I live. Since it's been about fifteen months (sorry dudes, my bad), I'll refresh your memory and remind you that we've reached the tail end of episode two, Jackson's making his recovery, Stiles and Scott have just found more evidence against Derek and are going to his property to dig up the second half of Laura Hale's body, and the dreaded lacrosse game is imminent. Enjoy.

Chapter Five

"So, where have we taken Derek? State pen? Alcatraz? Guantanamo Bay?"

"We haven't taken him anywhere."

Mr. Stilinksi sat behind the wheel of his police cruiser, driving through the evening darkness to the school for the lacrosse game. He glanced at Stiles, his eyes reproachful. "Derek Hale is in a holding cell down at the station, and the body's gone to the coroner. Until we can come up with enough evidence to convict him, that's where Derek is going to stay. And that's all I'm telling you."

Stiles' head tilted back, bumping against the headrest as he let out a disappointed sigh. "Aw come on, Dad. That's it?"

"That's more than I told the five o'clock news," Mr. Stilinski replied. "You're lucky I tell you anything."

Stiles looked at his father then, his brow twitching. "Hey, you can trust me," he said, suddenly serious. "It's not like I tell all my friends about your ongoing investigations."

"Not even Scott?"

No answer came to Stiles. His dad had to pick that one exception.

Mr. Stilinksi gave his son another glance, only this time he smiled. "I trust you," he said. "And Scott. Just try not to get me fired, all right?"

Stiles chuckled and nodded, easing back into his seat. "Sure."

They had made it to the school by that point. Mr. Stilinski steered into the parking lot, finding a spot on the far end near the sports fields. Climbing out of the car, he and Stiles shared a parting wave goodbye before he made his way to the field.

Stiles had his duffel slung over one shoulder as he trudged toward the locker room. As he walked, he tried to ignore the sharp bite in the evening breeze, a chill too cold for an evening so early in fall, he thought. The hairs on his arms bristled as the wind blew past him, and he couldn't tell if it was from the cold or nerves. Stiles pulled open the door to the change room, harsh light and noise spilling into the quiet night.

He waved at a few of his teammates as he passed them, strolling between the rows of benches to his locker. Some looked nervous, others excited. Such was the first game of the season; nerves were always high, one way or the other. They really had no idea, though, what was really riding on this game. If they did, they would have a real reason to be nervous.

They hadn't come up with a solid plan. Somewhere between sending Jackson to the hospital and arresting Derek Hale, the dilemma of Scott's "aggression problem" slipped between the cracks. One thing was for certain though, however much Stiles pretended it wasn't: Scott was going to play tonight's game. Stiles didn't understand how anything could be so singly important, let alone this puppy-love affair with Allison. It was frustrating and confusing, but Scott had made his stance clear, and after unsuccessfully trying to convince him otherwise, Stiles finally had to cave in and accept it, and pray nothing bad happened.

Stiles was half-hoping he wouldn't see Scott sitting in front of his locker, in full gear, pulling his jersey on, but it was in vain and he knew it. He slowed to a stop behind Scott.

"Gonna try to convince me not to play?" Scott asked, not looking at Stiles.

Stiles shook his head and drew a heavy sigh. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

He got the feeling Scott hoped so too.

-o-o-o-

"Morning, champ."

Jackson looked at his father, trying halfheartedly to mask his derisive expression. Monday mornings were difficult enough without having to deal with these awkward exchanges. "Don't call me champ," he muttered. He swept past Mr. Whittemore, who was seated at the kitchen counter with the paper and a cup of coffee, and pulled open the fridge, considering his limited breakfast choices.

"You know, I can make you something if you like," his dad offered.

Jackson rolled his eyes as he closed the fridge. "I'll pass," he said, making his way out of the kitchen. "I can grab something on the way."

"Well how about I take you to school?"

Jackson stopped and whirled around. "Uh, how about no?"

"Aw come on, Jacks, it's no big deal." Jackson could swear he saw his father glance down quickly at his newspaper. "It's not like I'm going to pull up in a clown car. I'm heading to work a bit later this morning, what do you say? It'll save you some gas."

"Why don't you save me some humiliation instead?" Jackson said in a clipped tone. He ignored his father's stunned look as he turned around and stalked away. "And don't call me Jacks," he called out as he walked out the front door.

