A/n: this is from the episode Frayed, some of it kinda directly copied cuz I didn't know how to include Scarlett that much and I still wanted to write it!

Watching this episode also confused the hell out of me the first time I watched the show and I'm kinda just doing it the same way here!

Enjoy <3

Stiles POV

Sitting on this bus feels wrong. Everything about it feels wrong.

The rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt, the occasional dip in the road making my stomach lurch, the stupid, stale smell of vinyl seats and unwashed gym bags—it's all so painfully normal. And that's the problem. Nothing about our lives has been normal in a long time.

Scott is barely keeping himself upright in the seat next to me, his head lolling slightly, and I don't think it's because he's tired. The fact that he hasn't complained once about sitting on a bus for hours after getting his ass kicked last night tells me everything I need to know. He's in pain.

I tap my pen against my notebook, fidgeting to keep myself from totally spiraling. "Yo, Scotty!" I nudge his arm. He barely reacts.

Oh, that's not good.

"Hey, yo! Scotty?" I try again, watching as he forces himself to blink and sit up a little straighter.

"Yeah, sorry," he mutters, rubbing at his eyes. "Uh, what's the word?"

I stare at him for a second before sighing. "Anachronism."

Scott's forehead scrunches like he's trying to force his brain to function. "Something that exists out of its normal time."

I snap my fingers at him. "Nice! Okay, next word—incongruous."

Scott shifts, still sluggish. "Uh, can you use it in a sentence?"

"Yes. Yes, I can!" I lean in, dropping my voice for emphasis. "It's completely incongruous that we're sitting on a bus right now, on our way to some stupid cross-country meet, after what just happened. Incongruous."

Scott sighs. "Out of place, ridiculous, absurd."

"Perfect. Okay, next word. Um..." I pause, gripping my pen tighter. I debate whether or not to say it, but screw it. I take a breath and drop it. "Darach."

Scott tenses beside me.

"Darach," I repeat, pen tapping again. "It's a noun?"

He doesn't answer.

I exhale and drop my notebook onto my lap. "We have to talk about it sometime, okay? And we're gonna be stuck in this thing for, like, five hours, so why not?"

Nothing.

I shake my head and move on. "Next word... intransigent."

Scott mutters, "Stubborn, obstinate..."

I glance at him. He looks pale. He's been pale since we got on this bus.

"Oh, buddy, you okay?"

Scott doesn't answer.

My heart picks up its pace. I knew it. I knew this was a bad idea. "We shouldn't have come," I say, voice laced with frustration. "I knew it—we shouldn't have come."

Scott shakes his head slightly. "We had to. There's safety in numbers."

I scoff, throwing my hands up. "Yeah, well, there's also death in numbers, okay? It's called a massacre." I start listing words off my fingers. "Or bloodbath, carnage, slaughter, butchery. Wow, that's—" I cut myself off with a sigh. "All right, I'm telling Coach that—"

"No, no, no, no," Scott interrupts, "I'm all right."

I narrow my eyes. "Well, you don't look all right! Would you just let me see it?"

Scott weakly shakes his head. "I'm okay..."

"Just let me see it, okay?"

A beat of hesitation. Then, finally, Scott sighs and lifts the hem of his shirt.

And I immediately regret insisting.

The wound is bad. Worse than I expected. Nausea rolls in my stomach. "Oh, dude..."

"I know it's bad," Scott says, his voice tight, "but it's because they're from an Alpha—it'll take longer to heal."

I look up at him, swallowing hard. "How come Boyd and Isaac are fine, then?"

Scott doesn't answer. He just looks... exhausted. He leans back against the seat, staring off like his brain has checked out, and mutters, "I can't believe he's dead..."

The weight in his voice makes my chest squeeze.

"I can't believe Derek's dead."

•----------------•

Jared was not going to make it.

I could see it—hell, everyone could see it—the way he was hunched forward in his seat, hands gripping his stomach like he was trying to physically hold in whatever ungodly contents his body was preparing to launch.

And Coach? Coach was not having it.

"Jared, I'm warning you," he announced, his voice echoing over the hum of the bus. "I'm an empathetic vomiter. you throw up, I'm gonna throw up right back on you, and it will be profoundly disgusting."

Jared whimpered. "Please don't talk about throwing up... It's not good..."

I winced. The poor guy sounded so close to losing it.

Coach just scoffed irritably. "I might throw up on you just to make a point, Jared."

Jared let out another weak groan. "It's not good... It's not good..."

It really wasn't.

"Now, the rest of you," Coach barked, addressing the entire bus, "don't think we're gonna miss this meet because of a slight traffic jam... a minor tornado warning..." His voice dropped into a growl. "Jared..."

Jared let out another weak moan in protest.

"We're gonna make this thing," Coach continued. "Nothing is gonna stop us!"

I blinked. Minor tornado warning? Was that an actual thing? Could a tornado be minor? Did he think twisters came in fun-sized?

Coach exhaled sharply, eyes landing on me. "Stilinski, put your hand down."

Oh, great. I hadn't even said anything yet, and I was already in trouble.

