Chapter 7 - Shock and Awe

Alright, I'm super tired so I'm posting this without editing, so please forgive any mistakes of grammar, spelling, etc.

Also, I'd like you to give me your unvarnished opinion on this one. It's been so long since I've written anything, I need to get better perspective.

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf. Kinda wish I did so I could wrap all of the characters in blankets and take good care of them and give them hot cocoa. But I don't.

Shock can come in varying levels. First there's the, 'oh my, that was quite surprising' type of shock—the kind that comes from getting a pop quiz or seeing some kids getting into a fight at school. That one fades away pretty quickly. Then there's the type brought on by horror movie jump scares that make you feel like you're going to get murdered for a solid fifteen to thirty seconds. But sometimes shock can be more than a gasp or quick shriek. Sometimes, if the experience is traumatizing enough, it can cause an 'acute stress reaction'. Basically you get completely freaking terrified causing your sympathetic nervous system spazz out and flood your entire system with adrenaline. Essentially it leaves you a numb, blubbering mess for like….two days. And for some reason treatments include trying to cover you with a blanket.

Gwen knew why the nurses kept trying to cover her in those plushy blankets. It probably had something to do with her sickly pallor, sweaty palms, and lock-jawed silence. She was probably radiating a sort of traumatized aura. But she didn't need those blankets. Because she wasn't in shock. Nope. Those clenched fists and uneasy breaths were not the result of adrenaline. Gwen Gilroy was pissed.

We'll tell you later, they said. Just stay here, they said. You'll know everything soon, they said.

Freaking liars. It had been well over an hour and she was shivering in a hospital room with a blanket that didn't make her any warmer with no answers and a bunch of questions she had to bullshit her way through. And that image of Liam's face, twisted and contorted in pain. Each time it flashed through her mind a ball of molten lead the size of a grapefruit dropped into the pit of her stomach.

Everything happened in a blur—all frantic movement and panicked shouting—but somehow Gwen could remember each excruciating detail. Liam's anxious stammering and declarations of 'what the hell?'—words which she echoed numerous times within the confines of her head—followed by Scott wrestling Liam out the door and insisting that she 'wait for Stiles'. Because apparently when weirdass crap happens in Beacon Hills, you don't call the police. You call Stiles so that Stiles can assess the situation and then decide whether or not they should contact the police. Because apparently high schoolers now run the whole freaking town.

And what did that all add up to? Her standing on a roof, staring at the body of that boy—that thing. The thing that tried to kill Liam and Scott—that thing that tried to kill her. She didn't know what to call it. But that thing was now steeping in a puddle of its own blood. Blood that had somehow managed to find its way under her fingernails and was still sprayed across her face like she was the canvas of a damn Jackson Pollock painting.

Fifteen minutes she stood out there on that wasteland of asphalt and stray rusted scaffolding. And maybe for those fifteen minutes she was in shock. A cold numbness had certainly crept into her bones, freezing her from the inside out. Or maybe that was the icy air seeping through her thin clothes. Either way she had been left there alone, no idea what to do with herself except stare at the boy with the teeth like needles.

It was oddly hypnotizing. She couldn't make herself stop looking at it. It had collapsed on its stomach, face pressed into the ground, but the neck had twisted just enough to reveal those empty, glassy eyes and spindle teeth. And then, suddenly, the teeth were gone—retracted back into his skull somehow. The blood was still there, though, deep red and smeared violently over his lips. Gwen looked closer and closer, trying to understand. Before she knew it she was lying down next it him, barely outside of that pool of blood, eyebrows furrowed and teeth chattering from either the cold or the fear. Maybe that was just how she looked at dead people now. Lying on the ground next to them and letting that metallic smell fill her nose.

A part of Gwen had wanted to reach out and touch him—to make sure he was actually there. She reached out, but her hand stopped, hovering inches away. It had turned into a Schroedinger's cat situation. As it was in that moment, he could either be there or not. She could be hallucinating or not. Monsters could be real or not. The second she reached further, her fingers would meet cold, dead flesh or they wouldn't. And then there would be certainty. So she hesitated. Mostly because she wasn't sure whether or not she'd rather be hallucinating.

It was kind of funny. Something like this was supposed to shatter your world right? Finding out the monsters under the bed were real should change everything, but there were no differences between the her of that moment and the her of a few hours ago. Apparently you can't shatter something that's already in pieces. It just stays the same degree of broken.

Anyways that's how Stiles found her—lying on the tetanus-riddled surface of the roof, staring at the creature. Of course he had then pulled her to her feet, demanding if she was alright and quickly inspecting her for any possible injury—the typical post-muderous rampage stuff. Gwen's head had still been in a bit of a fog then. The blood spatter on her face seemed to spur a bit of a freakout on his part, complete with anxious stammering and uncoordinated apologies. At first she was absently muttering platitudes like 'it's okay' and 'I'm fine', even though she didn't particularly know what those words meant in that moment.

Then he went in for a hug. Gwen was pretty sure that was the moment she went from 'in shock' to 'royally pissed off'. Firstly because there was something about hugs that made her instinctively angry these days. Secondly? Because he still didn't tell her a damn thing about what was actually going on. Instead he just told her what to do. The instructions went thusly:

Don't talk to anybody but his dad. The sheriff was in on the whole 'supernatural' issue, but nobody was keen on making it general knowledge.

Don't tell his dad everything. The sheriff only gets part of the story. Because of reasons.

Don't say that Liam got attacked.

Don't say that that Scott bit Liam.

Basically don't bring up Liam in any way.

Liam doesn't exist.

Liam is a figment of her imagination.

Who's Liam?

There were probably more than a few Liam-themed 'instructions' headed her way, but rather than listen to more of Stiles's rambling she turned on her heel and strode silently to the roof door, leaving Stiles scrambling behind her. There were more than a few shouts of protest, but she ignored them, shoving her way through and back into the clinical fluorescent lights of the hospital.

The lights were blinding. The rays stabbed at her eyes till they ached, forcing her to throw a hand up to block it. For a moment there were only shapeless blobs, some stationary and some darting around, all of them bearing a startling resemblance to the ghosts from Pacman. Blinking rabidly, that harsh glow faded and the shapes slowly came into focus.

Inside there had been mayhem. Police officers and nurses darted around, making panicked phone calls and jotting down things in notebooks as they tried to make sense of the chaos. It actually took them a while to notice her trudging down the hallway, even with her looking like the last half hour of 'Carrie'. They were all too wrapped up in their own business to even realize she was there. That is, until one khaki-clad deputy who kind of looked like a green-eyed Captain America came to a stop in front of her.

"Hey," he had whispered, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder, looking at her with a freakish degree of earnestness. "Hey, hey, hey. What happened to you?"

