A/N: This was written for the Werewolf Big Bang on LJ. Biggest thanks go to fountainxxpenny who took a throwaway scene and provided the encouragement, nagging, support, and brainstorming to make it become a story. Thanks also to bethskink for providing a clear eye at the end and helping fill in the cracks. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

A/N2: This story is a direct sequel to "The Measure of Ourselves." Note that, though the final chapter of that story has not yet been posted, it has been drafted, and this story makes direct reference to at least one event in it.

Trigger Warnings: Hazing, Underage Drinking, Some Strong Language, In-Character Victim Blaming, The Use of Wolfsbane-as-a-Roofie

Zero Point

by LadySilver

Scott wasn't sure why he agreed to attend the party at Jackson's house, especially after how their weekend had ended. When Jackson organized the lacrosse team's room assignments in Scott's favor, he had said that Scott could "thank him later." Scott had been so focused on getting through the full moon to give any real thought to the obvious overtones of threat in that statement. Afterwards, on the bus ride back to Beacon Hills, Jackson had issued the invitation to his house, delivering it in person to carefully selected players. They were going to have a small party, a little event to celebrate their fourth State win. Jackson insisted that it was tradition, bonding. "The first line always does this after State," he said, as if Scott were too stupid to have figured that out himself. "Just the first line," the older boy added. The subtext was obvious: Stiles was not invited.

Scott thought about rejecting the invitation in protest of the rules, until Stiles also hit him with the "are you stupid" look when Scott tried to back out of going. "You have to go," his best friend insisted, voice cracking with excitement. Stiles always talked with his whole body, but now he was particularly vocal, arms waving like he was directing air traffic. "These parties are legendary." He rolled his head. "No one who wasn't there knows what goes on at them, but they're legendary. If you have an invite, you have to take it. It's the closest I'm ever going to get, so you have to go, dude." Stiles paused to inhale. Seeing his opportunity, Scott threw up his hands in surrender and started agreeing until the red drained out of Stiles's cheeks.

A niggling fear worried at Scott that he was being set up. Despite Stiles's insistence, Scott nearly talked himself out of attending the party several times while he showered and chatted with his mom. So when he finally arrived at Jackson's house—a white stucco mansion in a part of town Scott had never been in—he breathed a small sigh of relief at seeing other cars already there. Lights flooded the front of the house and he could hear the other players inside talking. He was the last to arrive. Jackson greeted him at the door with a sweeping eye-appraisal that didn't come down in Scott's favor. "It's about time," he said, holding the door open just wide enough for Scott to slip through. The hallway was marble and wood, open all the way to the roof with a heavy crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Scott couldn't help hunching in on himself to his well-worn jeans and thrift store shirt.

Jackson started down the hall, clearly expecting Scott to follow. "Leave your keys and phone there," he said, gesturing to a wide metal dish on a side table in the hallway. The dish already held a collections of phones and keys, all tangled together. "We're in the rumpus room," he added, over his shoulder. He stopped, turned back. "And we're having pizza delivered for a late dinner." He glanced at his watch. "I hope that won't be a problem." There was a buried sneer in his tone that suggested that he thought pizza should be a problem, and that he had ordered it because of that.

Scott's brow furrowed as he tried to work out why. Then it hit him and he rolled his eyes. "I'm not a vampire," he responded. "You know that. And I happen to love pizza." Jackson's fumbled trick was confusing; he'd helped chain Scott up for the full moon. He knew the truth and he'd been okay with it before, inasmuch as Jackson had ever been okay with Scott being a werewolf. While Stiles's very-not-funny joke that morning had rightfully upset Jackson, ordering garlic pizza seemed like an unusually petty, and poorly thought out, revenge. If it weren't for Stiles's earlier insistence, Scott would have left right then. Instead, he tugged off his hoodie and draped it over his arm, still trying to take in the house and the foyer without gawping or looking like a total rube. As responses go, it wasn't a good one and he knew it, but he wasn't willing to let Jackson's needling get to him this early. Especially when the guy didn't know how to select his needles. Despite his reservation, Scott did drop his phone into the dish as directed. He hadn't driven to the party, so his keys stayed in his pocket.

Jackson's eyes narrowed and he turned on his heel a little too hard. Midway down the hall he opened a door and headed down the stairs. Voices poured up through the portal. No music, though. Or video game noise. Scott paused in the doorway and listened, counting heartbeats. He'd spent enough time with his teammates to recognize them all that way, and it didn't take him long to verify that all the first line were there. He also picked up the high pitched tone of a television that was turned on a blank screen. The other boys probably didn't hear it at all, which is why they kept it on. Scott rubbed his ears, steeling himself. That particular tone didn't hurt, but did grate.

