Author's note: The story takes place after season 3B, slightly AU and all that. English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any spelling/grammar errors.

The Blame Game

I

He's falling from a cliff. There are rocks far below him, and he's falling headfirst, and any idiot could tell that he's not going to make it. It's that obvious, because he's been falling for far too long. He wouldn't even survive if there had been water down below instead of hard, sharp rocks. But maybe this is for the better, he thinks, knowing that everything is about to end. The rocks are closing in dangerously fast, and for some reason, he can't shut his eyes. His brown eyes are wide-open, staring at the sharp rocks, only seconds away. Hopefully, it won't hurt. Hopefully, he won't feel any pain at all.

Then he wakes up.

Stiles sits up in bed and trashes violently and gets caught in his bed covers, staring frantically around him. He's back in his own bedroom, and everything is just as he left it. His clothes are in a heap on the floor and his desk is covered in papers and books, and his room is in a serious need of some cleaning.

It takes awhile for Stiles to calm down. His heart is racing, and he doubts he's going to get anymore sleep tonight. He groans, rubbing his eyes as hard as he can, as if that's going to make him fall asleep again. Stiles turns around on his side and stares at the alarm clock. The blaring, red numbers tells him that it's not even one in the morning; he's gotten one and a half hours of sleep. That's better than yesterday, he tells himself, but it's not going to be enough. Lacrosse tryouts are tomorrow, and he's been on the team since freshman year. He can't screw up.

With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes. Last night, he didn't get any sleep after waking up. Tonight, he won't either. So he stays awake. An owl is howling somewhere in the distance, and every now and then, the occasional car drives by outside. If he listens close enough, he can hear the stray cat softly walking across their porch, its paws lightly tapping the floor. The cat was here yesterday as well, and is probably going to be sleeping on the hood of his jeep when he leaves for school in the morning, exactly as it did yesterday, staring at him with its gray eyes.

Stiles lay awake; his eyes are now wide open, staring into the ceiling, while his mind races. The only thing he can hope for is finding an ounce of sleep between now and the sun's earliest rays, but it will not come.

"You okay?" Scott has been eyeing him all day, all through class and especially during lunch, when Stiles appetite had somehow mysteriously disappeared. He'd spent lunch picking apart his sandwich into small pieces that never found their way into his mouth.

"Stop asking me that," Stiles says as he slams the gym locker shut. "I told you, I'm fine." He's just a bit sleep deprived, that's all, although he should be used to it by now, having suffered through those horrible nights after the ice sacrifice. And of course, all those nights that followed.

"But you smell…" Scott pauses. "Weird." He scrunches up his nose and grins at Stiles, who rolls his eyes and grabs his lacrosse stick.

"Thanks," he says as they start making their way out to the field.

"No, that's now what I mean… it's like something's off, you know?"

"Switched up my cologne. Might be that," Stiles says, giving his best friend a lopsided grin. However, Scott narrows his eyes into thin slits, as if that alone would make Stiles spill it, which is not going to happen. Scott's been worrying about him too much by now, and know Scott, he probably still is. Stiles isn't about to spill the beans. Not now, when the Nogitsune's finally gone and a sense of security has fallen upon them, making their town feel somewhat safe and even normal again. He's not about to ruin that by confiding in Scott about a few ridiculous nightmares. He's not five.

Scott opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles never get to find out what it is, as coach blows his whistle awfully close to Stiles's ear. The shrill noise is so loud Stiles is pretty sure he just lost hearing in his right ear.

"Listen up," Coach says, eyeing them all. "Every position's up for grabs, and by that, I mean every position." At this, he seems to narrow his eyes at Scott. Stiles can hear him taking a shaky, nervous breath and swallowing hard. Stiles would probably be equally as nervous as his best friend if it hadn't been for the fact that he was simply too tired to care.

They line up on the field, him ending up behind Scott, and he can tell Scott's pumped up. He's jumping up and down, to keep his muscles from getting too cold, and he's attentively watching their teammates' efforts to score. Some do, some don't, but none of them is a very good player, which isn't boding well for the team's future. Scott, despite that, is pumped up, intent on not losing his role as captain, and then it's finally his turn.