Then Gwen had glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see Stiles careen around the corner. He over-corrected his trajectory, sending him straight into a wall but somehow he managed to stay standing long enough to wave his hands in what was probably some military code signal for 'shut the hell up'. Or for 'buy more linguine'. Or for 'I am an octopus'. Given the elaborate nature of his spasming there was really no way to tell, but Gwen had always been pretty good at using context clues. But regardless, she got the hint, and her desire to extort as much information out of Stiles as possible in the near future far outweighed any scruples she had about lying to—well, misinforming—the the police.

Choice made. She let her face go blank and turned back to the deputy with a traumatized look on her face. It honestly wasn't that hard to mimic at that point. "Check the roof."

One staticky radio call from Deputy Green Eyes and that had been that.

So now here she was in room 237, perched on the edge of a hospital bed and doing her damnedest to avoid the constant onslaught of questions while this one nurse circled her like an over-zealous mother hen. Her basic strategy was to not talk at all. A few cops had come through during the fifteen minutes or so she was in there, trying to get her to give a statement. She didn't. A few nurses had tried to wrap her in fleecy blankets. She let them fall from her shoulders. It was a small, petty act of passive aggression, but Gwen wasn't going to pretend that she didn't enjoy it.

It didn't take long after they found the body for Sheriff Stilinski to show up. She blinked in surprise when he appeared in the doorway before trying to compose herself. He seemed to be quietly arguing with someone on the other side of the doorframe. Gwen's eyebrows were about to furrow in confusion until she realized the facial expression itself wasn't worth the effort. Stiles was on the other side of that door, probably hiding behind a magazine or something since he was a teenager who hadn't yet quite seemed to grasp the concept of 'object permanence'.

Finally, with a sigh so heavy it echoed, the sheriff ducked into the room, his head hanging in that slightly apologetic way he always seemed to keep it. It was strange. He always had a kind look about him, but it was married with an aura of perpetual frustration behind those green eyes and ruddy complexion that always make him seem tired. Now she knew why. He just had a lot of bullshit to put up with. After quickly scanning the room, he inclined his head in the direction of the nurse currently checking Gwen's vitals and generally prodding her to within an inch of her sanity. "Hey, Gladys," he murmured quietly. "I'm gonna need a few moments with this young lady here."

The nurse seemed to bristle, her face turning as red as those salmon-colored scrubs of hers, though it was probably more at being told what to do than any instinctive nurse-ly obligations she might feel. She let out a small scoff and planted a hand on her hip before leveling a disparaging look at the him. "Sheriff, this girl has been through a severe emotional trauma tonight, " she bit out. "She hasn't said two words since she's been under my care. She's in no position to be interrogated right now."

Gwen rolled her eyes imperceptibly. Or at least almost imperceptibly. The sheriff froze for a moment, his eyes snapping to hers. She held his gaze for a brief moment before looking away, but it was enough to get the point across. He exhaled sharply in something that almost seemed like exasperation. He probably felt like the local sheriff in every episode of Scooby Doo known to man. Folding his arms across his chest, he squared his shoulders in her direction. "Gwen?" he said, keeping his voice tentative. "Do you think you could answer some questions?"

Gwen glanced up at nurse Gladys, and then back at the sheriff, before giving a small, timid nod. The sheriff gave a nod and looked at the woman, whose expression had somehow become even more sour. A moment ago Gwen wouldn't have thought that was physically possible, but here they were. "Gladys," Sheriff Stilinski said, his voice courteous but firm. "Could you give us a minute."

Letting out a quiet scoff, Gladys ripped the velcro blood pressure cuff from around Gwen's arm, tossed it onto the counter with a loud thwack, and strode out of the room. The woman was definitely in need of a Snickers. The sheriff sighed heavily and moved to close the door, ignoring the very Stiles-like sounds of protests on the other side as it creaked shut. Turning back to face her, he reluctantly pulled out that notebook and pen all cops seem to have. Gwen frowned as he clicked the pen. Did those come standard issue? Like was there a departmental mandate on whether they used Bic or Pilot?

Her mental inquiries were cut short when the sheriff cleared his throat, making her wandering mind snap to attention. "Listen, Gwen," he said, his voice low and solicitous. "I know this has to be a very difficult time for you, but—"

"You can dispense with the whole 'are you okay' thing," Gwen deadpanned. "It's really not necessary. I'm fine."

The sheriff blinked in surprise as Gwen straightened in her seat, abandoning the meek, stooped shoulders and overall closed posture. She shifted her gaze so that she was staring at him evenly instead of that timid way of staring up through her eyelashes and his eyebrows shot up in response. "Well you seem to have made a fast recovery."

Gwen made a face and shrugged. "People don't really try to talk to you when they think you've lost your marbles so I…temporarily misplaced mine."

"And now you've found them again?"

"It's always important to keep one's marbles close by," she replied easily. "Ideally within an arms length. You never know when you're going to need them." The sheriff appeared thoroughly unimpressed with her sarcasm—she had the feeling he had built up a tolerance to it—so Gwen let out a heavy sigh and bit her lip. "I figured I shouldn't talk to anybody until there was somebody around who would take what I have to say seriously. Apparently you're one of the select few doing the Monster Mash, so here we are."

The sheriff pressed his lips together in a thin line and nodded in understanding. "Okay then, Gwen," he murmured. "I've already got an idea from my son out there, but why don't you tell me what happened."

Gwen swallowed and nodded in return before continuing on with the version of the story she had decided to roll with. It made a little less sense with all of the Liam-related details plucked out and tossed to the wayside, but then again what about any of this made sense anyway? Monsters existed. That revelation kind of took logic and punted it out the window like a deflated football. "Okay," she began, "so I was waiting to catch a ride home with Scott and his mom. There was a big crash and this—this noise, which I guess in retrospect was a howl. Then, out of nowhere, that—guy? Whatever it was appeared, grabbed me, and yanked me up to the roof. Then Scott showed up. I mean it was Scott, but it wasn't Scott. His face….."

She let the words trail off as she found herself analyzing the ridiculousness of her narrative. Two super-human teenagers fighting on a roof-top? That sounded like some B-grade TV show. And she hadn't even gotten to the most bizarre-sounding part yet. The sheriff gave her a piercing look and placed a hand on her shoulder. "If you need a moment—"

Gwen shook her head and tucked her hair behind her ears, doing her best to ignore the crusted blood that still clung to some of the strands. It was easier not to think about things. Not thinking about things was better. "No, it's fine," she muttered. "They fought. Like really fought. Like….super-human strength fighting. Which I guess makes sense since apparently neither of them are human. And then this—this other guy showed up with some sort of axe thing. Embedded it in the shark teeth guy's back. Which was followed by dying and stuff. And then Scott ran after that guy. The killer guy. The second killer guy."

"And do you have any descriptors of the third party assailant?" the sheriff inquired.

Gwen opened her mouth and snapped it shut just as quickly. She wasn't quite sure how to address this one. "Ummmm," she drawled. "Pale skin, shaved head, upwards of six feet, eyes like a psychopathic rodent and…."

