Fanfic: For the Asking [Teen Wolf]
Aug. 12th, 2011 09:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
argentum_lsSummary: Post-"Wolf's Bane," Scott tries to get Jackson to understand exactly what it means to be a werewolf.
Notes: Revised from an original draft bydru_evilista
Word Count: 1400
The Beacon Hills Lacrosse team won their quarter-finals game—but it was no thanks to Scott. Despite Jackson’s sarcastic prediction, Scott managed to put the ball into the net only one time. The other five goals had come courtesy of Jackson (3), Brian (1), and Taylor (1). Since the opposing team only collectively managed one goal, the game outcome wouldn’t have been changed if Scott had stayed away—a choice he deeply wished he had made. He shed his gear and cleaned up slowly. Going home would mark the day as officially over, which would also mark it as officially having happened. As long as he lingered, a part of him could still hope that this monumentally awful day could still turn itself around. Or, better yet, that he would wake up and discover that none of it had really happened at all. So wrapped up was he in rehashing the day’s horrors—How had Jackson figured it out? Did someone tell him? Did Scott give himself away? Why wouldn’t Allison talk to him?—that he didn’t notice the locker room emptying out. It was only when a foot stomped onto the bench in front of him that he could push past his mounting panic and see that he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
Jackson stood too close, one foot on the bench, leaning into Scott’s face. “Come on, Scott,” he said, leaning just a little closer. The lights in the locker room had powered down to energy saving mode which cast Jackson’s face into harsher lines than it normally had. “Are you going to give me what I want?” Closer. “Or do I ruin your life, hmm?” His mouth curled into a cruel smile, and Scott couldn’t tell which option would actually make Jackson happier to achieve.
Scott pushed back on the bench, forcing more distance between them. At some point he’d finished getting dressed, though that part of his memory was a blank. How was he supposed to respond to Jackson? Where was Stiles when he needed him? He glanced around the locker room, hoping that Stiles might still be hanging back. No joy. Blowing his chance at playing tonight had probably soured Stiles on Lacrosse, had made him want to get out of here as fast as he could. Scott’d have to deal with Jackson himself.
Jackson was still talking. “If a loser like you can suddenly be a star player,” he said, sounding thoughtful, “just imagine what someone like me could do.” He pulled his leg back, standing now leaning against the lockers, and arms crossed low on his body. He looked so assured. “Scratch me, bite me, get this Alpha of yours to do it. Whatever. Just do it.”
Scott’s hands curled into fists. His breathing deepened. Anger simmered under his skin like a living beast. “You think you want this,” he spoke, his voice low, but lilting upward at the end, implying a question where there wasn’t necessarily one intended. “What do you see? A few seconds shaved off your sprint, extra weight on your bench press, an impossible high jump?” Scott let out a mirthless laugh. “The fun parts.” He shook his head and pushed himself into standing position. “This isn’t a joke, Jackson. I’m not on steroids, some designer drug you can buy.” Can quit, he added in his head. Holding back was the wrong answer, he decided. Jackson needed to see the truth.
“A gift like this is wasted on you,” Jackson replied. “But me, I want it!”
Scott took a step closer, let some of the wolf creep into his eyes. “You think you want it,” he countered. “I’m not gifted.” He felt his canines grow longer, sharper, and his nails turn into claws. “I’m a fucking mythological monster!” he shouted, slamming one clawed hand onto the locker next to Jackson’s face. The metal rang with the impact.
Jackson’s eyes went wide and he tried to back away, but managed only to sidle down the locker bank a few inches. His arms came uncrossed and his palms went up into a defensive position.
“I can hear your heart beating, getting faster and faster.” The lilt was gone from Scott’s voice, replaced with a growling undercurrent. “I can smell your fear. Hear your blood.” He leaned in and drew a deep, deliberate breath, letting his nostrils flare wide. “Do you know what I want?” Another step closer, another caressing breath. Jackson was trembling. “I want—“ he smiled slowly, emphasizing the teeth, “--to rip your throat out with my teeth. I want to feel your flesh and skin rip, hear your screams of pain.”
Jackson swallowed thickly. His heart was pounding so hard Scott could see it in his temples, in the vein on his forehead. “S-Scott, calm down,” he choked out. “We’re still in the school. People are around. You’ll get caught if you do anything to me.”
Scott laughed harshly. “I’m a werewolf,” he said. “I’d be half way home before your body even hit the floor.” His eyes flashed and a wicked smirk crossed his face as he leaned close enough for the fabrics of their shirts to brush together. “And they’d just blame your death on Derek. Or a … cougar.” He spat the last word out. “Why would they suspect me?” He growled the question into Jackson’s ear. The muscles in Scott’s back started to ache, to cramp in the way that preceded a deeper change. If he didn’t stop soon, he wasn’t going to be able to.
