally an adult, so everyone turn around and go back the way you came. We're going back to town."
Scott stepped forward, his face eerily illuminated in the flames from the burning wendigo. "We're not going anywhere," he said firmly.
"Oh my god, Scott, shut up," Stiles moaned. They were already in so much trouble, with the wendigo and Stiles' ongoing lies to his dad and having no idea who set the wendigo on fire with mystery arrows. The last thing they needed was to antagonize the short angry woman with the gun. Stiles didn't even mind leaving his jeep in the woods overnight if it meant they could get away from the burning wendigo.
Deputy Rushman stared at Scott for a long moment, long enough for the other werewolves, all mercifully back in human form, to fidget nervously. "Mr. McCall," she finally said, "You are going to turn around, go back to the road, and everyone is going back to town together. Do you understand?"
Her voice lowered in pitch on the last three words, and Stiles had to struggle against his instincts to obey. It was the voice of a parent, a drill sergeant, a regent, someone to whom disobedience was not in in the realm of possibility.
Jackson shifted his weight so he was half-hidden behind Isaac; Erica wrapped her arms around herself and wouldn't meet anyone's gaze. Scott balled his hands into fists, still trying to face down the Deputy, but barely. Allison just looked confused.
Stiles didn't want to see what would happen if Scott lost it; he was hyped up from the wendigo chase and if he thought Allison was in danger, he might do something very stupid in front of Deputy Rushman. Stiles couldn't let that happen.
Shifting the axe handle to his left hand, he reached out and grabbed Scott's upper arm. "Let's just go back to town, okay?" Stiles pleaded. "Scott, man, come on."
It took a moment, but Scott let out a breath and hunched his shoulders, the tension leaving his body. Slowly, everyone turned around and headed away from the burning wendigo, back toward the road.
Deputy Rushman waited until the kids were moving, only then holstering her gun and picking up her battered hat. Stiles waited until he caught her eye in the moonlight. "Seriously, what are we going to do about the fire?" he asked.
"Don't worry about it," she said. She never looked back.
Stiles shook his head and concentrated on staying upright in the dark. Now that the adrenaline rush from his imminent death was fading, he could feel the pain of a dozen new bruises on every part of his body. Just another Saturday night in Beacon Hills, he thought with a hint of bitterness.
In the clearing, the wolves gathered around the patrol car. Allison was standing apart from Scott, and Stiles stifled a sigh at the path that young puppy love was taking. He was too old for the drama.
Deputy Rushman went around to open the driver's door, tossed her hat onto the seat, and popped open the trunk. "Weapons in back," she said.
Nobody moved.
"Axes and crossbows in the trunk," the woman said again. From the murderous expression on her face, Stiles was pretty sure her next step would be to forcibly remove the axe from his hands, and she would not be gentle.
Stiles stepped forward to put the axe into the trunk, which promoted Allison to unhitch her crossbow and place it into the trunk. Her bag of arrows went in next.
"Anyone else?" Deputy Rushman asked.
After the briefest of hesitations, Erica reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a taser.
"What, seriously?" Isaac asked.
"I didn't see you with any better ideas, hotshot," Erica retorted, tossing the taser into the trunk.
Deputy Rushman slammed the trunk. "In."
Allison moved first, crawling into the front seat and staring resolutely out of the windshield. Scott tried to follow her, but Deputy Rushman was pushing through the crowd, deftly deflecting Scott into the back seat next to Jackson. Erica was eyeing the front seat with hostility, so Stiles decided to do his part to prevent bloodshed and slipped into the front seat next to Allison.
With the werewolves squashed in the back seat and Allison ignoring Stiles in the front, Deputy Rushman closed her door and started the car.
The car interior heated up quickly, with four werewolves and three humans, so Stiles rolled down the window. The night air didn't do much to dissipate the smell of dirt and smoke, however, and Stiles doubted he'd be able to stand burning meat anytime in the near future.