The sheriff paused for a moment, gesturing at her questioningly. "And?"

Gwen scrunched her face up into a grimace. Her hands formed fists, clutching the sheets of the bed within them. Which was probably a good thing. Otherwise she was pretty sure her nails would start cutting into her palms. She glanced back up at the sheriff, her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. "This part is gonna make me sound clinically insane."

The blank expression she received in turn almost made her want to bust out laughing. "In this town?" the sheriff replied, waving his hand around the terminally beige room. "Clinically insane is my happy place."

Exhaling sharply in something slightly resembling a laugh, Gwen bobbed her head in understanding. "Okay. Okay. Um…the guy—the axe guy—he didn't seem to have a mouth."

Apparently there were still one or two things that could still faze Sheriff Stilinski, because that little revelation didn't come without a jolt of surprise. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared at her through furrowed eyebrows. "No mouth?"

"Yeah," Gwen sighed. Her voice was becoming almost nonchalant at this point. Like it was totally normal to be talking about shape-shifting monsters and mouthless killers. Nonchalant was better than actively thinking about it. "Yeah, it was like this—" she gestured at her own mouth "—this layer of skin. Like in that scene from the Matrix when Elrond in aviators Keanu Reeves at the beginning of the movie and he's just like, mmph—"

She tried to mime the scene, but given the look she was getting from the sheriff it didn't really aid the investigation in any significant way. So she dropped it. "Anyways," she said, waving a hand absently, "that's a dieting strategy I've never considered before. He probably has to wear a scarf or something around his face when he goes grocery shopping. He probably looks like a total d-bag."

The sheriff clicked his pen definitively and tucked it into the spiral ring of his notebook. Which wasn't all that surprising. There was nothing she said that could go into an actual, official report. "Thank you for your cooperation, Gwen," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I'll be sure to put out a BOLO for a…..'total d-bag'."

"Good call."

Gwen made a move to lace her fingers together. It was only then that she realized that her hands were still shaking. All that excess adrenaline hadn't made its way out of her system yet. Letting out a breath, she balled them back up again, shoving them down to her sides so that she was practically sitting on them. The twitch of the sheriff's jaw told her that he noticed, but he opted not to say anything. She was grateful for that. Gwen squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself back into the moment. When she opened them again, her hands still weren't steady, but she could pretend that they were. "Is there anything else you need from me?"

The sheriff narrowed his eyes at her, giving her a calculating look. She suspected that his bullshit detector was beeping at least a little. He seemed to ignore it though, because he was a decent person and she had been having a really shitty day. He shifted on his feet, clearing the path between her and the door. "You're free to go for now," he said, gesturing at the door. "If I have any more questions I'll contact you."

She bit her lip and nodded in understanding. "So what do I do now?" she asked, throwing her hands in the air. "I don't exactly know the protocol when it comes to boy-cannibals, but I doubt the tagline 'supernatural creature' is going to make itself into the police report. And I don't think the name Scott McCall would make much sense there either. So what are we saying In case someone wants me to bust this story out at dinner parties."

The sheriff's eyes fell shut and he scratched absently at he rubbed at his forehead like he was trying to stave off a headache. Something told Gwen those efforts were a little too late. "If I'm being honest, I'd avoid talking about it entirely," he replied. "In this town things tend to blow over quickly. But I think leaving Scott out….would probably be for the best."

"Right."

With one more deep breath, Gwen hopped off the bed and made a beeline for the door, more than a little eager to get out of the hospital, away from the beeping monitors and people wearing lab coats. Just as she was reaching for the handle, though, the sheriff's voice made her stop. "Gwen—"

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder to find the sheriff staring at her again, only this time it wasn't with 'investigator' eyes. This time they were more just plain curious. Given that and the fact that his pen and pad of paper had been stowed, she got the feeling that the next question had nothing to do with any current investigations. "Is there something else I can help you with?"

The sheriff took a few small steps towards her, concern etched into the lines of his face. "If you don't mind my asking…you don't seem all that fazed by all of this. Why is that?"

Gwen stared at him blankly and shrugged. "Other than the teeth, what makes them any different from people?"

Without waiting for a response, Gwen yanked the door open violently—probably a little harder than she needed to. Almost immediately she was met with a high-pitched yelp followed by a thud. As was to be expected, Stiles had been lurking right around the corner doing his level best to eavesdrop, and in true form his strategy to avoid detection was to hurl himself as far away as possible. The only thing keeping him from colliding with some peeling laminate tiling was the shelf he managed to grab hold of. "H—hey, Gwen," he managed to force out, patting the shelf almost like he was thanking it for not letting him land on his ass. "Are you okay—how are you doing?"

Gwen's jaw twitched and her lips pursed. That pissed of feeling? It was coming back again in full force. She folded her arms across her chest and jutted her chin forward. "Can we leave now?"

"That—" Stiles pointed at her awkwardly "—that sounds like a fantastic idea."

"Great!" she sniped. Gwen marched past him, leaving him to trail after her. She gritted her teeth, trying to moderate her frustration, and the next few words she spoke were barely above a whisper "You have got a lot of explaining to do."

The beginning of that Jeep ride was completely silent. The engine roared, the wheels whirred beneath them, and little bits of gravel hit the undercarriage, all creating some sort of muted cacophony, but to Gwen's ears it was almost oppressively quiet. And even with all of those questions in her head, filling it up to the point it felt like it was going to explode, but she just….couldn't….say anything. And her hands, now shoved deep in the pockets of her jacket, were still shaking.

Shit. Maybe she was in shock. She probably needed one of those damn blankets after all.

It didn't help that Stiles's eyes kept flicking in her direction, all that concern behind them. Like she was small. Like she was fragile. Like she was falling apart at the seems. That just made her even more pissed off. Mostly because there was a sizable chance that he could be right.

It wasn't like she could blame him, though. Or the nurses. All it took was a glimpse at her own reflection in the rearview mirror. Her skin was at least three shades paler than normal, the purple, bruised color under her eyes was only made darker by the smudged eyeliner, her hair was matted and wild, and her pupils had shrunk down to pinpricks despite the darkness of the night surrounding them. She looked less like a person than a reanimated corpse. Extracting one hand from her jacket, she made a move to yank her fingers through her hair to make her look marginally less ghoul-like, but the second she touched it she halted. That crusted material was still in her hair. She still had blood in her hair.

For a moment she forgot what being alive was. It was as if everything in her body stopped all at once—breathing, heartbeat, everything. She had been switched off. The whole time she sat there in the hospital she had been switched off. But now she was sitting in Stiles's car with a dead boy's blood in her hair. Because he was a boy. Some of the time he was a boy. His face was burned into her brain, and if you took away the teeth it belonged to that nameless guy she saw in the lunch line sometimes. She dropped one of her books once and he had bent down to pick it up for her. And he was dead. And his blood was in her hair.