"You know," I started, pressing forward anyway, "there's, like, a food exit about a half-mile up. I don't know, if we stop, and then maybe—"

"We're not gonna stop," Coach snapped petulantly.

"Okay, but if we stop—"

"Stilinski! Shut it! Seriously! It's a little bus! Stop asking me questions!"

I groaned, slumping back into my seat. "I hate him," I muttered.

Scott barely reacted, still slouched in his seat, his skin an unnatural shade of pale. That wasn't good. That wasn't good, at all.

"Did you call Deaton?" I asked, leaning in closer.

Scott sighed, shaking his head. "I keep getting his voicemail."

"That's it. I'm calling Lydia and Allison."

Scott frowned. "How are they gonna help? They're back in Beacon Hills."

I gave him a knowing look. "They're not. They've been following us for hours."

Scott blinked. "What?"

"Pathetic," I muttered, pulling out my phone.

---

"Hey, Stiles!" Lydia's voice came through the line, overly bright, overly cheerful. "Yeah, we're just about to walk into a movie! Uh, you know, the popcorn, and—"

"I know you guys are right behind us," I cut in flatly. "Put me on speaker."

A brief pause. Then, a resigned sigh. "Okay..."

I could practically hear them scrambling to adjust the phone.

"Okay, look," I continued, "Scott's still hurt."

"What do you mean still?" Allison's voice sharpened. "He's not healing?"

"No, he's not healing. I think he's actually getting worse." I swallowed. "The blood's turning, like, a black color..."

A silence stretched between us before Lydia's voice came through, careful and uncertain. "What's wrong with him?"

I scoffed. "What's wrong with him? I don't, Do I have a Ph.D. in lycanthropy? How am I supposed to know that?"

"We need to get him off the bus," Allison said firmly.

Lydia hesitated. "And take him where? A hospital?"

"If he's dying, yeah," Allison shot back.

I ran a hand through my hair, glancing toward the front of the bus where Coach was still barking orders at Jared. "There's a rest area about a mile up," Allison continued. "Tell the Coach to pull over."

I scoffed. "Yeah, I've been trying..."

"Well, reason with him," she pressed.

"'Reason?'" I repeated incredulously. "Have you met this guy?"

"Just try something!"

•---------------•

"Coach, it's five minutes for a bathroom break, okay?"

Coach blew his whistle, the loud sound resonating throughout the bus.

"We've been on this thing for, like, three hours—"

The sound of Coach's whistle cut me off again.

"It's sixty miles to the next rest stop—"

Coach blew his whistle directly into my face.

"Being cooped up for hours is not good—"

Coach blew his whistle

"You know, our bladders aren't exactly—"

Coach blew his whistle

I was losing my patience. "Coach, this is—"

"Get back to your seat, Stilinski!"

My jaw clenched. "OKAY!" I shouted back, flopping dramatically into my seat.

Coach didn't even look fazed. "Jared, keep your eyes on the horizon," he ordered.

•----------•

We had bigger problems.

Scott was not okay.

Allison knelt beside him in the beathroom at the reststop, i'd managed to get coach to let us out when my brilliant mind had come up with another amazing plan, we may however need a new bus for the trip home.

Alison's voice was tight with concern. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Scott blinked up at her weakly. "Sorry"

"Okay, just give us a second, okay?" Allison said quickly.

I crouched beside her, heart pounding. "This shouldn't be happening—I've seen him heal from worse than this."

"Do we call an ambulance?"

"What if it's too late?" Allison whispered. "What if they can't help?"

We needed answers. And fast.

Lydia's voice cut through the tension. "You know, it could be psychological..."

I frowned. "What do you mean? Like, psychosomatic?"

"Somatoformic," Lydia corrected.

I blinked. "Soma—"

"A physical illness from a psychogenic cause," she explained impatiently.

Why didn't she just say that the first time?

She exhaled sharply. "It's all in his head."

I glanced back at Scott, my mind racing. "All in his head?"

Lydia nodded.

"Because of Derek," I realised. "He's not letting himself heal 'cause Derek died."

A heavy silence filled the space.

Allison swallowed hard. "So... what do we do?"

Lydia's expression hardened. "Stitch him up."

Allison frowned. "Wait—"

Lydia lifted her chin. "I'm serious. Maybe all he needs to do is believe it's healing."

Allison exhaled slowly. "He's gonna need another shirt. Where's his bag?"

I stood quickly. "Uh, I'll get it. I hate needles anyway, so..." I trailed off, glancing at Allison warily. "Uh, do you know what you're doing?"

She nodded, already rolling up her sleeves. "Yeah. My father taught me."

I shifted uncomfortably. "How fast are you gonna...? I mean, the bus, like... the bus could leave."

"Then you have to make sure it doesn't leave," she said firmly.

Lydia sighed. "I can help."

I let out a slow breath. We didn't have any other options.

This was our best shot.

•----------•

After everything, after all the arguing and the phone calls and the sick dread curling in my stomach, I get a second of quiet.

Scott is patched up. For now.

And my brain takes that opportunity to drift back to last night.

To Scarlett.