"Why were you out in the forest preserve?" Isaac asked after a few minutes of ominous silence.
"It's on my patrol," Deputy Rushman told him. She slowed the car to negotiate the turn on to the paved part of the highway. Stiles waited for the inevitable questions from her about what they had been doing out there, what that thing was, but the Deputy seemed content with driving through the night in silence.
Scott leaned forward, dumping Isaac onto Jackson's lap, to grip the metal grill separating the back seat from the front of the cab. "Allison..." he started to say, but Allison refused to look at him. Stiles turned around to give his friend a sympathetic glance. The hurt on Scott's face was apparent.
Stiles saw Jackson turn around to look out the back window. Erica had tensed, and even Isaac looked worried. "What is it?" Stiles asked, his stomach giving a sickening flop.
"There's someone behind us," Jackson said softly.
Stiles craned around, bumping into Allison as he did so. "There's nothing out there," he pointed out. The road behind them was dark, a few spare feet illuminated by the red taillights of the car.
"It's getting closer," Erica whispered.
Faintly, through the open window, came the whine of a motorcycle engine.
Stiles sat back in his seat, staring at Deputy Rushman. The woman didn't appear to be paying attention to the conversation at all. "Deputy, seriously, maybe we should take a different route," Stiles said in a rush, because while at any other time it would be more important to laugh off the more supernatural abilities of the people in the car, Stiles had nearly been eaten once today and he'd reached his limit for unexplained shit.
"There's nothing to worry about," the Deputy said, unconcerned.
Someone in the backseat breathed in sharply as the engine sound grew closer. Stiles looked over his shoulder just in time to see a motorcycle running without lights appear in the taillights' glow. Just as quickly, the bike accelerated around the cruiser and sped into the distance. In the light from the car's headlights, Stiles saw that the motorcycle rider wore a helmet with the visor down, obscuring the driver's face.
Then the bike took a curve and vanished from sight.
Allison pulled her legs up to her chest, making the seating arrangements even more awkward. No one in the car said anything, but in the backseat the werewolves hunched in on each other for comfort.
Deputy Rushman kept driving.
The scene at the Sheriff's station was singularly unpleasant.
The Sheriff was there as Deputy Rushman ushered the six teenagers into the break room, the only room besides a holding cell large enough to hold that many people. He didn't say anything, waiting until the Deputy joined him in the corridor for a whispered conversation too quiet even for werewolf hearing.
When the Deputy and Stiles' dad came back into the break room, Deputy Rushman having taken the time to change into a non-burned shirt, Stiles was half convinced they would all be charged with trespassing and mischief and thrown in lock-up for the night, what was left of it.
Dad cleared his throat, putting on his Sheriff persona. "This is strike three," he said. "If I hear of any of you kids trespassing in the woods after dark again, I'm filing criminal charges. You're nearly old enough for that to stay on your permanent records. Do you understand me?"
A chorus of muted yeses. Stiles noted with interest that Allison had been the only person in the room to not respond.
"Your parents have all been notified, you're staying here until they come pick you up," the Sheriff went on.
"What?" Jackson demanded. Scott looked wildly at Stiles, but Stiles could only shrug. It wasn't like it was his fault, and at least Mrs. McCall would understand the werewolf part of things.
In his seat at the sofa, Isaac slumped down, staring at the ceiling. That got Stiles moving. "Uh, Dad, about Isaac-"
"No, Stiles," the Sheriff bit out. He turned his back on the room and walked out. Deputy Rushman gave the group one last look, and closed the door on her way out.
The wait was excruciating.
Jackson's dad showed up first, looking remarkably awake and pissed off for three o'clock in the morning. He hauled Jackson out of the room without a word, but everyone could hear Mr. Whitmore berating Jackson down the hallway.
Erica's mom was next. She seemed confused about the situation, but at least she patted Erica on the shoulder once she realized her daughter was all right. Erica ducked her head in embarrassment, but she let her mother keep hold of her arm.