Sean. She remembered his name now. It was scribbled on the spine of his textbook in sharpie. His name was Sean.

The wave of nausea crashed into Gwen with such full force, she felt as if she had been kicked in the gut with a steel-toed boot. Her stomach heaved and twisted and for a moment she was absolutely certain she was going to vomit, but her stomach was empty. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she let out a breath. Her chest shuddered in panicked desperation and she began to tear at her hair, her movements manic. Her fingers split the strands apart leaving flakes of blackened red falling from her head like morbid little snowflakes.

"Hey."

The word floated through her head, bouncing around inside there like both sides of her skull were playing a game of pong. She didn't fully register it, though. Her mind was filled with the sensation of dried blood collecting under her fingernails as she tried to get it out. It wouldn't leave her. It kept finding new ways to stay. The faces wouldn't leave her either. Liv. Liam. Sean. Liv. Liam. Sean. All scared. All bleeding. All children.

Her breaths were coming out deep and quick, the air leaving her lungs before it had enough time to do its job. Was she breathing or was she choking? Was there any difference? All she knew was that her heart felt like she was in the twentieth mile of a marathon and her lips were tingling, like they were about to go numb. Where did that feeling come from? What was—

"Hey, hey, hey," the voice continued, this time more forcefully. Gwen kept ignoring it. It probably came from inside her head like all the other ones whispering at her. Her fingers continued separating the strands of her hair, and for some reason she found herself counting them. Each one she separated out wouldn't have any blood on it anymore, right? So once she had counted each one, all the blood would be gone. But she didn't know how many strands there were, how would she know when she was done? There was no way to know—she had to know.

Suddenly her small, scarred hands where enveloped in a pair of much larger ones—ones without bitten nails and flaking black nail polish. They gripped hers tightly, forcing them to still there movement. The abruptness of it forced her mind to stop for a moment. Her breath hitched in her chest, interrupting the agitated gasps, and her eyes snapped to a pair of of light brown ones. For a moment they seemed completely foreign—like she was staring at a stranger—but then she blinked.

Stiles was staring at her, his gaze strangely reassuring and his entire person totally still. Which was bizarre unto itself. Stiles was always moving, usually erratically with no sense of purpose whatsoever, but in this moment he was still and looking her straight in the eye. "You're okay," he murmured. His voice was gentle but also pointed, like he was talking to a wounded animal threatening to lash out. Which was a comparison she had to admit possessed a certain degree of validity.

"You're okay," he repeated, his eyebrows moving just one notch higher for emphasis. "It's over now. Breathe. And slowly this time."

Gwen gave a slight nod and released the breath she had been holding for the past….she honestly couldn't say how long. She held Stiles's gaze the whole time, but felt her state of mind shift as she did so. Slowly her craze faded into a tentative calm. Stiles noticed the change enough to nod at her and slowly release her hands.

As she came back to herself, Gwen glanced around, taking in her surroundings. They were still on one of those seemingly infinite supply of wooded streets in Beacon Hills, but shifted slightly to the right. Stiles had pulled off the road and onto the shoulder. She quickly wrenched her hands back, crossing her arms, and drawing her knees up to her chest, and generally folding herself into as tight a ball as she possibly could. "Why are we stopped?" she demanded, her voice clipped.

His eyebrows drew together ever so slightly. "You were having a panic attack," he stated simply. "You know—irregular breathing, heart palpitations, the general act of freaking out. Typically that's the kind of thing you stop a car for."

She let her head roll back on her shoulders so she could look at him with a sardonic expression. "I've had a panic attack before, okay?" she sniped in that know-it-all tone that even pissed her off a little. "You feel like you're dying until you don't anymore. The end. It's not that big a deal."

Stiles stared at her for a moment with that 'I can't believe this crap' look of his—eyes narrowed, mouth hanging open slightly. For a second she thought he was trying to light her on fire with the power of her mind. But then he glanced down at her hand—her still trembling hand—and that expression fell from his face almost as quickly as he had plastered it on. Instead he just pressed his lips in a thin line, that look of silent understanding that seemed freakishly close to his dad's, and twisted the keys in the ignition, making the engine roar to life.

"Come on," he consoled. "You've had a long day. Let's get you home."

Gwen's eyes, which had been analyzing the jagged edges of her nail polish, immediately darted up, narrowing as she studied the angular contours of his profile. "You're not taking me home," she announced, her voice matter-of-fact

Her sudden, abrupt interjection caught Stiles off-guard, making his mouth open and close, kind of like a fish slowly dying on the deck of a boat. "I'm not taking you—what the hell do you mean by that?" he finally demanded.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she shot back bitterly. "Did I stutter? You're not taking me home."

Based on his reaction, Gwen had just completely reaffirmed in his mind that she was an absolute, raving lunatic of the highest degree. Or just a pain in the ass. Probably both. "What th—" he stammered, shaking his head like he was forcing water out of his ears. "O—okay, no. Absolutely not. Gwen, you just ha near death experience. I'm taking you home."

"No," she snapped. "No you're not. You're taking me to wherever the hell Scott and Liam are, and you are telling me everything that's going on here. And when I say everything, I mean each minute detail. Starting with what the hell I saw on that roof."

Stiles scrunched his face up into an expression of almost impossible frustration and let out something that seemed like a cross between a screech and a grunt. "Look, Gwen," he grumbled, the words coming out short and clipped. "You have no idea what—"

"Oh, I know I have no idea," she growled back. "That would be why I'm asking." She lifted a hand and shook her head in reconsideration. "No. Scratch that. Not asking—demanding. You said you were going to give me answers, and I am demanding answers."

He let out this sort of weird guffaw, giving her a look out of the corner of his eye that made it perfectly clear he thought she was insane. "If I don't bring you home, Lydia will most definitely kill me."

"If you do bring me home, I'll kill you. And I'm closer."

Stiles squinted at her with this wince on his face that seemed to be something like a cross between amusement and pity. "Yeah….." he drew out, cocking his head to the side. "Sorry, Gwen, but if this is some sort of familial 'which one of Martin ladies inspires the most fear and awe' thing, I'm going to have to go with Lydia on this one. No offense. I mean, I'm sure you can be down-right terrifying under the right circumstances, but these….are not those circumstances."

Letting out an indelicate snort, Gwen reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her phone. As soon as the screen lit up, a bolded message appeared: '8 Missed Calls: Lydia'. Gwen paused for a moment, staring at the message, but then swiped to the right. Scott would have let Lydia know that she was okay. Wordlessly, she began punching in numbers before pressing it to her ear. It took a solid two rings before Stiles did a double take. "Whoa, whoa—what are you doing?" he demanded.

"Calling your dad," she said with a prim shrug.

Immediately, Stiles hit the breaks and the Jeep lurched to a stop. Which might have been a problem in most places, but given the perpetually abandoned status of the roads in Beacon Hills, the only issue was the sting of where Gwen's shoulder hit the seatbelt. Stiles wheeled around in his seat, staring at her with wide, almost panicked eyes. "You're doing what?!"