**FLASHBACK**

I couldn't sleep.

Not because of the whole "Alpha pack trying to kill us" thing—though, yeah, that was a factor. But mostly because of her.

Scarlett.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the room as the clock on my nightstand ticked away the seconds.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. About the way she shut me down and completely blanked me at school. About the way Scott looked at her, like seeing her hurt worse than any wound.

I had questions.

Why hadn't she reached out to Scott before? Why had she just let him think she was gone forever?

And why was she still shutting us out?

I rolled onto my side, staring at the faint glow of my phone screen on the nightstand. My fingers twitched to text her—to do +something+—but I didn't even have her number.

Scott had been so messed up last night. And I knew it wasn't just because of the Alpha pack.

It was her.

She was back. But she wasn't really back.

And for some reason, I couldn't get that out of my head.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face, trying to push her out of my thoughts.

I had bigger things to worry about.

Like the fact that Derek might actually be dead. Like the fact that Scott was hurt.

But even as I forced my eyes shut, trying to sleep... Scarlett lingered.

And I hated it.

**END FLASHBACK**

I blink back to the present, gripping my phone in my lap.

Yeah. Everything feels wrong.

And I have a really, really bad feeling that it's only going to get worse.

Scarlett POV

I was still sitting on the floor when the front door opened, but I didn't flinch. I just closed my eyes for half a second and braced myself.

The door banged shut, rattling the already-unstable apartment, followed by the sharp clink of keys being thrown onto the counter.

I smelled whiskey before I saw him.

Fucking great.

"Did you clean?" His voice was rough, slurred.

I stood up slowly, turning to face him. "Yeah."

He glanced around the room, dark eyes scanning over the same cracks in the walls that had been there when we moved in. "Doesn't look like it."

I crossed my arms. "Then clean it yourself."

His gaze snapped to me so fast I almost laughed.

"Excuse me?"

I lifted a brow. "You heard me."

He took a step forward.

This was the game. This was always the game.

He'd come home drunk, looking for a reason. Sometimes, he'd start fights with himself—mumbling about something I did or didn't do, muttering about how useless I was until he was angry enough to make me feel it.

Other times?

I made the first move.

Because it was going to happen anyway.

And if I picked the moment, at least I'd have a little bit of control.

His jaw clenched. "You think you can talk to me like that?"

I let out a dry, humourless laugh. "I know I can talk to you like that."

I watched the vein in his temple twitch. He took another step forward, swaying slightly.

"You ungrateful little—"

The first hit came fast. I didn't dodge it.

The slap cracked across my face, snapping my head to the side. Pain flared through my cheek, sharp and bright, but I barely reacted.

I didn't give him the satisfaction.

He exhaled hard through his nose. I could feel him watching me, waiting for something.

An apology. Tears. Some kind of reaction.

He was gonna be waiting a long time.

His fist tightened. My heart pounded.

Another hit. This one harder.

Then another.

And another.

I didn't fight back. I never fought back. I just stood there and took it, muscles locked, body swaying with the force of the blows. My skull bounced off the wall, vision blurring, but I stayed standing.

He muttered something under his breath, something about me being just like my mother, but I wasn't listening anymore.

Eventually, he stumbled back, breathing heavy, the anger simmering into something slower.

His hand lifted toward me, and for a split second, I thought he was going to hit me again.

But no.

He was reaching for the bottle on the counter.

That was my cue.

I turned and walked toward my room, vision swimming, head throbbing, lip bleeding. I shut the door behind me and locked it.

Then I went straight to the stash I kept under my bed.

Half an hour later, I was gone.

Completely, blissfully gone.

Three edibles. A couple of shots from the cheap vodka bottle I had hidden in my dresser. And a joint I'd been saving for a bad night.

This qualified.

The world felt softer. My skin was humming, my head light. The pain was still there, but it felt distant—like it was happening to someone else. Someone I didn't know.

I stood in front of my mirror, tilting my head at the reflection.

My cheek was already swelling. Blood dried in a dark line down the side of my mouth.

I grinned at myself.

Then I grabbed my leather jacket, my cigarettes, my lighter, and climbed out the window.

•============•
A/n:

I'm sorry!

Please don't kill me! Or maybe do I actually wouldn't mind

Anyway I hoped you enjoyed this chapter!

Thank u all so so much for reading it means the world to me!

Also I have maybe 3/4 more prewritten chapters! I'm gonna post every 2nd day/every even date, still skipping weekends (12,14,18,20) then unfortunately no more updates until April because I actually do want to do well on my exams despite my mental health being terrible and not being able to focus on studying lol

Any thoughts? Criticism? Questions?

QOTD: fav teen wolf character?

Love you all so so much stay safe! Eat and sleep!
Byeeee

I am super superrrrer drunkkkkk like drunk affff and it just turned 10th so ima post before I pass out Lmaoo I'm probs gonna be drunk for the negg xc like 3 days cuz I'm fkd up and stupid anibersah of bestie iscoig up so yeeee abyway this was allnpreedited and the an was lrewriteen except this part obvi
Byeeeee I need meow alcohol

WC: 2860