His Porsche was waiting in the driveway as always, and Jackson suddenly felt the tension in his jaw relax. He was finally well enough to drive himself again. He strode over to the driver's side door, pulling his keys out of his pocket and sliding them into the lock. With his injured arm, he couldn't even manage that, so he savoured this. Jackson was at a hundred percent again. It was back to business.

He slid into his seat and started the car, adjusting the radio as he pulled out of the driveway. He cycled through all his presets and was annoyed to find nothing good playing. In fact, there was nothing playing but news.

He gave up after cycling through a third time, stopping at what was supposed to be his favorite radio station.

"...police have yet to name any suspects, and still allege that this could be the work of an animal. Damage to the vehicle, including claw marks and numerous dents, support this claim, but injuries sustained by the as-of-yet unidentified victim suggest otherwise. No official reports have been given by medical examiners."

By this time, Jackson had made it to the Starbucks that was on his way to school. As usual, he opted for the drive-thru. He pulled into the queue and stopped. The news had already moved on to something else, but his mind lingered on the details of the damage, specifically the claw marks. He remembered something suddenly and reached into the backseat where his backpack was sitting. After a moment's worth of rummaging, he produced a lacrosse glove. It wasn't one of his own, but the one he had found on the field after last Saturday's game.

After losing the ball to McCall again and forfeiting the winning goal to that pretender, Jackson was amazed to find himself lost in a sea of people from the bleachers running past him. Past him. That's not the way it was supposed to work. He was practically ignored by everyone, even Lydia, as they cheered and yelled and congratulated the rest of the team. In hindsight, Jackson probably should have spent less of the game trying to plough Scott into the ground and more time actually playing, but he didn't deserve this. He stayed clear of the crowd, slinking back to the sidelines sulkily, until the field had finally emptied.

He felt the heavy burn of embarrassment in his chest that was becoming annoyingly familiar to him as of late. He tried so hard, so damn hard, and still Scott McCall managed to steal his victory. This was getting old very fast; Jackson needed something, and he needed it now.

How coincidental it was, almost serendipitous, that he happened to find a lone glove sitting forgotten in the middle of the field. Curious, Jackson walked up to it slowly and picked it up, examining it carefully under the silvery glow of moonlight. He noticed the fabric fraying at one of the fingertips. There was a small hole there. Jackson scrutinized the other fingers. They bore the same little tears.

He felt a sudden chill go up his spine, and he twisted around. An imposing figure was standing behind him. Watching him. Jackson felt a wave if anxiety go over him. He shouldn't be here alone, he thought, and he quickly left the field.

A loud honk pulled Jackson out of his thoughts and he stepped on his gas pedal instinctively. His car lurched forward, pulling up to the drive-thru window much faster than he should have.

"What'll it be today, sir?" a bored voice asked.

"Hazelnut Macchiato, half-sweet, three espresso shots, no drizzle, and a bacon breakfast sandwich." Jackson paused. "And a lemon cranberry scone."

Jackson heard an audible sigh. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes. That's all," Jackson replied shortly.

The server claimed the five minute wait was purely accidental, to which Jackson replied with a threat to have her fired, but Jackson was finally on his way to school before long.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Jackson helped himself to his breakfast sandwich, biting slowly into its warm, bacony goodness. He made the last turn onto his school's street and groaned when he saw a long lineup of cars. Munching on his sandwich grumpily, he inched forward as much as he could, coming dangerously close to the crappy looking Sunfire in front of him.

"Jesus Chriiist, move it," Jackson grumbled. "What is this, a fucking crime scene?"

Incidentally, it was a crime scene.

As Jackson's car finally creeped into the parking lot, he noticed at least three police cars parked in the side lot where they kept the school buses. It was hard to tell, but he might have also seen some yellow police tape strung across the lot. Jackson might not have thought anything of it if it was just one police car, but three police cars, the report on the radio, and his dad's insistence to drive him to school despite his arm being better all told Jackson that something was definitely not right. Thankfully, Jackson had something of an inside source.

"Stilinski!"

"God, do you ever get people's attention before scaring the piss out of them?!"

Jackson had found Stiles in the sciences hallway. "You know anything about the police cars outside?" he said, not caring to waste any time.