Jackson's rumpus room was more like a loft apartment. Bigger than the apartment Scott had lived in with his parents when they were married, it was one open space with partial walls that etched out room boundaries. A couple of the boys sat on a group of black leather furniture around the largest flat screen TV Scott had ever seen. The rest hovered around the pool table, foosball table, and selection of pinball machines that seemed to mark the game area—though no one was playing any of them. Farther down, Scott spotted what looked like a small, though full, kitchen, and a pair of bedrooms. He shook his head in disbelief. What could anyone need with this much space in their house?

As he stepped into the basement, all the eyes turned to him. A couple of the guys raised their hands in lackluster greeting, then promptly turned back to what they were doing. Standing so close together, their shoulders formed a barrier, with him locked on the wrong side. Despite being on first line, he hadn't really developed friendships with any of the guys outside of their time on the field together. Now they were all angry with him, upset at what they thought was Scott's disrespect for the team since he had, in their eyes, blown off the semi-final for no good reason. The fact that the team had swept the finals didn't matter to them. Scott had ditched them and they weren't inclined to forgive him. He didn't blame them one bit.

"Now that's everyone's here," Jackson spoke from behind the raised counter that set the kitchen area off from the main room, "Let's start having some fun." Danny stepped out from behind the counter, open beer bottles laced between his fingers. Whatever the other boys had been doing, they changed direction, heading for those bottles like puppies to a thrown stick. Scott followed, though not in any hurry. Meanwhile, Jackson picked up a pair of remote controls that had also been sitting in front of him and started pushing buttons. Half the lights in the basement went out and the TV sprang on, its volume turned up louder than even human ears needed. Scott winced, tried to hide it. He could almost feel Jackson's satisfaction at pushing his buttons, too.

Scott leaned against the wall in between the couch and pool table and tried to make himself as invisible as possible while he watched the guys. The wall was brick and rough on his back through his layered shirts. The basement had a slight musty stench, though not overwhelming, even to his nose. The movie Jackson had selected was about werewolves. Naturally. A stack of DVDs on the floor next to the TV revealed that Jackson planned to keep the bad werewolf movies rolling all night. This wasn't like any party Scott had ever been to. There was no music, dancing, or girls. Most of the guys here were seniors. They clearly had their friendships all in place, their jokes and rituals well established.

"You don't look like you're having much fun," Danny said, coming to stand next to him. He held out a beer to Scott, who waved it off. He'd barely touched his first one, which he must have set down somewhere without even noticing. What was the point anymore?

"Is this the legendary party?" Scott asked. "Bad movies and beer?" He tried not to whine, couldn't quite keep all the complaint out of his voice. The way Stiles had talked, this was supposed to be the time of his life.

"Nah," Danny replied. He peered around at the partygoers as if trying to see the proceedings through Scott's eyes. "This is just the getting drunk phase." He offered a slight shrug by way of an apology at what he saw. "The horror movies are on to help set the mood. Interesting choice, though," he added. "Gotta wonder why Jackson chose werewolf movies for this year's theme." He shrugged as soon as he finished voicing the oddity, absolving Scott of any need to weigh in, then held out the open bottle again. This time Scott accepted it. The bottle was chilled and damp. His fingers curled around it self-consciously and he held the bottle away from himself like he didn't know what he was supposed to do with it. That just made him feel more self-conscious, because now he looked like a naïve sophomore and that wouldn't help him fit in with the other guys at all.

"Why aren't you over with them?" Scott asked, nodding toward where the other guys were cheering on an epic and raucous foosball game that had sprung up. As soon as the beer had come out, any rules about staying off the gaming equipment had vanished and the boys had descended on it with pent up ferocity.

Danny shrugged. "Not really my thing," he replied. He watched them contemplatively for a long moment. Brian was one of the players. He leaned over the game, an intensity glinting in his eyes stronger than he brought to the lacrosse field where he had a reputation for getting too competitive. Guys like that weren't fun to play with or against, Scott thought, and he didn't blame Danny for staying out. Yet, a not-so-small part of him wanted to jump in and show the older boys that he could hold his own in more than one arena. Danny interrupted his thought before Scott could give in to the temptation. "Now, when the Xbox comes out…" Danny started. He trailed off, took a swig of his beer, then grinned.

Scott started to grin back at the recognition that Danny wasn't without his own competitive streak, then suppressed it as another thought bubbled up. "Aren't you worried about being seen talking to me?" So far, besides Jackson's comments upstairs, Danny was the only one to do more than offer a cursory acknowledgment of Scott's presence. He was also the only one who didn't have some level of anger emanating from him. Scott was deeply familiar with the subtle vibes of not-being-welcome that most the kids at school sent out around him; now that he was reading them through his werewolf enhanced senses, those vibes had become nearly palpable.