Stiles watch as Scott gracefully catches the ball and prepares to begin. He takes a deep breath, then lunges forward. He's fast, although that's not really a surprise, not with the wolf inside of him. He's fast enough for the goalie to look intimidated, and perhaps because of that, the ball is in the back of the net before the goalie even has time to react. Scott closes his fist and pump it up in the air. Coach makes a content, pleased nod, and then it's Stiles's turn. He's been paying attention to Scott, and therefore almost stumbles forward, just barely catching the ball. It feels as if the stick is going to slip out of his tight grip, but he manages to hold onto it long enough to get a shot off.

His shot doesn't even hit the net.

He watches as the ball misses the net by a two feet, and he feels the disappointment hammering in his chest as he turns around. Coach is, as expected, glaring at him.

"What the hell was that, Stilinski?" he yells, but Stiles simply shrug. He knew tryouts were going to be difficult, but he's ridiculously bad.

"Sorry, coach. My aim was a little off," he says, trying to grin, although he's sure it comes off as a grimace.

"A little off? A little? That was the worst shot I've seen all day!" Coach continues, but this time, Stiles ignores him. He walks past him to sit down on the bench next to Scott. Scott is frowning again, wearing that worried look that Stiles is so used to by now.

"What was that?" Scott asks, and Stiles does his best to muster up yet another grin.

"Stayed up all night playing a game," he lies. By now, everyone has completed a shot, and they line up again. Both of them rise from the bench.

"A game?"

"Yeah, an online game. Beat the crap out of a few twelve-years old and lost track of time," Stiles says, but he doesn't know if Scott believes him; maybe he can smell the lies on him. But Scott doesn't say anything, now focusing on the tryouts. He wants to be the captain after all, and Stiles is not going to stand in the way.

At the end of the tryout, when Stiles body feels so heavy and tired that he's surprised he can even run, coach hands out scrimmage vests to half of the team, and Scott grins at him, wearing the blue vest while Stiles do not.

"You're going down," he says playfully, and Stiles manage to grin back.

"We'll see about that," he says, even though he knows that the words coming out of Scott's mouth probably is nothing less than the truth.

They take their positions, and the game starts. Stiles prays that his teammates don't pass him the ball, but he's in no such luck. The ball ends up with him, and he tries to run. His footsteps are heavy, his breathing irregular, and his heart is racing. It's difficult to get any air down in his lungs, but he tries anyway, tries to shake off the dreadful feeling of not being able to breathe.

He sees Scott in front of him. Scott's want to be the captain, obviously, and letting Stiles pass him with ease would look awfully bad. So Stiles tries to run faster, tries to run past him, even though there's no way a human can beat a werewolf. No way.

And in that millisecond when Stiles is supposed to prepare for the inevitable hit, he slips. Panicking, he tries to find his ground again, even though he knows he's in the most vulnerable position he can possibly be in. Scott knows it too, Stiles can see that, but even with his scary wolf reflexes, he can't stop.

Scott plunges toward him, his entire body weight hitting Stiles like a freight train. The air gets knocked out of him, and then he finds himself on the ground in a tremendous amount of pain. He's lying on his side, his left arm twisted painfully under him, and even though he didn't hear it snap, he knows it's broken. He cries out in pain when his arm feels as if it's on fire, and the team gathers around him, Scott's worried eyes hovering above him.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, so sorry…" Scott is rambling. His voice sounds so far away and Scott's face suddenly becomes blurry. Maybe he'll get some sleep after all, Stiles thinks, and let a welcoming darkness overcome him. The joy of not having to be awake lets him, for a second, forget about the pain, and he closes his eyes.

In the end, Stiles probably wouldn't have made the team even if he hadn't broken his arm. In the end, Scott makes captain and Stiles wakes up in a hospital room in pain, off the team and with his arm in a white cast.