"Calling your dad," Gwen repeated matter-of-factly, though somehow with a more snarky intonation. "I'm getting leverage. You tell me everything, or I tell your dad about Liam." He continued to gape at her, the look in his eyes shifting more to the 'anger' spectrum of emotions, prompting her to raise her eyebrows innocently. "It's ringing."

He pointed a highly scandalized finger at her. "You—you're bluffing. You don't have his number. There's no way you have his number."

"You got a 89 on that Pre-Cal exam Mr. Hamilton surprised you with," she deadpanned, taking note of the small start of surprise Stiles gave. Gwen made a face and shrugged. "I happened to glance at it once. I saw the test on the table during lunch when I walked by you this past Tuesday. I don't forget things. Which means that, well, everything, is still stored up here." She tapped a finger against her temple and smirked. Stiles's eyes rolled almost imperceptibly, making Gwen's smirk widen. He didn't believe her. It was always more fun when they didn't believe her. "You need to work on vectors some more. You got rusty over winter break. I'd be happy to help you out with that."

The ringing seemed to fill the car, blocking out the even the sound of the crickets in the woods surrounding them. The two of them stared at each other like they were the middle of some Western shootout. The slightest twitch of the nose or wrinkling of the forehead were elevated to the level of intimidation tactics. "It's still ringing," Gwen murmured, her voice dropping to a lower, more threatening register.

It only took a few more moments for a low whine to come out of Stiles's mouth, followed by some rather elaborate swearing. "O—okay," he grunted, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Okay, fine. We'll go to Scott's. You made your point."

"Thank you."

Stiles looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to hang up, but she stayed with the phone pressed to her ear, smiling blandly. "What are you going?" he hissed. "H—hang up the phone!"

Gwen simply raised a single finger in the air, indicating for him to be quiet. The reaction, of course, was the opposite of the one the gesture was intended to inspire. There was a lot spluttering and incoherent rambling, but Gwen just ignored it until she heard the definitive click of someone picking up on the other end. "Yes, hello, I'd like to order a pizza for delivery." She pulled the phone away from her ear, pressing the receiver against her shoulder, and swung her head around to look at Stiles pointedly. "Any toppings preferences?"

Stiles stared at her like she has somehow managed to grow herself a second head while a muffled, tinny, and more than slightly confused-sounding voice echoed from the receiver. He let out a harrumph worthy of a ninety-year old, curmudgeon-y porch sitter and scratched absently at his nose before speaking. "You're a giant pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Aw, look at you being all flattering," she replied, wrinkling her nose at him.

"Damn freshmen," he muttered under his breath. "I liked you better when you were sitting in stunned silence."

"Your words make my heart ache," she muttered absently, bringing her phone back up to her ear. "Yes, I'd like a vegetarian pizza, please."

"Extra red peppers."

The voice came out quiet and rushed, almost like Stiles didn't want her to hear it. Gwen just rolled her eyes and relayed the order, requesting that they deliver it to Scott's address. When she hung up the phone she glanced over at him, trying to take in his mood. Right now it seemed to be hovering somewhere around 'disgruntled babysitter'. He let out a quiet groan and began tapping his thumb against the steering wheel in a way that seemed almost pathological. "You don't actually know my dad's number, do you?" he grumbled.

The corners of Gwen's lips pulled down in an impassive, and hopefully inscrutable frown. "I might know it," she returned, jerking her head to the side noncommittally.

Letting out a loud huff, Stiles directed his attention to the road ahead. Gwen gazed out through the windshield as well, not focusing on anything in particular. It has begun to rain, the heavy drops glistening momentarily in the harsh light of the headlights in an oddly hypnotizing way. Neither of them so much as looked at each other until the Jeep pulled up to the stoplight at Hargrove St. Stiles eyes flicked to her momentarily before fixating on the street sign, and she knew why. Turn left and they would be head to Scott's house. Continue straight, and they would be moving towards the Martin's. Gwen watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye. The pale skin of his face was tinged red from the light, but his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel, like he was torn between his options. So Gwen played the last card she kept tucked up her sleeve.

"You guys are in deep shit with this Liam situation, yeah?" she prompted.

"Why would you say that?" Stiles mumbled, though given the deadened tone he was using he really wasn't going to protest that assertion.

"Oh, I don't know," she drawled out, a healthy amount of sarcasm filling her voice. "Maybe it was the fact that Scott felt obligated to essentially kidnap him from the hospital and disappear into the night like a total weirdo. He left me, but he took Liam. What's up with that?"

Stiles's knuckles got even whiter as he gripped the steering wheel. Which gave her the impression that he knew as much about the Liam situation as she did. And she wasn't quite sure whether that made her feel better or worse about it. "I've known Liam since kindergarten," she announced, her voice a little louder than it probably needed to be. "There's a pretty good chance I'm going to be useful to you guys right about now. But that can't happen until somebody lets me in on what's going on."

The twitching of Stiles's jaw told her that her words had had their desired effect. When that tinge shifted to a greener hue, though, he hit the blinker and twisted the wheel. "Fine," he shot back in a clipped tone. "But you hold off on the questions till we get to Scott's, okay? And I mean, complete silence. I don't even want to hear you asking what time it is."

"Why would I ask you what time it is?" Gwen grumbled, gesturing at the dashboard. "You've got a clock right there. I've got my cell phone. Hell, I'm wearing a wa—"

"OH MY GOD!" Stiles exclaimed. "What did I just say?"

Letting out a sigh, Gwen threw her hands up in sank down in her seat. She continued to gnaw on her lip—one of her nervous habits, and her nerves were jangling. It had gotten swollen and bruised by that point, but she kept on biting it anyway. The sting of it helped, actually. It kept reminding her that this was all real. And honestly she needed that reminder that she wasn't asleep. Or dead.

The brakes let out a shrill squeak as the Jeep pulled to a stop in front of the McCall household. Leaning forwards, Gwen perched her chin on the sill of the open window and took in the place's appearance. It looked normal enough. Other than the fact that it was completely dark except for that one window on the second floor. A window that featured a shadow pacing back and forth with almost manic energy. Nope. That wasn't unsettling at all.

Stiles yanked the key out of the ignition and let the engine splutter into silence. "Alright," he grunted, making Gwen turn to face him. He gave her one last look-over, shook his head in a way that clearly spelled 'why me?', and reached over to grab the door handle. "Let's get this train wreck started, shall we? Fantastic."

The two of them piled out of the car, slamming the Jeep doors shut and walking up to the house. It felt oddly ominous. Gwen had been by Scott's house a few times, but she had never so much as gotten out of the car. She and Stiles had barely even set foot on the front porch before she heard the noises inside—the crash and bang of someone hurling themselves down the stairs. Apparently for a guy with super-powers Scott hadn't fully mastered basic coordination. Just as they were arriving at the door it flew open to reveal his panicked, slightly sweaty face. "Thank God you're here. I've got Li—Gwen?" His eyebrows drew together in confusion and he glanced over at Stiles, his brown eyes questioning. "What is she doing here?"