Jackson’s eyes bulged, breath catching as his heart tried to skip a few beats. “It wasn’t Derek who killed those people, was it? It was you!”
Scott pulled back, forcing some space between himself and Jackson. The fear-scent coming from the older boy was thick, delicious. It was all he could do not to act on it. A sweat stain was spreading down the front of Jackson’s shirt. “No,” he said. “But it could have been.” He averted his eyes, finding one of the brackets where the bench was bolted to the cement floor to focus on. One of the four bolts had started to pull loose. Thinking about this somehow made it easier to string together words. “That night when we were all locked in the school? That was the Alpha that was chasing us. The same wolf you want to have bite you.” He could hear Jackson shudder. “He made me change, and I wanted to kill you for him. All of you. Wanted to rip you limb from limb, devour your blood-soaked flesh, and howl in victory at your slaughter. You have no idea how lucky you were. I was on the other side of the door, key in the lock, ready to do it. That is what being a werewolf is, you dickhead!”
He growled and spun away from Jackson, breathing harshly. He squeezed his eyes closed, thought about Allison: the sound of her heartbeat, the scent of her skin, her voice. He dug his claws into his palms, adding some pain to the mix to help focus him, until his own racing heartbeat began to slow, and he could wrestle the wolf back under control. It took a lot longer than it should have. He turned back to Jackson, visible signs of what he was once again hidden. "Walk away,” he said. “This…rage, this pain, it’s not worth it.”
Jackson's knees gave out and he slid down to thump against the floor, staring at Scott wide eyed. His chin trembled. “B-but you didn’t,” he said. “Kill us,” he added, as if he needed to clarify.
God, didn’t he ever give up? How did he still not get it? Scott shook his head sadly. “Go home, go to bed. If...” He shook his head again, trailing off. If you're going to be stupid, find Derek, he was going to say, then thought better of it. He wouldn’t, couldn’t give Jackson anything that he might see as hope. Better to let him have nightmares, to spend the night quaking in his bed because he now knew that the monsters were out there. Scott grabbed his bag from his locker. Jackson was still on the floor, protesting with meaningless sounds. At the locker room door, Scott paused. Without turning around, he agreed, “I didn’t kill you.” He shoved the door open. “Yet.” And left.
Notes: Revised from an original draft by
dru_evilistaWord Count: 1400
The Beacon Hills Lacrosse team won their quarter-finals game—but it was no thanks to Scott. Despite Jackson’s sarcastic prediction, Scott managed to put the ball into the net only one time. The other five goals had come courtesy of Jackson (3), Brian (1), and Taylor (1). Since the opposing team only collectively managed one goal, the game outcome wouldn’t have been changed if Scott had stayed away—a choice he deeply wished he had made. He shed his gear and cleaned up slowly. Going home would mark the day as officially over, which would also mark it as officially having happened. As long as he lingered, a part of him could still hope that this monumentally awful day could still turn itself around. Or, better yet, that he would wake up and discover that none of it had really happened at all. So wrapped up was he in rehashing the day’s horrors—How had Jackson figured it out? Did someone tell him? Did Scott give himself away? Why wouldn’t Allison talk to him?—that he didn’t notice the locker room emptying out. It was only when a foot stomped onto the bench in front of him that he could push past his mounting panic and see that he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
Jackson stood too close, one foot on the bench, leaning into Scott’s face. “Come on, Scott,” he said, leaning just a little closer. The lights in the locker room had powered down to energy saving mode which cast Jackson’s face into harsher lines than it normally had. “Are you going to give me what I want?” Closer. “Or do I ruin your life, hmm?” His mouth curled into a cruel smile, and Scott couldn’t tell which option would actually make Jackson happier to achieve.
Scott pushed back on the bench, forcing more distance between them. At some point he’d finished getting dressed, though that part of his memory was a blank. How was he supposed to respond to Jackson? Where was Stiles when he needed him? He glanced around the locker room, hoping that Stiles might still be hanging back. No joy. Blowing his chance at playing tonight had probably soured Stiles on Lacrosse, had made him want to get out of here as fast as he could. Scott’d have to deal with Jackson himself.
Jackson was still talking. “If a loser like you can suddenly be a star player,” he said, sounding thoughtful, “just imagine what someone like me could do.” He pulled his leg back, standing now leaning against the lockers, and arms crossed low on his body. He looked so assured. “Scratch me, bite me, get this Alpha of yours to do it. Whatever. Just do it.”