"You too, Isaac," Mrs. Reyes said. "You can sleep on the couch tonight."
Isaac looked up in bewilderment, but he wasted no time in bouncing to his feet and following mother and daughter out the door.
At Stiles questioning look, Scott said, "Sometimes Isaac stays at Erica's place. Sometimes he stays with Boyd."
"Good," Stiles said. Ever since the kanima had killed Isaac's bastard father the previous year, Stiles hadn't been too clear on how Isaac was surviving. Yeah, he could hang out with Derek at the abandoned bus station, but that wasn't any way to live. Which Stiles had told Derek repeatedly, but whatever.
Allison hadn't said a word since they came into the room. Stiles figured that with Derek's pack gone, he might be able to get something out of her, especially since Scott wasn't doing his end to hold up Team Exposition.
"Was the guy on the bike one of yours?" Stiles asked.
Slowly, Allison turned her head to look at him. She had fresh scrapes on the side of her face from where she'd fallen against a tree, and the red swelling contrasted against the sickly pallor of her skin. "I don't think so," she said.
"What, don't you know?"
Stiles waited for an explosion, for her to yell or scream or something, but Allison only pulled her legs back up to her chest and went back to staring at the vending machine.
"What about..." Stiles craned his neck around to make sure Deputy Rushman wasn't standing in the doorway. "You know. Her."
Allison shrugged.
"Allison," Scott started, but Allison physically turned away from him. "Why won't you talk to me?"
"Because I told you before," Allison said repressively, "I don't need you to protect me. That's all you're going to say, so save it."
"That's not it-"
"Then what?"
"Just-" Scott fumbled with the words. Honestly, watching the soap opera was wearing on Stiles' last nerve. "You're important."
"I can take care of myself," Allison shot back. The argument would likely have devolved into shouting, but then by some miracle, the door to the break room opened, and Deputy Rushman escorted Mrs. McCall inside.
"Oh, thank god," Mrs. McCall said, hurrying over to Scott and running her hand over his head. "You scared me."
"Mom..." Scott said, shifting into his reassuring mom phase. "It's cool."
"Baby boy, you are in so much trouble I can't even begin to express it," Mrs. McCall said, not missing a beat. She turned to Stiles and Allison. "You two?"
"Oh, in trouble too," Stiles said brightly.
"Not what I meant." Mrs. McCall snapped her fingers at Stiles. "Up."
Recognizing that she'd gone into nurse mode, Stiles stood and let her look him in the eyes, turning his head this way and that. "See? No concussion, no paralysis, we're good."
"Uh huh," she said. "You take a tumble?"
Stiles looked down at the dirt caking his clothing from his handful of encounters with the forest floor. "New fashion statement."
"Stiles," she warned before looking over at Allison. "What about you, sweetie?"
Allison wouldn't meet Mrs. McCall's eyes. "Fine."
Deputy Rushman shifted in place by the coffee machine, and Stiles held his breath. He didn't even think that Allison might have been hurt, but she'd been acting weird all night.
"Fine, huh," Mrs. McCall said softly. She moved to sit in the chair next to Allison, every action unthreatening and calm. "Just a few scratches?"
Allison hesitated, but then slowly extended her left arm. Mrs. McCall gently pulled back Allison's jacket sleeve to reveal a long bloody cut down her forearm.
"I think it was a tree branch or a rock," Allison said as Mrs. McCall peeled the blood-caked shirt sleeve away from the scratch. In a couple of places, the fabric was caught in the wound, and fresh drops of blood welled up when the fibers were pulled free. "It doesn't hurt."
Mrs. McCall smiled as if she actually believed Allison. "Does it hurt when you move your fingers?" she asked, waiting for Allison to shake her head. "You're pretty lucky, it's not deep. You won't even need stitches, but your dad might want to take you to the emergency room, just in case."