Stiles shrugged his shoulders and scrunched up his face into that 'irritated dad' look he had managed to master pretty damn quickly. "The reasons involve a blackmail and the slimmest of slim possibilities that she might be kind of sort of useful."

"But—"

"Trust me, dude," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's easier not to question it."

Scott's eyes darted back and for the between the two of them, a stricken look on her face, kind of along the lines Scooby Doo while he's being chased by ghost that turns out to be a disgruntled farmer. Like the fact that she had shown up had somehow broken his brain. Eventually, though, he just wordlessly turned around and strode back into the house. Everything in his posture—the hunched shoulders to the quick, jerky movements of his arms—screamed panic. Stiles swore under his breath and strode in as well, leaving Gwen trailing behind them.

"So—so what did you tell your dad?" Scott finally demanded, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles.

"Like I said," Stiles replied. "I told my dad everything I could."

"But you didn't tell him about Liam?"

"You barely told me about Liam!" Stiles exclaimed, waving a dramatic hand.

"And you didn't say anything either?" Scott continued, rounding on Gwen.

She just let out a heavy scoff and threw her hands in the air, letting them collapse down to her sides. "Man," she huffed, "I wouldn't even know where to begin. I don't even know what there is to tell! You're the ones who are supposed to tell me what there is to tell, remember?!"

A puff of air left Scott's lungs and he slumped forward in something slightly resembling relief. Gwen got the impression that feeling wasn't going to last, though. Mostly because of the muffled thumping noise originating from up the stairs which, incidentally, was immediately followed by an expression on Scott's face that seemed to be simultaneously pained and constipated. Stiles must have heard it as well, because an elaborate wince covered his face. "Dude," he enunciated carefully. "Where's Liam?"

Scott pressed his lips together and exhaled sharply through his nose, staring blankly into the corner of the room. "Liam's upstairs," he admitted reluctantly.

"Okay," Stiles drawled out, the wince on his face deepening. It was becoming increasingly clear that wherever this conversation was heading, it was nowhere good. "O—okay. He's upstairs. Doing what?"

With each passing question, Scott's responses came slower and slower. Generally that wasn't the best of signs. When it finally came, it was impossibly short and frustratingly vague.

"Lying down."

"Lying down?" Gwen repeated, a small degree of contempt coloring her tone. "Is he taking a nap?"

A shadow of despondency that flickered through Scott's eyes, indicative a response in the negative. All he could manage to force out, though, was a halting 'not exactly'. He stood there a few more moments before spinning around and sprinting up the stairs, Stiles on his heels. Gwen made a move to follow them, but when her foot had barely even come into contact with the first step Stiles wheeled around to face her. He grabbed her shoulder and pointed a finger in her face, she supposed for emphasis. "You," he declared, raising his eyebrows so pointedly she was pretty sure they were about to fly off his face and shoot themselves into outer space. "You—you stay here."

Gwen let out a mirthless snort and folded her arms across her chest, squaring her shoulders in Stiles's direction like she was preparing for battle. "Seriously?" she deadpanned. "You drive me all the way here just to stick me down stairs? What am I supposed to do down here?"

"I don't know," Stiles shot back, wrinkling his nose at her. "Do homework! Play snake on your phone! Make yourself a snack! Find yourself a coloring book or something! I'll come get you when we sort everything out."

"You said you were going to tell me what was going on!" Gwen hissed, jabbing him angrily in the shoulder.

"And we will," Stiles replied, rolling his eyes a little bit, "but before we do Scott and I have to have an adult conversation."

"If you're an adult then I'm the Dalai Llama!"

Stiles gritted his teeth and balled his hands up into fists before letting out something between a shriek and a grunt. He followed that particular gem up by taking a deep breath and forcing himself into some semblance of calm, but she could still see that ire flickering behind his eyes. He clapped a hand on her shoulder, leaning forwards a bit so they were eye level with each other. "Gwen," he enunciated carefully, like he was trying to desperately to contain a verbal explosion which would probably contain excessive cursing. "Gwen, I am asking—no, I am begging you….Can you please….for the love of God…just try to not actively disrupt some very, very delicate proceedings taking place during uncertain times. For like…five minutes. Is that something you think you could do?!"

Gwen ground her teeth together, but gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Fine."

"Thank you!"

"But—" she jabbed a finger in his face "—but you owe me."

"O—oh my God."

And then, just like that, he was gone. Again. So there she stood, alone, again. Like a chump. Seething in quiet rage. Forget the veritable grab-bag of monsters running around in this town, she was going to start carelessly murdering people. Tightening her arms around her middle, she made her way into the living room, flopped down on the faded green couch, sinking so far into the cushions she felt like she would disappear into it, and began glaring at everything in sight. She had an overwhelming urge to smash everything, from the dining room table to the Monet print that hung on the wall opposite her, but she didn't. If her parents taught her anything at all in life, it was how to be a good house guest. Always use coasters and never vandalize.

In the time those idiots banished her downstairs, Gwen came to on resounding conclusion. The clock on the wall of the living room was an asshole. And yes, she realized it was an inanimate object and it couldn't exhibit characteristics like 'malice' or 'conscious thought', but the thing was mocking her—she was sure of it. Each tic of the second hand had to have been slowed down somehow—magnetic resistance or rusty internal mechanics—because there was no way time was actually moving that slowly. No way.

But still, she just sat there, absently pulling at the loose, frayed strings in the weave of the sofa cushions. One minute turned into two, which then became three, followed by four. Fine. There was no dramatic lapse in time, Gwen was just straight up counting. But who could blame her for that? As far as she was concerned any patience she owed those two morons got used up on the car ride over, even if they were friends of Lydia's. Then throw in the series of highly suspicious thumps and scrapes and even a few yelps and it all became just a bit too much for her to bear. They should have been expecting it, really. The two of them couldn't be so naive as to think that she'd actually stay downstairs through all of that, right?

Well, she would find out regardless.

By the time the minute hand of that damn clock had shifted by seven points, Gwen was shoving herself off the sofa. It cost her a fight with those sunken cushions, a toe stubbed on that stupid wrought iron coffee table, and several exceptionally creative Portuguese swear words, but soon enough Gwen managed to find herself limping up the stairs. Her footsteps stayed light and careful, almost involuntarily. The act of sneaking was instinctive. As sure as she was that Scott and Stiles weren't dangerous to her in any way, she was equally sure that there was no way in hell they would ever actually volunteer the truth. She had to get that all on her own.

