2015.08.12 - The Pack's Secret Plan--Or, Let's Have a Party--Or, This Is Not The Way I Pictured Coming Out

**Emitter:** N/A

*Scott and Stiles discuss pressing business--like nutty alpha werewolves,*

August 11, 2015

Scott McCall's House, Beacon Hills

Scott's room is a mess. The kind of mess that shows that he hasn't actually been in here any longer than a few minutes each day. At the moment, Scott is standing near the window and looking out. He doesn't actually seem to be looking at anything in particular as he's more just kind of spacing out. His phone is on the bed, behind him. He occasionally looks back at it, just in case he gets another text from Stiles or anything like that. Somewhere in the middle of the waiting, Scott steps into a back and forth pacing motion. Which may be more to keep himself awake than it is to make himself remember whatever it is he was trying to remember. But maybe that's why he summoned Stiles in the first place. Help.

Scott's senses will pick up on the approach and arrival of the Jeep, the sound of Stiles entering the front door without knocking, the sneakers on floor, stairs, then floor--so when the door opens and Stiles sweeps in, slipping off what appears to be a heavily laden backpack, it's no surprise at all. Though, for werewolves who pay attention to such things, Stiles *is* looking more well-rested than he has in days... possibly longer.

Stiles starts to drop his backpack, then catches himself and sets it down with much more care than usual, before straightening, clapping his hands together, rubbing his palms against one another vigorously, and then spreading them wide apart. "Okay, so! Game plan time, right? What've we got so far." He snags Scott's desk chair, flips it around backwards, and drops down to sit on it, elbows resting on the chair's backrest as he looks up at Scott expectantly.

"Stiles. Thanks for coming. I need your help. Seriously, you're like the only person I can think of that can help me with this."

Scott doesn't need to turn around until just this moment. He looks more worse for the wear than he should considering that he's a Werewolf. Like, he shouldn't look worn out and like he hasn't slept in forever. He looks as worried as worried can be and his shoulders are practically screaming for some sort of relief. He's trapped underneath so much pressure that he can't even begin to fathom how to get out of it.

The dramatic pause is long enough that Stiles might even feel a little bit of worry. Scott drops down on the edge of his bed and looks directly at his best friend.

"I want to throw a party."

Stiles opens his mouth, prepared to leap ahead with any one of a half-dozen crazy suggestions about how to handle Jason and the were-cats, and--it dies on his lips. His mouth ends up just hanging open, his brow furrows, and his shoulders do that shivery thing that he does, not knowing it, every time he's confused or surprised enough. It takes nearly four seconds for him to recover from the surprise, and then he just sort of leans forward, nearly losing his balance on the chair before he remembers to shift his feet forward, catching himself.

"You--wait, *what*?"

Stiles reaches up to vaguely rub at one temple with the first two fingers of his right hand, his left turning up the vaguest suggestion of a confused shrug. "You. You want me to help you throw a party?" Stiles' brain is fast, but it also handles more like a pinball machine than a hotrod. So for the moment, the little paddles of his brain are just kind of flopping in bafflement.

"Yes." Scott realizes he's probably thrown his friend for a loop so he gives a wave of his hand. "Let me explain."

Scott takes a second to look off to the side before he brings his attention back to Stiles. "Things are getting, I don't know, difficult. Every day there's something new that wants to kill us. Or wants to pretend to help us so that they can kill us later." Scott frowns at that thought but works on trying to fight throught he frown. "But we can't let that control us. We can't let that stop us from having a little fun?" Scott pushes himself into having just a small smile.

"Besides. I don't want to run my Pack the way Derek ran his. Or Deucalion. I want my Pack to actually be friends and care about each other. I want bonding. I want us all to be there for each other. And we can't do that if we're all not sleeping and not eating and getting terrifying vampire heads in our beds."

Rubbing the enter of his forehead a bit, Stiles gives a slow nod. "Okay, I... I can see it." Scott's words did confuse the hell out of him at first, but he's beginning to see the logic of it. "I'll see what I can come up with. I, uh... know a guy who might be able to help." And for whatever reason, as he says that, Stiles' cheeks and the tips of his ears flush slightly.

He shakes it off, though. "But... I've been doing research, too." Which is an understatement. He's practically lived at the library for much of the past several days. "I haven't got much, but... at least *some* of Jason's story checks out. It's... it's *possible* that he's on the level." He draws a deep, slow breath, and twists his lips thoughtfully. "Scott... do you think maybe he could actually teach you something? I mean... we didn't like the idea of learning from Derek, once, either... and now he's basically one of the pack. Maybe Jason's--well, okay, Jason *is* a drama queen and kind of an asshat, for sure--but maybe he's *also* got some good intentions buried under all the Shatnery dramatics. He's gonna come find you, and soon--and when he does, I mean... be smart, obviously. But... see if he says anything that sounds useful, maybe?"

Then he straightens some, drawing a deep breath. "But, yeah. A party. That'd... be nice, actually." It's nice, really, just to think about anything that's more like *real life* and less like crazy people invading their town and threatening them.

"Stiles. He put a vampire head, *in your bed*. That's not okay."

