Chapter Text
“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” Isaac asks, voice small.
They’re in the clinic, Deaton making vague tutting noises as he looks over the three smoking gashes gouged into the back of Isaac’s head. He can’t clean the wolfsbane out of them unless they get rid of the hair around the area. Which would look weird, probably, on its own, so his whole head’s getting shaved. Stiles’s knuckles are warm against Isaac’s neck but the metal of his hair clippers is cold, and he forces himself not to react.
“I’m sure.” Stiles says absentmindedly, and Isaac can’t hold back the wince when he sees locks falling in front of his face, stray hairs poking him in the eye on their way down. He takes a couple deep breaths, focusing instead on the pressure of Stiles’s free hand holding his shoulder in place. Deaton has a look on his face that suggests he’s more than a little pissed off that his “workplace” is being used as a hair salon, but honestly? Deaton can deal. Isaac’s seen more blood inside the clinic than he has in his life and for Isaac, well. That’s saying something, is all. He can feel the blade scratch against the nape of his neck and then stop. “There.” Stiles says, lightly patting the top of his head. Deaton comes forward, holding a wet towel, and presses it to the wound, the cold water running off and dripping through the back of Isaac’s t-shirt. He shudders at the sensation, closing his eyes, and when he opens them again, he sees Stiles in front of him, leaning back and admiring his handiwork. “Hey, that doesn’t look half bad.”
“Stiles.” Deaton says quietly, and Stiles wordlessly hands him the suture kit lying on the counter. Isaac breathes again, taking in the dampness on the left side of his shirt, the pale moonlight filtering in through the closed windows, the prickly feeling of loose hairs caught on his sleeves, leather jacket strewn over the counter. There’s a low, familiar pain that reverberates through his skull and down his neck as Deaton burns the wolfsbane out of the wound, and the smell makes Isaac’s eyes water. He sees more than feels Deaton push the needle through the wound, his left elbow blocking Isaac’s eyesight as the doctor towers over him. Stiles has moved to his right, and Isaac can see him just out of his peripheral, rummaging in the closet where Deaton keeps his...well, Isaac doesn’t actually know. Stiles comes up a minute later, triumphant, holding up a broom and dustpan, and sets them both on the counter, ignoring Isaac’s sound of protest when the bristles of the broom land on his jacket. “Nearly done.” murmurs Deaton, and Isaac jolts back to the thought that his head's split open. The pain is a dull throb, has been ever since Stiles switched on the clippers, and Isaac swallows down a lump of something he thinks might be fear. “Stiles.” Deaton says again, quiet, and Stiles, apparently still traveling on the same telepathic wavelength as Deaton, hands him a pair of scissors, and Isaac hears the small snip that means the job is done.
“Alright, Britney,” Stiles says, using the scissors that Deaton’s passed back to gesture to the bathroom down the hall. “Let’s go check out your new ‘do.” Isaac rises, feeling - lighter, of all things, though he guesses that makes sense - and pulls at the front of his shirt to shake out all the extra hair, following Stiles down the hallway. He opens the door for him and raises an eyebrow at Isaac when he hesitates before walking in. Isaac grips the porcelain of the sink, tries to breathe and feels the lump in his throat again, and wills himself to look up. He can’t look up. “Hey,” he hears from behind him, and then “Hey--” Stiles’s hand is at his shoulder, the other trying to pry his fingers away from the sink, which Isaac can feel is cracking under his grip.
“I’m fine,” he tries to say, but it doesn’t sound as distinct around a mouthful of fangs. Shit. He breathes deep through his nose, focuses on Stiles’s fingers splayed out across his shoulder blades, until he feels his claws retract. “I’m fine.” he says again, and god, he sounds weak, but at least he sounds human - or is that worse? Stiles doesn’t seem convinced, rubbing small circles into his back and twisting the faucet so Isaac has easy access to cold water. He splashes water all over his face and contemplates drying it on the underside of his own t-shirt until Stiles takes off his flannel and hands it to him, and Isaac buries his face in the fabric. He breathes deep, almost dizzied by Stiles’s scent so close to him, and the fact that his hand is still on his shoulder is what steels Isaac, and he finally looks up.
Stiles doesn’t need to be a werewolf to notice the intake of breath, the involuntary recoil away from the mirror. Isaac reaches up with one hand, trance-like, to feel the top of his head, smooth and even. His exhale is more like a shudder, and Stiles doesn’t move his hand, and then Isaac says the thing he’s thinking, the thing he’s been worrying about since he came to in an alley and texted the group chat “help harpie (sp?) slashed my head open going 2 deatons moral support pls”, the thing that kept his teeth gritted and his throat tight as his hair fell in sheets around him.
“I look like Cam.”