Finally she set foot on the second floor landing, but as soon as her toes pressed down, the floorboards let out a loud squeak. Gwen immediately flinched and froze in place, waiting for one or both of the boys to crash out of Scott's room and chuck her back down the stairs, but neither of them did. The door to Scott's room—presumably the one with light leaking under it into the hallway—stayed shut. Slowly, Gwen put more pressure on that foot, allowing herself to take that last step. Her ears strained to decipher the conversation going on within, but the voices were too muffled. Practically on tiptoe, she slid towards the door, pressing her ear against the wood. It was then that Gwen found herself in a bit of a predicament. Because yes, she could distinguish Stiles and Scott's conversation. It just didn't happen to make any sense. Theirs were the only voices speaking, but they weren't speaking to each other.

"—you've seen a lot of confusing things tonight," Stiles's voice announced, "and more confusing things are going to happen because of the confusing things that happened tonight. Do you understand?"

Gwen's forehead creased into a frown. She could say with a pretty high degree of certainty that nobody could understand. The boy should come with a freaking decoder ring. But from all the incoherent rambling, she could did discern one thing. They were about to tell Liam….something. About what happened on that roof—they were letting him in on it. And frankly, that pissed her off. A twenty minute car ride and she got nothing. Freaking boys club up in here.

A different voice entered the conversation. "Not really," Liam grunted. HIs breathing was labored and uneven, like he was panicked. Or pissed. Or probably both.

"Good," Stiles announced, "that's good."

"I don't understand either," Scott's slightly dazed voice chimed in.

Stiles sighed heavily. "Maybe you should tell him."

"Tell me what?!" Liam growled.

The dramatic pause that followed was the final straw. Gritting her teeth, Gwen reached for the handle and yanked the wrenched the door open. Her mouth was already open, prepared to unleash so

Scott's bedroom was probably fairly standard for your typical teenager. If she had to hazard a guess as to its contents, she said guess would probably include an Ikea desk with an unpronounceable name, a pile of laundry, and probably a copy of Playboy hidden somewhere. He could have had a 'My Little Pony' bedspread, and she honestly wouldn't have been able to tell any different. Not because she wasn't observant, but because there was something else commanding her attention in a pretty big way.

"What the hell?!"

At the sound of her voice, both Scott and Stiles's heads swung around to look at her. The move was almost perfectly in unison, actually. It would have been funny if not for the fact that Liam was sitting between the two of them, duct taped to a freaking chair. Duct taped. To a chair. Where the hell did they even get that much duct tape? How did the get him to sit still long enough to tape him there?

Gwen's eyes began to dart frantically around the room, settling on Liam's face. At first the look he leveled her with was tinged with accusation and maybe even a little bit of betrayal. But he took in the wide eyes and general look of shock that was written into each line of her face and it soon faded to something which was a cross between pleading and pissed. A little bit of relief might have been mixed in there as well. Biting down on the inside of her cheek, she shifted her gaze and broke the eye contact. It was strange how had that was to do.

Instead, her eyes snapped to the two older boys. Scott's expression in the face of her accusatory glare was more apologetic than anything else, and Stiles's just seemed to maintain its typical level of exasperation. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!"

Scott took a small step towards her, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of earnestness. "Gwen—"

"Whoa, no you don't!" Gwen exclaimed, taking a small step back. She pointed at him vehemently, partly for emphasis and partly to demonstrate just how much of a distance she wanted to keep between the two of them at this particular moment. It might have been a nice dramatic move if she hadn't tripped over a stray backpack and teetered backwards. Scott reached out a hand to help steady her, but she smacked it away, finding her feet all on her own.

"No!" she declared, jabbing her finger in his direction a second time. "You—you do not get to do that whole 'puppy dog', 'I want to help you' look thing and expect me not to keep freaking the hell out! A guy with freaking shark teeth tried to kill us, then no mouth guy kills shark teeth guy, your face was all creepy, you kidnap him—" her arm swung to point at Liam "—and then you take him from the hospital with a broken leg and how he's duct taped to a chair?! Final straw, guys! If someone doesn't tell me what's going on I'm calling the cops for real!"

Stiles blew out a breath and rubbed at the back of his neck before speaking up. "If it helps, his leg won't be broken for much longer."

Gwen didn't think it was possible, but in the face of his blasé and frankly ridiculous commentary, her mouth dropped open ever wider. "WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?"

"OKAY!" Scott shouted. He held his hands up in the air, silently asking for everybody to calm the hell down. Gwen made a move to speak again, but he raised her eyebrows at her pointedly, his eyes imploring her to stay silent. She jutted her chin out defiantly and folded her arms across her chest, but did as he asked. Slowly, Scott lowered his hands, turning back to the boy in the chair. "Liam, what I did to you….which I had to do in order to save you…i—it's gonna change you."

"Unless it kills you," Stiles threw in, waving a hand in Liam's direction. Gwen exhaled sharply and she sent a desperately confused look in his direction. Stiles just opened and closed his mouth a few times before shrugging in a way that seemed way too casual given the circumstances. "Shouldn't have said that."

Liam gazed up at them with a look of utter disbelief. Then his head dropped, sagging on his shoulders. Almost immediately it was followed by a quiet whimpering sound. Or was it sniffling? Jesus, was he crying? Was Liam Dunbar straight-up crying? The last time she had seen him cry—scratch that, the only time she had seen him cry—was in the fourth grade when his parents had told him they were getting divorced. But here he was, duct taped to a chair, his shoulders shaking ever-so-slightly. Yet another indicator that she had somehow been catapulted into a different dimension. That had to be what was going on.

But then he raised his head, and Gwen had to physically restrain herself from rolling her eyes. Sure his face was contorted into an almost impossible shape, but his eyes were barely watering and the redness of his face wasn't the splotchy kind usually characteristic of tears. The red had over-taken it entirely, creeping down his neck as well, which, incidentally, was so strained it looked as if the tendons were about to pop out. She was looking at a face that was infinitely more familiar than 'crying Liam'. This was 'rage Liam'. And 'rage Liam' was pretending to be 'crying Liam', which was absurd unto itself. What made it even more ridiculous, though? Scott and Stiles were actually falling for it.

"Uh….." Stiles mumbled, scratching at the back of his head in a look of general befuddlement before pointing at the boy. Dealing with horrifying nightmare creatures he was totally cool with, but somehow crying freshmen managed to make the situation above his pay grade. "Uh…uh-oh. Is he—is he crying?"

Scott knelt down before Liam, lowering himself to the boy's eye line. "Liam," he whispered in a way meant to be comforting. "Liam, it's okay. You're going to be alright. You're not going to die."

"Probably not," Stiles saw fit to add in, dropping to his knees as well.

Liam let out this pained squeaking vaguely reminiscent of a scared chipmunk. "Dude," Gwen muttered, shaking her head at Stiles and his unending stream of unhelpful commentary. "What is your damage, man?"

"That's a question for a different time, Gwen!"

"Guys!" Scott interjected. He smacked Stiles in the shoulder and inclined his head towards Liam's still shaking form. "Would you—would you just help me untie him?"