"Police cars? What police cars? What the hell are you talking about?" Stiles sputtered, looking at Jackson patronizingly.

Jackson rolled his eyes. "God, you really are clueless, aren't you?"

"Actually, I happen to be getting better grades than you in math and history, and I know this because I check my grades regularly so I don't have to rely on lacrosse to get into college, so maybe you're the clueless one." Stiles grinned at Jackson proudly.

Jackson really wanted to sock Stiles in the stomach, but he remembered the gum and thought better of it. "Okay, Einstein," Jackson said, stepping closer to Stiles, "then riddle me this." He dropped his bag to the floor and fished out what he considered was the incriminating evidence, the mysterious lacrosse glove. "Why does it look like someone clawed their way through this glove?"

"Dude, is that a lemon cran scone from Starbucks?"

"Don't change the subject, Stiles!"

"I freaking love those things."

"Well how would you like it if I shoved it down your throat?"

"Actually, I would like that very much."

"Just tell me what you know about this stupid glove."

"Only if I get a bite of your scone."

"No."

"Come on, I gave you food!"

"You gave me half a pack of gum you cheap ass!"

"You know, your police car mystery is just one phone call to the sheriff's office away for me."

"Fine, you get half," Jackson growled, tearing a chunk off his scone. "Don't want your friggin' slobbery mouth all over my food," he added under his breath.

The way Stiles' eyes lit up was almost comical as he took the piece of scone from Jackson and stuffed it into his mouth. "It's my glove," he said thickly, spraying Jackson with crumbs. He had enough sense to swallow before continuing. "I chew on the fingers of my glove. You know, out of habit."

"You... wait, what?"

"I chew. On. My. Glooove." Stiles pretended to sign the words with his hands for emphasis.

"But I thought it was McCall's glove," Jackson said.

"Guess you thought wrong," Stiles said, grinning as he started to walk away backwards. "Don't worry, Jackson, we can't all be winners. At least you've got good looks and a chance at a lacrosse scholarship, you might still get into college."

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Jackson said exasperatedly.

"I got half a scone and a 3.8 GPA, of course I am!"

Stiles turned around and practically skipped down the hall.

-o-o-o-

"It's a little ironic, Scott."

"It's not ironic!"

Stiles and Scott were moving swiftly down the hall. Scott was faring slightly better now that he had confirmed that he hadn't brutally murdered his girlfriend in a fit of sleep-killing, but understandably, he was still a little shaken.

"Come on, Scott," Stiles sighed. "You make it through Saturday's game without killing anyone, you tell me you've got your wolfy problem under wraps, then this happens? It's a little—"

"Say that word one more time and we will have a murder on our hands," Scott said fiercely. "Glad you're finding this so amusing."

"Okay, dude, I'm sorry."

"Why are you so cheery today?"

"Um... never mind," Stiles said, quickly wiping the smile from his face. "Hey, that reminds me. Jackson found one of your gloves on the lacrosse field last Saturday. You know, the one you ripped through with your lethal, razor-sharp werewolf claws."

"Jackson found it?" Scott asked uneasily.

"Yeah. You're just lucky you've got a friend that can spit out alibis like nothing."

"You stalled, didn't you?"

"He had a scone! Anyways, not the point. The point is, you have to be more careful Scott. Especially now that you're a person of interest in a suspected homicide."

"I'm not a person of interest! No one knows that I had anything to do with it!"

"Yeah, okay, and let's keep it that way. Move it, buster." Stiles gently herded Scott into their econ classroom.

"Hang on," Scott said as they took their seats. "I asked you why you were so cheery, and that reminded you of Jackson?"

"I said never mind, Scott!"

-o-o-o-

Jackson seethed silently as he pushed his lunch tray down the line, grabbing all sorts of food items and piling them on. He would never admit it, but he was a bit of a stress eater. He could not believe that Stiles had once again given him the slip, supplying some half-baked fabrication in answer to his questions, then running off before Jackson could grill him. Although, Stiles' explanation made a little more sense than what Jackson was thinking, which vaguely connected roid rage and poorly-groomed fingernails. Still, Jackson could tell that little weasel was hiding something.

"Jackson. Hello?'