He sees Stiles’s eyes widen, sees the recognition - bad, but bearable - and the pity - no - and Isaac turns away from the mirror, moves to leave the room. “I’ll go, uh, sweep up the—”
“No.” Stiles says, vehemently. “No, you’re going home. Scott’s on his way, he should be here in like two minutes, I’ll take care of all the hair and shit, the important thing is that you get some —”
“Did you know him?” Isaac asks, and finds he doesn’t really want to know the answer, but he waits anyway.
“Camden?” Stiles asks, hesitant. “No, I - I used to see him when my dad and I went grocery shopping, but I never really got to meet him. My dad said—” Stiles pauses, but continues, “said he was always...nice.”
“He was.” and that’s when Isaac’s voice just stops. He looks up again, at the mirror, thinks of the first postcard Cam had sent home, with a photocopy of his brand new ID, buzzcut and all, thinks of being dangled seventy feet in the air by a harpy, her wings snapping sharply against the wind, thinks of taking the pain away from the puppy on his first day at the clinic, thinks of—
“Isaac.” It's Scott, in the doorway, breathless and holding an extra helmet. “Let’s go home, let’s - come on, let’s go, we...” his voice trails off as he steps into the stark lighting of the bathroom and takes in the sight of the cracks on the sink, Stiles’s flannel a heap on the floor, and— “Isaac.” he says again, firmer this time. Isaac breathes out and feels the breath shake as it’s pushed through his lips. He lets Scott take his hand as Stiles’s finally falls from his shoulder, feeling the numbness settle into his bones as he’s led out into the parking lot and putting his arms around Scott’s waist when he tells him to. Scott toes up the kickstand, but pauses before he starts the bike. “Isaac,” Scott pleads, for the third time, and the other boy says nothing from behind his helmet. Scott turns back around, and Isaac screws his eyes up tight enough that his tears don’t feel like tears anymore.
MELISSA
“Scott?” Melissa calls, and Isaac lifts his eyes up from the glass of water in his hand to see her walk into the kitchen, blinking blearily.
“Nah, just me.” he says, draining the glass. Something in him, something childish, he thinks, wishes it would burn on its way down. Melissa frowns, stepping towards him to reach the fridge.
“What are you doing up so late, Isaac?” she asks, getting the milk out. He hands her two mugs silently. She measures out two cups into a saucepan, adds sugar and something else he can’t make out.
“Couldn’t sleep.” he tells her, and they stay silent for a while, her stirring the saucepan and him moving to rinse out the empty glass and place it upside-down next to the sink. He comes back to lean against the cool metal of the fridge, bringing a hand up to his head again, feeling the line of his scalp. It’s been a week, and his head’s starting to grow the baby-chicken fuzz that Stiles is so accustomed to sporting, rough but still soothing against the skin of his palm. Isaac breathes, and breathes, and when he can’t, he squeezes his eyes shut. He stays with them closed until he feels warm hands wrap around his waist, until he feels Melissa’s frizzy hair brushing the underside of his chin, her head pressed against his chest.
“It’ll grow back.” she murmurs quietly, and his arms wrap around her of their own accord. “It’ll grow back, honey, before you even know it.” And Isaac lets himself curl into her, the smallness of her somehow holding him up. She pulls away a moment later, and Isaac wipes his eyes as discreetly as he can as she pours the milk into mugs. He takes one, levering himself onto the counter so he can kick his legs back against it, and Melissa takes his place leaning against the fridge. Isaac takes a drink - it’s cinnamon, cinnamon and sugar and warm milk heating him up from the inside, and he feels the lightness he’s been feeling since he left the clinic settle down, somewhat.
“Thanks, Mrs. McCall.” he says, and she blinks, hard, before smiling. He empties his mug in less than a minute, even though it scalds the inside of his throat, and rinses it out as Melissa finishes hers. “Do you want me to—” he asks, gesturing to her mug and the saucepan.
“I’ve got it,” she says softly, with a look that isn’t quite pity. “I’ve got it, Isaac, don’t worry. Get some sleep.” He leaves, but stops at the doorway to the kitchen, watches her roll up the sleeves of her shirt, brush her hair out of her face, twist open the tap. For a second, he lets himself wonder how his mother used to wash dishes.
Isaac knows, distantly, that his mother was beautiful, that she loved him, that he meant the world to her. He also knows that the first night he’d showed up at Scott’s, Melissa McCall had handed him an old pair of sweats and a brand new toothbrush, looked him in the eye, and told him he could stay as long as he wanted. He knows that she opened the door at 3 AM six days ago, eyes wide with worry, and spent an hour swearing up and down that she would kill that stupid harpy I swear to God . He knows that she would follow through on that promise in a heartbeat.
“Night, mom.” he says, quiet, and he doesn’t look back to see if she’s heard before heading upstairs. Werewolf senses, though: he hears her heartbeat settle, hears the murmured “Goodnight, Isaac,” takes the thought and hides it behind his eyelids, where it lulls him to sleep.