Allison pulled her arm away from Mrs. McCall. "It's fine," Allison said. "You should take Scott home."
"No, it's okay," Scott said quickly. "Mom, you can take care of her, right?"
But Mrs. McCall was already standing up. "We should go before Allison's dad gets here," she said to Scott.
"Why?" Scott asked, proving to Stiles that he was quite possibly the densest werewolf ever to grace the California woods.
"Scott," Mrs. McCall said. "We'll talk about it in the car."
Stiles just hoped that Scott's mom would point out that a Hunter might not be too thrilled that his daughter's werewolf ex-boyfriend was around when said daughter got into a fight with a wendigo.
"But Allison-"
"Will be safe here," Deputy Rushman said from the doorway. "Listen to your mother, Scott."
With one last pleading look at his mom, Scott slowly crossed the room, pausing by Allison's side. He put his hand on her shoulder in a gesture that was strangely adult. After a moment, without looking at him, Allison touched the back of his hand with her fingertips.
Scott didn't say another word as his mother hurried him out of the room.
Deputy Rushman let out a long sigh. "Let me guess," she said. "You don't want your dad around Scott."
Allison shook her head. "It's a bad idea."
"Bad ideas seem to be the order of the day." Deputy Rushman went over to the cabinet and pulled out the industrial-sized first-aid kit. "Let's see if we can get that arm cleaned up before your dad gets here."
Allison spared a glance at Stiles while the Deputy unpacked the kit. "Aren't you ever going to get to go home?" she asked.
Stiles raised his eyebrows. "I'm thinking that I'll be lucky if Dad doesn't throw me in lock-up for the rest of the month."
A smile ghosted across Allison's face. "You'll be fine," she said, then winced as the Deputy started to clean the scrape with gauze.
"Sorry about this," the Deputy said with a forced smile. "Just want to get the dirt out before I put some bandages on."
"It's okay," Allison said. "I thought... it usually stings more."
"I'm using saline," Deputy Rushman said. She was very precise, Stiles noted, wetting one gauze square, wiping at the edges of the wound, then setting the bloodied square aside before reaching for another. "We'll use an antiseptic cream at the end."
"Okay," Allison said. She never took her eyes off her bloodied arm.
"Hey," Deputy Rushman said, nudging Allison's hand. "What you did tonight was very brave."
Color came into Alison's cheeks. "I ran away."
"Sometimes running away is the smart thing to do," Deputy Rushman said. "I did a bit of running myself, remember?"
"That's different," Allison argued.
"Not really," Deputy Rushman said mildly. She reached for the tube of antiseptic ointment and busied herself with dressing Allison's wound. "Fear is important. It's what keeps us alive."
"That, and running really fast," Stiles said from the far side of the room. "You should have seen her, it was like trying to keep up with a camel."
Allison glared at him. "Did you just compare me to a camel?" she demanded.
"What? Camels are really fast!"
"Yeah, and they spit!"
Whatever Stiles would have said caught in his throat as the door to the break room opened, and the Sheriff led in Mr. Argent.
Allison went pale, looking back down at her arm.
Mr. Argent let out a breath. "Allison. Let's go," he said.
Deputy Rushman finished tying the gauze around Allison's arm, securing the bandage in place. "Check it out tomorrow morning, just to make sure there's no swelling or infection," she told Allison. "And you might want an ice pack for that cheek."
"Allison," Mr. Argent said again. He refused to look at Stiles, which was just fine with Stiles.
Allison slowly unfolded herself from the chair and stood. Unlike Scott's mom, Mr. Argent made no attempt to touch Allison or see if she was all right. And yeah, Stiles might have been a little biased and judgmental in the matter, but still.
"Sorry to have taken so long, Sheriff," Mr. Argent said. "We're sorry to have troubled you."
Dad had his hands on his hips, like he didn't have anywhere else to be. "Part of the job," was all he said.