A hand waved in front of Jackson's face and he jerked back. He realized his arm outstretched and resting on a basket of fruit, his hand lightly wrapped around an apple he was about to grab. He blinked and looked at Lydia.

"Sorry," he muttered, picking up the fruit and placing it on his tray.

"Still asleep at the wheel?" Lydia sighed, brushing past her boyfriend. "You barely paid attention to where the ball was last Saturday, and now you can't even manage lunch without zoning out?"

"I've had a lot on my plate, if you haven't noticed," Jackson said in a low voice, stalking after Lydia. "Or have you been too busy doing your nails?"

Lydia laughed through her nose. It wasn't a nice sound, and it wasn't the least bit sincere. "I've got an AP calculus exam coming up, and I just finished the lab report for chem by myself because my lab partner was sick. And, I managed to finish my sign and come to your little game so I could wave it around all night like some skippy cheerleader. If your plate is full, it's a teacup saucer compared to my casserole dish."

"Bravo," Jackson hissed through his teeth. "You must be so proud."

They both picked their trays off the counter and descended upon the cafeteria, Lydia strutting with her head high and hair bouncing, Jackson with his usual expression of bored condescension, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth thin. Lydia started toward their usual table, and was awkwardly bumped out of the way by Jackson when he continued straight.

"Jackson! Honestly, get your head out of—"

"Not there," Jackson mumbled. "Not today."

"What are you talking about?" Lydia asked in a hushed tone, following Jackson confusedly.

"That," Jackson pointed to a table on the far end of the cafeteria, "is the sheriff's son. You curious about what happened on the school bus?"

"Of course I'm curious, a man almost died," Lydia said, catching up to Jackson. "Just don't make me sit beside the one with the buzz cut. He's weird."

"Fine. We'll make Danny sit beside him."

-o-o-o-

Stiles was willing to believe a lot of things since his best friend turned into a mythical creature, but he was still having trouble wrapping his head around this "dreams that are actually memories" idea that Scott had in his head. He had recounted a similar occurrence the previous week, in which a dream about running through the forest ended up with him waking up in a swimming pool (and again, Stiles had to get up before dawn and drive half a mile out of town to pick him up). Sure, it was an startling coincidence that Scott dreamt about attacking someone on a school bus, just like the incident that morning, but there were still details that didn't line up. Details such as Scott waking up in bed and not on the bus, or the victim that clearly wasn't Allison – and still unidentified, now that Stiles thought about it. Scott, however, was not convinced.

"I have to cancel my date with Allison tomorrow," he said resignedly.

"No, dude, you're not canceling. You can't cancel your entire life, we'll figure this out."

"Figure what out?"

Stiles nearly inhaled the French fry he had in his mouth. He coughed awkwardly as he watched Lydia take a seat beside Scott. She was followed closely by Jackson, who seated himself at the head of the table (of course). Stiles gave him a cheeky smile. Jackson merely rolled his eyes. Allison slid into the seat beside Scott and, of all people, Danny sat down next to Stiles.

Stiles' head swiveled slowly to look at Danny. For some reason, he didn't look very pleased about where he was sitting. He never seemed very happy with Stiles, and Stiles was starting to think Danny didn't like him.

"So," Danny said, completely ignoring Stiles, "I heard it was some sort of animal attack. Probably a cougar?"

"I heard mountain lion," Jackson replied.

Stiles tried not to laugh. A cougar is a mountain lion, he thought.

"A cougar is a mountain lion," Lydia said.

Stiles missed what he was sure was a fantastically sarcastic retort from Jackson when his phone suddenly vibrated. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he saw a new email in his notification bar.

Because Stiles didn't always have access to a police scanner and his Dad was not always forthcoming about his investigations, he had subscribed to all the local news stations' breaking news alerts through his email. One such alert sat in his inbox with the subject heading "Victim of brutal animal attack identified."

"...probably some homeless tweaker who was going to die anyway."

"Actually," Stiles said, "I just found out who it is."

Stiles was doubly pleased to find a link to a video clip in the email in addition to a short blurb. He turned his phone so everyone could see.

Lydia, who started out looking just as concerned as everyone else physically shuddered at the clip and turned away. "Can we talk about something slightly more fun, please? Like… where we're hanging out tomorrow night!"

