A/N: Full disclaimers apply. I do not own anything Teen Wolf related, nor do I work for Teen Wolf (though I'd be happy to consider a job offer). Story starts shortly after "Magic Bullet" and runs concurrently through the day after "Night School." By the calendar I've put together, this works out to about two weeks. Comments and critique are always welcome.

Proud of You

by ladyslvr

Scott caught the scent from the far end of the field. It was diesel fumes and oil and Gillette shaving cream and sweat, and it made his stomach knot because he knew that mix, even though he hadn't smelled it more than a year and he didn't realize until now that he had ever noticed it. He stumbled to a stop on the field, his nose automatically going up, trying to seek out more. "What the hell's your problem, McCall," someone shouted as he twisted past. The scent was gone, then a fresh breeze brought another burst. Someone slammed into him and he hit the ground hard, his breath momentarily knocked out. A collective "oh" rose up from the stands. He heard the voice that belonged to that smell in the audience and shut his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that followed.

Then he was being helped from the field and lead to the bench. His helmet was lifted away. A light shone in his eyes. He shook it off. "I'm fine," he protested. "Just thought I … saw … something," he added, because he wasn't going to say what really happened.

"Of course you saw something, McCall," the coach snarked. He was kneeling in front of Scott, a penlight in one hand which he shined directly into Scott's eyes. Scott cringed and turned his head away. "You saw our chance at a goal get intercepted," Coach said.

"Sorry, Coach," Scott said, trying to sound contrite. He wanted to turn to the stands and track down the origin of the scent, but held back. Sparklers burned in his eyes; he wouldn't be able to see anything useful right now, anyway.

"Take a few minutes to catch your breath," Coach responded, standing up. "Hell, take the rest of the quarter. You're no good if your mind's not with the team." He flicked the light off and stalked down the bench. "Greenberg, get out there," he added, hooking his thumb toward the field.

"What was that about?" Stiles asked, scooting down the bench to sit next to him. Though otherwise suited up, his gloves and helmet were absent. He clearly held no hope for getting to play tonight.

Scott glanced around to see who else might be listening. No one was. "I smelled someone," he said, dropping his voice.

"Who?" Stiles asked, perking up. "The Alpha?" He twisted around, eyes flicking over the players and the crowd as if the person should stand out in every way now that he'd been recognized in one way.

Scott shot him a dirty look. "No." He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the last of the sparklers. The scent was steady now, impossible not to taste with each breath. Memories bubbled up: being encouraged to jump off the high dive even though his knees shook so hard that he could barely climb the ladder / camping, just the one time because it poured the whole weekend / fighting, oh how they fought, shouting at each other loud that his ears rang afterwards. "My dad," he said.

"Here? What's he doing here?" Stiles demanded. Stiles knew the whole story, of course. The two had been friends before, pushed together at school because they didn't fit comfortably into any other group. But it wasn't until after that last fight between Scott and his father—the one shortly after his freshman year started that resulted in Scott moving back in with his mother—that their friendship lost its superficiality. Scott needed someone to confide in and Stiles needed someone to help, and neither realized how well those needs fit together until Scott arrived at Stiles's house in the middle of the night, exhausted from biking furiously for over five miles, and closer to tears that any fifteen year old boy would ever admit.

The McCall men hadn't spoken to each other since.

"I don't know," Scott answered with a shrug. His shoulders were tense and he sat hunched forward. The game played on in front of them, and he watched it for a while without processing anything he saw. "He must want something," Scott finally concluded.

"Maybe," Stiles offered, "he just wants his son back in his life."

Scott's jaw set hard. "He doesn't even know me," he said.