CHPT 11: Adjustments, Questions…

Scott awakened hours later, the sun high and full. Middday. He was late for work. He flew upright in a panic, immediately he was reminded of what he endured only hours before, causing him to groan in pain as he ripped open his stitches.

"Ahhh dammit!"

Deatons cold hands were at his back immediately. "Why are you so determined to get yourself hurt, Scott?"

"Just trying not to get fired." Scott joked, no smile made it to his face.

"You had a rough night. Take the day off."

"Where's Stiles— Alison….how's Isaac?" Scott panicked.

"Stiles is right beside you." Deaton replied.

Scott looked to his left where another lighted operating table sat. Stiles laid on its surface, dead asleep with his shirt in his mouth. Good sleep. But blood stained the fabric everywhere along with more than a dozen holes and the smells of something burning.

"He's suffered acute exhaustion and calorie deficiency. When he came to my door he was carrying you, and based on the damage to his feet, he must've been running for tens of miles on end. He burned through everything in his body."

Scott felt his stomach clench.

"And Alison?"

"At home. Talking with Derek every two hours. That house sounds like a danger zone right now but she'll be fine."

"Isaac?"

"Property of our newest Beacon Hills Alpha. He survived. But he's shaken, heavily. And he has questions. As do I."

Scott was lost.

Deaton could tell.

"What attacked you two?"

Scott began explaining the creature to Deaton— explaining the battle as best he could.

By the end of it, Deaton was silent. Reserved to his own mind.

"It's bad isn't it?"

Deaton stood with his arms crossed, "I mean it's not good." He started, "I'll need to rummage through my books before I can come to you with any reliable information. This is something I haven't seen."

Scott sagged, looking down at his hands to find his right in a thick wrapping that covered his wrist all the way down to his fingers.

"Give it time to heal, allow me to keep checking the damages, and drink this." Deaton said in response to Scott watching his hand.

Scott took the drink and downed it, almost throwing up immediately.

"That's how you know it's working."

"What even is it?" Scott asked.

"You ask too many questions."

Scott rolled his eyes and got off the operating table. Despite his current state, he looked more in shape than before. Stiles seemed the same way if not a little gaunt.

He put the thought aside.

"I'll go check on the dogs." He mumbled as he shrugged on a spare company t-shirt.

"No need." Deaton said while he scrolled through his computer.

"Deaton, I'm fine. I can work." Scott persisted.

"No. The job is already done I mean."

Scott was perplexed, "By who?"

"Your co-worker."

Scott froze after he suddenly realized it. The smell….

And the cats. They weren't distantly whining and hissing at him.

"Deaton…..what did you do?"

"Hired someone in need of work." Deaton shrugged innocently.

Scott bolted out of the room in a pained hobble, flashing down the short hallway and into the cat kennels.

The room was small. Cats didn't need much space, but it was stacked high with cat trees and other climbable objects. All throughout the room, cats roamed, watching him with keen eyes atop their high reaching perches.

In the center of the room standing beside the operating table, a man stood.

He was tall. At least six and a half feet and stacked with muscle. His company t-shirt looked painted over his bulbous shoulders and contrasted heavily with his dark skin.

He looked different from before. Without his leather jacket, his arms seemed bigger, he could make out tattoos beneath his bandaged arm and his dreaded hair was tied up out of his face. He looked almost normal. But his smell was far from it.

A smell that faintly blended with the cats crawling all over him like he was dipped in catnip.

On the table, a cat sat, shaking his hand in return for treats like a trained hound.

The sight was so bizarre he could've laughed until the man's eyes closed in on him.

"Marco…"

"Scott…."