The pair of them scrambled to their feet, ripping away the duct tape. Gwen winced at the sound of the tape being yanked from his arms, probably taking a significant portion of arm hair with it. As they finished, the two of them took a few steps back. Liam's eyes stayed focused on his feet, hands absently rubbing at where the tape had just been. Slowly, he got to his feet. Gwen went cold when she realized his shoulders had stopped shaking—they were tense and still—which definitely went in the 'not good' category. Instinctively, she shrank backwards until her back was pressed against the wall.

"Liam, are you okay?" Scott asked, his voice tinged with exhaustion, both emotional and otherwise.

Liam didn't respond. Or rather, he didn't say anything. His response was fairly clear.

In one swift move, he grabbed hold of the chair and swung it with all his might. It collided with Scott, giving rise to a sickening crack and shattering into pieces, spewing shards of splintered wood across the room. "Holy Jesus!" Gwen cried, throwing her arms up to guard against rogue splinters.

Scott crumpled to the ground, colliding with Stiles and hitting the carpet with a heavy thud. Stiles let out a loud yelp as he careened backwards, collapsing into the dresser. As soon as he righted himself, he wheeled around with a crazed expression on his face. "Liam, what the hell is your p—?"

Before Stiles could finish his sentence, Liam's fist flew through the air, connecting with Stiles's chin. He was sent flying backwards into the wall, sliding down until he was on the floor as well, right next to Scott. Liam wheeled around again, hand raised and ready to strike again. When his eyes fell on Gwen he stopped, eyes wild and a snarl pulling at his lips. Feral. That's the word to describe it. Feral.

Gwen shrank back even further, trying to make herself as small as possible. She wasn't breathing either. There was no way of telling when she had begun to hold her breath, but her chest was already beginning to ache. Her gaze flickered from Liam's eyes to his upheld hand then back again. The movement was fleeting—easy to miss—but he saw it. Something in his expression shifted, the curl of the lip lessening. Exhaling sharply, he let his fist drop and bolted through the door at an impossible speed. It barely even registered in her head that he shouldn't be able to do that on a broken leg.

Gwen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment—just a moment—to collect herself. It must have been an eventful moment. By the time her eyes were open again, her ears were met with a cacophony of strangled cries, violet crashes, and a gust of wind in the wake of two idiots rushing by her. Gwen's eyes flew back open just in time to see the last corner of a flannel shirt disappearing from the room. "What the—"

"GET HIM!"

The house filled with sound of a battle cry worthy of a horde of angry cats followed by what sounded like a stampede of angry cats. No, not that. The horde of angry cats would be better organized. Gwen shoved herself off the wall and darted through the door, grabbing on the doorframe to steady herself as she hurtled into the hallway. She had to blink several times to ensure that she wasn't in the throes of yet another hallucination. But nope. No such luck. Scott and Stiles were sprinting towards Liam—who was standing at the head of the stairs—in a last ditch effort that could only end badly.

Gwen let out a sympathetic whine when they barreled into each other. Tipping to the left, the three of them bumped down the stairs, each step accompanied by a clunk. With each noise that reached her ears, that sympathetic wince she wore deepened. After a few moments the almost cartoon-like audio track she was being subjected to came to a halt. Swearing inwardly she leapt forwards and sprinted to the end of the hallway, arriving at the top of the stairs.

Yup. It was settled. Her old life had been abandoned somewhere along the highway and she was now living in a live action Looney Tunes cartoon. Somewhere on their trip down the stairs, the boys managed to tangle themselves together and now bore a striking resemblance to a khaki- and denim-covered giant squid. Either with too many arms or too few arms—she couldn't quite tell. Though technically squids had eight arms and two tentacles, but that really wasn't the point was it?

Somehow in the midst of the struggle Liam managed to extricate himself from the mesh of limbs and charged out the door before you could say 'adios'. He melted into the night, leaving Scott and Stiles grappling with each other on the floor of the foyer. Facepalming wasn't optional, it was an involuntary reaction. "Guys!"

If they heard her voice, they gave no indication of it. Somehow Stiles had grabbed hold of Scott's left leg and Scott had grabbed hold of his Stiles's right, and they both seemed to be trying to accomplish some sort of kung-fu death grip that neither of them knew how to perform in the first place. Gwen huffed and raised her fingers to her lips, giving rise to a loud whistle. "GUYS!"

Her shout echoed against the walls of the house and the both of them froze, their heads swiveling around to face her. "Don't you think you're missing something?" she declared, making a wide gesture at the door.

Scott and Stiles looked at each other, somehow managing to be flabbergasted by the situation they found themselves. Scott reached up, batting at the partially closed door, sending it swinging open onto the dark, empty street. Their eyes looked like they were about to bulge out of their heads—more Looney Tunes comparisons to be drawn there. Gwen should probably feel some degree of sympathy for them, but that had been used up at least an hour ago. "Yup," Gwen drawled out, her voice not totally devoid of smugness. "Your boy's gone. Like a fart on the wind."

"Can you at least pretend not do be enjoying this moment?" Stiles grunted from the base of the stairs, rubbing the back of his neck as he struggled to get to his feet. "We needed to keep Liam here. That was the plan—that was a fundamentally important part of the plan! Integral, even!"

"Yeah, well your plans suck too," Scott muttered bitterly.

Gwen shoved her fist in her mouth, forcing back a quiet shriek of frustration. "Why did you need him in the first place?!"

Her words hung in the air, adding tension to the already thick air that seemed to be choking the entire house. Stiles threw his hands in the air and jerked his head in Gwen's direction as if to say 'it's up to you dude'. Scott let out a heavy sigh and let his head sag on his shoulders, but turned to her. "Because I bit him," Scott said, his tone defeated.

"Care to share a little more detail?" she hissed. "Why does it freaking matter if you bit him?"

"It'll matter a hell of a lot on the next full moon," Stiles muttered darkly.

At that point, it all snapped into place. The teeth, the eyes, the bite, the blood. It didn't make any sense, though. I mean sure with everything she had seen this night she had to admit it was actually possible. But it wasn't a full moon now and those were the rules, right? That they only changed on the full moon? That's what all the books said. And the movies. And pretty much anything anybody had ever said on the subject. But that's when it was all just a fantasy. Now it was real. Gwen's eyes darted back and forth between Stiles and Scott as comprehension washed over her. More than that, it smacked her in the face like a freaking tsunami. "Holy sh—"

Her words were cut short at the sound of someone clearing their throat. All three of their heads snapped around, seeking the source of the noise. Standing in the doorway clad in a red polo shirt and baseball cap was a very confused teenaged boy, a thin square box in his hands. He lifted up a hand in a lame, unenthusiastic wave.

"Did someone order a pizza?"

Not my best work, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! Any who, I'll probably edit the crap out of it at some point in the near future, but I'm super tired and also a bit tired of disappointing people with my insane writers block, so here you go.