When Allison crossed the room, Mr. Argent put his hand on her back. "We'll be going home now," he said, guiding Allison out of the room. He stopped them in the doorway. "There's a small matter of Allison's property..."
Stiles wanted to exclaim out loud, because really? Chris Argent was going to make a point about a stupid crossbow, now? But Deputy Rushman just got to her feet and crossed her arms over her chest, causing Mr. Argent to really look at her for the first time. "Possession of a spring-loaded crossbow is illegal in California," she said, all law and order. "Since this your daughter's first offence, we won't be pressing charges, but the weapon has been confiscated."
Mr. Argent's expression didn't change. "That's very kind of you," he said. "Again, Sheriff, sorry to have troubled you."
And with that, Mr. Argent guided Allison into the hall.
"What-" Stiles started to say, but Dad lifted a hand. He appeared to be listening for something. In the distance, Stiles heard Mr. Argent say something to the deputy at the front desk, then the entrance door to the building opened and closed.
Letting out a long sigh, the Sheriff crossed the room to drop into the chair next to Stiles. Deputy Rushman started to clean up the mess of bloodied gauze, turning her back to give the men some privacy.
Stiles wondered what Deputy Rushman had told Dad about the woods, if she'd explained what had burned, if she'd knew who had been firing those arrows.
He steeled himself to lie, ready for yet another brick in the wall he was building between him and his father.
But all Dad said was, "Is Allison going to be all right?"
"Huh?" Stiles sat up, wincing at the pull on his bruises. "Yeah, Deputy Rushman cleaned her all up."
Dad sighed again. "I mean, at home."
It took Stiles a moment to parse what his father was asking. "Yeah, I guess," Stiles said. It wasn't like Allison had the most awesome home life, with the creepy Hunter training her dad kept putting her through, and her mother being dead and her grandfather all insane and missing. But it wasn't like her dad beat her or anything, at least as far as Stiles knew.
Dad ran his hand over his face, looking very tired. "Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow and see how things are going," he mused.
Stiles rubbed at his eyes. It was nearly five in the morning and the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him. "Dad, it's all right."
If he didn't listen to himself too closely, Stiles might even believe it himself.
Deputy put the first aid kit back in the cabinet. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sheriff," she said. "You too, Mr. Stilinski."
Well, that sounded terrifying, but Stiles just gave a small wave as the deputy left, carrying a small biohazard bag full of bloodied gauze.
Dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Son," he said when they were alone, and Stiles readied himself for anything. "I need you to tell me the truth about something."
Stiles' insides quailed, but he managed to nod. "Okay."
But Dad wasn't quite so ready. It took him a minute to ask, addressing the far wall the whole time, "It's about Scott. Is he... he's a good kid, right?"
Stiles went completely still. There was something underlying Dad's question, but Stiles didn't know what.
For a brief, panic-inducing minute, Stiles wondered if Dad might know that Scott was a werewolf. But no, that was impossible. How could Dad keep his knowledge of werewolves secret from Stiles?
"Yeah, Dad, Scott's the best, like the literal best," Stiles said eventually. "I wouldn't be friends with him if he wasn't, you know that."
"Yeah," Dad said. "Yeah, I guess that's right." He stood up. "Let's get home, I'm too old for this. We can talk in the morning."
Stiles bounded to his feet, nearly toppling over the neighboring chair. Dad hauled him upright, patting his back with more vigor than Stiles' bruises appreciated.
"Your mother..." Dad said, and Stiles went rigid. His dad never brought up Stiles' mother. What could he mean?
Dad tightened his grip on Stiles' arm. "Your mother would have kicked your ass up and down for this stunt," he said softly. "She's have been proud you stuck with your friends, but she'd have kicked your ass."
Stiles swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he managed. "Yeah, she would have."
"Come on, son, let's get you home and to bed," Dad said, and let Stiles lean on his arm as they walked down the hallway, out into the early morning silence of Beacon Hills.
To be continued