Danny took another swallow of his beer and cast an appraising glance over the cluster of increasingly loud boys. Between their yells and the soundtrack of the movie, a din filled the basement and conversation was getting increasingly difficult. "To tell you the truth, I was hoping that Jackson would call off the party." Travis, the other foosball player, pumped a fist into the air with a loud cheer that all the onlookers immediately echoed. Danny turned back toward Scott, positioning himself so that he was distancing himself from the other boys. "I had other plans for tonight."

Scott dipped his head once in a nod of recognition. He knew all too well what it was like to be anticipating a date and have it ruined with someone else's plans. "Jackson's been planning this for a while?"

"It's tradition," Danny responded, repeating Jackson's reason as if it was the answer he was supposed to give. He didn't sound too enthused. It also didn't tell Scott anything he didn't already know, which wasn't much.

Scott tipped his head back against the brick wall. The beer in his hand was warming from his body heat and he wished someone would open a window or turn up the air conditioning. The air was starting to feel stifling and had grown so thick with smells that Scott could barely breathe through his nose. Danny's scent was the strongest since he was standing so close. It reminded Scott of the way the sun felt reflecting off the sidewalk on a scorching hot day, and that just made him more uncomfortably warm. Beads of sweat began forming along his hairline and the top of his lip. He lifted the beer to his lips, desperate for anything that might help cool him down. He took a healthy pull, then started to sputter. The liquid burned in his mouth and traced a path of fire down his esophagus. He spat what he could back into the bottle and pawed at his mouth with his sleeve, trying to eradicate all traces of the foul brew.

"Drink much?" Danny quipped.

Scott shook his head. "What the hell is that crap?" he asked. He inspected the bottle. Though the label had started to peel off from the condensation, it was still readable. Scott had never heard of the brand of microbrew he held, but Jackson was not the kind of guy who would serve Coors or Budweiser. He brought the bottle back up to his nose and gave it a suspicious sniff. He couldn't discern anything through the olfactory morass around him. Then, realizing that Danny was going to interpret the coughing and head shaking as Scott basically admitting that he didn't drink—which wasn't true; he did back when there was a point—he waved his hand in front of his face in a desperate effort to erase his words. "No, no, no," he said. "I do. I think there's something wrong with the beer. Tastes like it's gone bad."

Danny frowned and took the bottle from Scott. He gave the open mouth a deep sniff. "Smells fine to me," he added, but he didn't hand the bottle back. He stood there for a long moment, eyeing the bottle and picking absently at the curling label with a fingernail. "Excuse me," he finally said. Without waiting for Scott's response, he headed over to the bar, bottle still in hand.

Scott watched him, trying to keep one ear open out of curiosity as to what Danny was going to do when he got there. He didn't get the chance to find out. A high-pitched squeal made him clutch his ears in a vain attempt to block the noise. It cut through his head, drowning his ability to think.

The next thing he knew, a cold metal can was being pushed into his hand. He heard a pop and a hiss.

"Try this," Danny was saying, and Scott had to blink several times and rub his fingers in his ears before he could pull himself together enough to make sense of what was going on. The squeal stopped as quickly as it had begun, with Scott none the wiser as to what it had been. No one else was reacting, which meant no one else had heard it. His senses hadn't been this out of control since he'd first been bitten. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he'd put down a whole six pack in the last five minutes, not a measly half sip—which still ignored the fact that werewolves couldn't get drunk.

"A soda?" he asked.

"You looked like you could use something different."

Scott nodded gratefully and took a long swig of the fizzing beverage. The fire that ran down his core subsided a little, though the ringing in his ears hadn't faded much. "Thanks."

"You know, you don't have to be here," Danny said. "If you're not feeling well…."

"I'm fine," Scott lied. "I want to be here." The pizza hadn't arrived yet, and Scott hadn't had anything to eat since an earlier dinner of sandwiches with his mom. Not that dinner was the reason. He could get food anywhere, including the leftovers that were in his own fridge at home. A burst of laughter bubbled through the air, the sound of his teammates having a great time.

Without him.

The team had accepted his skills readily enough, but in every other way, he might as well still be sitting on the bench. As far as the other first liners were concerned, Scott was little more than a good piece of equipment. When he couldn't even offer them that, they had been quick enough to forget about him. He had told Stiles that he wanted to make first line. The season was over, he'd had tons of playing time, he was officially first line—hell, he was co-captain of the freaking team—but he still hadn't achieved his goal. Tonight was his last chance to fix that.