Stiles, who was deeply entrenched in the news report, snapped back to reality when he heard a certain phrase. "Hanging out" was not how Scott described his and Allison's date tomorrow. Suddenly, the identity of an animal attack victim was inconsequential next to the disaster he could already see unfolding in front of him. He watched as Scott turned slowly to Allison, his eyes filled with the same dread that filled Stiles. "Hanging out?" he repeated.

-o-o-o-

"God, that was like watching a car wreck!" Stiles exclaimed.

"I know!" Scott groaned. The two had just emerged from the cafeteria after what Stiles could confidently say was the strangest, most awkward lunch block ever. Not only did he have to watch his best friend's love life spiral into a flaming wreck, but Danny kept giving him weird looks.

"First it turned into the whole 'group date' thing," Stiles said with slight disgust. "Then out of nowhere comes that phrase—"

"Hanging out."

"You don't hang out with hot girls, okay. It's like death." And Stiles would know. He was a veteran in that field. It's how he spent most of his time at parties. "Once it's 'hanging out,' you might as well be her gay best friend. You and Danny can start hanging out."

Stiles was ready to keep going, but Scott cut him off. It was just as well, because as soon as he mentioned Danny's name, he got sidetracked again. Stiles was used to being ignored. He wasn't exactly a popular guy, and he knew some people made fun of his eccentric outbursts, but he knew Danny well enough, being one of his teammates. Stiles was on generally good—or at least neutral—terms with all the other players, but Danny never seemed to like talking to him. Or being near him. Or even looking at him.

"I don't think Danny likes me very much."

A disquieting notion, that Danny might think Stiles was homophobic, started to dawn on Stiles. Stiles wasn't homophobic! He wasn't exactly a social justice buff—his studies were always focused on academics, and the only news he ever took interest in was the local news, specifically the news pertaining to his father—but he knew enough about the issue to know where he stood on it. If Danny found someone attractive, he should have the freedom to act on it without being judged, Stiles thought. Even if it was another dude. Then something else dawned on Stiles.

"Am I not attractive to gay guys?"

Was it his hair? Stiles liked keeping it short because he never had to worry about it and he could focus on other things like school and not being killed by his best friend. Was it his clothes? Truth be told, his father had bought a lot of his clothing, so if he was somehow committing a cardinal fashion faux pas, it was Sheriff Stilinski's fault. Stiles wasn't exactly a supermodel, but he liked to think he was fairly good-looking. He pointedly ignored the fact that no girl seemed to think so, but he saw no reason that any gay guy would find him repulsive. If Stiles were gay, he would find himself attractive. Heck, he would even admit Danny was attractive. He did have ridiculously toned pecs, after all.

Suddenly, Scott was walking away, muttering something about work.

"Wait, Scott!" Stiles called. "You didn't answer my question! Am I attractive to gay guys? Scott!"

So anyway, sorry that took me over a year. I am notoriously bad with updates; even if I think I'm going strong and I pump out chapters regularly for a while, eventually, for one reason or another, I stop and go into hibernation. Do not fear! I never intended on actually giving up this story, and I don't intend to anytime soon. I've done far too much planning to have this story die. I already have the sequel planned out, believe it or not, because there's still two season's worth of material after this… isn't there ;)

In general, when I write fanfiction, I don't like rehashing scenes, and this has become a bigger problem writing for a TV series versus a movie or a video game, as there are decidedly more scenes. I like writing around established scenes, interstitial stuff, or writing from a different POV. If I have to rehash a scene like I did in this chapter, I try to include as little of the original scene as possible (because let's face it, we've already seen the show) and instead supplement it with my own material. I don't know why I felt the need to explain that, but this isn't part of the story, I'm allowed to deviate from the topic.

And while we're talking about that, you don't have to read these author's notes. I had one anonymous review left for me that only bitched about the fact that I ramble in my ANs. If all this is a little tl;dr, and I know it is… feel free to ignore it. It's not like I'm continuing the story down here. But more likely than not, this is all you're gonna get for a while, so may as well fill up the time slogging through this :P

I jest. I mean. I half-jest. I don't know when the next chapter is gonna go live, but I'll tell you, now that Teen Wolf is finallyyy back on the air, I'm going to be thinking about it a lot more, hence, this fanfiction as well.

SO STAY TUNED!