Gut Instinct (Teen Wolf)

3:5 It's True, It Is

Warning: mentions of a mental asylum, blood, injury, angst, EMOTIONS, the last part is really just Vic texting people, so be prepared for that, swearing

Mason had given her a ride home. Scott had taken Lucas's body to the hospital. The spikes in his arms hadn't faded but she had a feeling they wouldn't now that he was dead. 

Lucas. She had only learned his name after he died. 

She walked up to the door, just ready to flop in her bed and have the day done with. She chuckled at the thought. A few years ago, relief meant being smushed with her kids on a bed bug ridden and uncomfortable matress filled with springs that poked and prodded her back. But it was sanctuary from the tough work, from the abusive men and their bitches. 

She opened the door and froze. The smell of blood smacked her in the face. It was faint but unavoidable. She looked back in the driveway. Roscoe was there, the blue Jeep looked like it always did. But something was wrong. 

She followed the trail to Stiles's room. A corner of his whiteboard was a mess of smudged pen. The eraser was near his desk like he had thrown it at the board and it had landed near the desk. Stiles himself had his back to the door. His shoulders were tense but his back was slumped. He rubbed his right shoulder like it hurt. His chemosignals were all over the place. Anxiety, dread, nerves. 

"Stiles?" She called. 

He froze. His spine straightened and his hand stopped its ministrations. 

"Mischief?" she asked. She walked over to him, walked in front of him. His eyes were closed. But there were obvious tear tracks that trailed down his face. She wiped the tears away with her thumbs. "Mischief, what happened?" 

His eyes opened. The whiskey eyes she loved, the ones she always found comfort in, were ringed with defeat, sadness and anxiety. She didn't say anything. Just guided him to her shoulder for him to cry. He did so. He clutched onto her and cried into her jacket. She didn't say anything, just ran her fingers through his hair. He might've tried to speak, but all she heard were hiccups and choked sobs. 

She didn't know what to say because she didn't know the situation. Just that he needed someone on his side. So she held him, ran her fingers through his hair, rubbed small circles onto his back with her thumb. The shoulder he had been rubbing was shoved in her face. The smell of iron, the smell of blood, was stronger then ever. She didn't look at it, just let him cry himself out. She didn't even care he was getting her jacket wet. She could dry it later. 

His hands shook as he finished. He let go of her and sat on his bed. He wiped his eyes and nose. Vic went the bathroom and returned with a roll of toilet paper. He let out a watery chuckle but took it. She sat next to him but didn't say anything. 

"Thanks," he said. His voice was gravelly from crying. 

"You do the same for me," she said. She held her hand out, a silent question. He stared at her palm for a moment, silently. He hesitated before he took her hand. The black veins trailed from his shoulder, down his bicep and forearm into her. She felt it as it moved through her, through her skin into her heart. She thought of his shoulder, the smell of iron in her nose. The veins turned white and pushed back to him. 

He let go a second after they reached him. "You need your energy," he said. 

"So do you," she protested. 

"You gonna ask what happened?" he questioned. 

"Do you want to tell me?" she asked. 

He hesitated. "Yes and no," he said. 

"You wanna tell me but you don't want to see my reaction," she guessed. 

He nodded. He sighed and put his head in his hands. "I did something. I did something terrible, Vic."