Scott’s hands curled into fists. His breathing deepened. Anger simmered under his skin like a living beast. “You think you want this,” he spoke, his voice low, but lilting upward at the end, implying a question where there wasn’t necessarily one intended. “What do you see? A few seconds shaved off your sprint, extra weight on your bench press, an impossible high jump?” Scott let out a mirthless laugh. “The fun parts.” He shook his head and pushed himself into standing position. “This isn’t a joke, Jackson. I’m not on steroids, some designer drug you can buy.” Can quit, he added in his head. Holding back was the wrong answer, he decided. Jackson needed to see the truth.
“A gift like this is wasted on you,” Jackson replied. “But me, I want it!”
Scott took a step closer, let some of the wolf creep into his eyes. “You think you want it,” he countered. “I’m not gifted.” He felt his canines grow longer, sharper, and his nails turn into claws. “I’m a fucking mythological monster!” he shouted, slamming one clawed hand onto the locker next to Jackson’s face. The metal rang with the impact.
Jackson’s eyes went wide and he tried to back away, but managed only to sidle down the locker bank a few inches. His arms came uncrossed and his palms went up into a defensive position.
“I can hear your heart beating, getting faster and faster.” The lilt was gone from Scott’s voice, replaced with a growling undercurrent. “I can smell your fear. Hear your blood.” He leaned in and drew a deep, deliberate breath, letting his nostrils flare wide. “Do you know what I want?” Another step closer, another caressing breath. Jackson was trembling. “I want—“ he smiled slowly, emphasizing the teeth, “--to rip your throat out with my teeth. I want to feel your flesh and skin rip, hear your screams of pain.”
Jackson swallowed thickly. His heart was pounding so hard Scott could see it in his temples, in the vein on his forehead. “S-Scott, calm down,” he choked out. “We’re still in the school. People are around. You’ll get caught if you do anything to me.”
Scott laughed harshly. “I’m a werewolf,” he said. “I’d be half way home before your body even hit the floor.” His eyes flashed and a wicked smirk crossed his face as he leaned close enough for the fabrics of their shirts to brush together. “And they’d just blame your death on Derek. Or a … cougar.” He spat the last word out. “Why would they suspect me?” He growled the question into Jackson’s ear. The muscles in Scott’s back started to ache, to cramp in the way that preceded a deeper change. If he didn’t stop soon, he wasn’t going to be able to.
Jackson’s eyes bulged, breath catching as his heart tried to skip a few beats. “It wasn’t Derek who killed those people, was it? It was you!”
Scott pulled back, forcing some space between himself and Jackson. The fear-scent coming from the older boy was thick, delicious. It was all he could do not to act on it. A sweat stain was spreading down the front of Jackson’s shirt. “No,” he said. “But it could have been.” He averted his eyes, finding one of the brackets where the bench was bolted to the cement floor to focus on. One of the four bolts had started to pull loose. Thinking about this somehow made it easier to string together words. “That night when we were all locked in the school? That was the Alpha that was chasing us. The same wolf you want to have bite you.” He could hear Jackson shudder. “He made me change, and I wanted to kill you for him. All of you. Wanted to rip you limb from limb, devour your blood-soaked flesh, and howl in victory at your slaughter. You have no idea how lucky you were. I was on the other side of the door, key in the lock, ready to do it. That is what being a werewolf is, you dickhead!”
He growled and spun away from Jackson, breathing harshly. He squeezed his eyes closed, thought about Allison: the sound of her heartbeat, the scent of her skin, her voice. He dug his claws into his palms, adding some pain to the mix to help focus him, until his own racing heartbeat began to slow, and he could wrestle the wolf back under control. It took a lot longer than it should have. He turned back to Jackson, visible signs of what he was once again hidden. "Walk away,” he said. “This…rage, this pain, it’s not worth it.”
Jackson's knees gave out and he slid down to thump against the floor, staring at Scott wide eyed. His chin trembled. “B-but you didn’t,” he said. “Kill us,” he added, as if he needed to clarify.
God, didn’t he ever give up? How did he still not get it? Scott shook his head sadly. “Go home, go to bed. If...” He shook his head again, trailing off. If you're going to be stupid, find Derek, he was going to say, then thought better of it. He wouldn’t, couldn’t give Jackson anything that he might see as hope. Better to let him have nightmares, to spend the night quaking in his bed because he now knew that the monsters were out there. Scott grabbed his bag from his locker. Jackson was still on the floor, protesting with meaningless sounds. At the locker room door, Scott paused. Without turning around, he agreed, “I didn’t kill you.” He shoved the door open. “Yet.” And left.