Scott doesn't sound like he's caring at all about what Jason's story is and how much of it checks out. Not when his best friend is being taunted and haunted by some asshole of a vampiric werewolf that really needs a lesson or two in how to actually help. Scott doesn't at all seem like he's willing to let those things slide.

"I don't care what he can teach me. I don't need to learn it from someone like that. I might as well go ask Peter." Scott drops back down to his bed and almost tips over. He's getting worked up again and that doesn't work out too well when he hasn't rested. "Call Deaton. Get him to secure your house. I don't want him paying any more visits to you when I'm not around to punch him in his contoured face."

Stiles shakes his head. "I'm definitely looking into the 'securing my house' thing, and I'll bug Deaton about it... but what I'm saying is, this isn't *about* him. Whether you learn from him or not, even if he goes away... they're gonna keep coming. Whatever we *did* to the Nemeton... it *changed* things. Beacon Hills isn't our quiet little town anymore." He frowns a little.

"We're gonna have to adjust, gonna have to figure out what comes next. 'Cause I know you, Scott--and I know the rest of us, too. We're gonna defend our home. We're gonna kick the bad guys *out*. So maybe..." He licks his lips, shaking his hands in the air as if trying to illustrate something. "Maybe we should stop *reacting* to this crap, and take the initiative.

"Jason's coming for you, so *let* him find you. Then, give him *your* offer. Put it on *your* terms. Tell him what the rules are if he comes to Beacon Hills. Tell him, if he wants to help, *how* to do it. But... I don't think we can apply the 'ignore it until it goes away' method to problems anymore, and we can't just kick every problem's ass like it was the Darach or a kanima. Stuff's gonna keep coming. We need to adapt." He bites his lip again, looking at Scott with concern--wanting to be sure he hasn't said the wrong thing, here.

"You're right. I hate that I love it when you're right, but you're right. We're going to have to adapt. We're going to have to change. But I don't want *us* changing the way we work. The way we are. We're not like the Argents. We're not Hunters. I don't want an army, I want my friends." Scott is making it very clear on what he wants and how he wants this to go.

"All I know is that we've got school in a few weeks. And yeah, the world's on the verge of ending, but we've got to look at that too. We need to make sure that we've got all our ducks in a row before then. Beacon Hills is not going to become a supernatural playground. Not while we're around."

Scott makes it a point to say 'we' and 'us' to make sure that Stiles knows he's including him in this leadership position. "This is *our* Pack, Stiles. I may be the Alpha. But you're the Heart of it."

The corner of Stiles' mouth quirks up at this, and he can't help but feel that *glow* of Scott's confidence. True alpha mojo? Maybe. Stiles is pretty sure that's just all *Scott*, though. He nods along with this, giving a big shrug, and puts on a slightly comical expression that conveys *Well, how can you argue with that logic?* Leaning back a bit in the chair, he drums his fingers along the backrest, chewing his lip in thought as if looking for any flaws in Scott's logic. Then he nods.

"I *think*... a lot of these new guys might rather play by your rules than not play at all... and probably they'd rather play by your rules than fight about it. Jason might be all Sithwolf badass, but he's also clearly got problems and enemies, or he wouldn't be sniffing our collective asses for new recruits. *So*, yeah. *You* set the rules. *You* tell them how to play the game in Beacon Hills." His grin spreads wider, and a glint enters his eyes that's become less common over the last year.

"Told you once before: You're Batman. This is your Gotham City. And in Gotham City, even Superman has to play by Batman's rules." Yep, he's proud of himself for working in that reference. And no, he's never quite let that "Batman and Robin" conversation go. Why would he? It's Stiles.

"You're never going to let this Batman thing go, are you?"

Scott is happy, though. He hasn't been happy in a little bit of time. Or any amount of time, really. There's been a few moments of happiness here and there but ever since he got bit there's been nothing but sadness, darkness and death.

"So. You set up the party. I'll have a meeting with the minds Dracuwolf and The Lion King to set some boundaries. Anything else?" Scott's really starting to look more and more tired. He's even pondered falling back into the bed. His body has swayed more than once.

Raising his eyebrows and turning his hands over, palms up, in a gesture of rational appeal, Stiles says, "Scott. It's me. When has letting things go ever been one of my personal strengths?" But the humor still plays about his eyes, tugs at the corner of his mouth. The moment, simple as it is, has done something for Stiles, too--it's grounded him in a way that, really, only Scott quite ever manages to do. Others may *hold* him down, but Scott grounds him in almost electrical sense, as if giving some of the energy constantly bouncing around in Stiles' odd head somewhere safe to go.

"So, yeah, party. Party is good. We'll get something together." And his brow furrows a bit, his lips twisting thoughtfully. "Uh, by the way. You look beat, so I won't keep you, but... kiiinda feeling like you should know." His glance tracks up until his eyes meet Scott's. He offers a sheepish grin.

"Did I mention that, I, uh... I got a *boyfriend*?"

#worstcomingoutever

Scott finds himself unable to stop himself from slowly falling down onto his bed. He ends up slightly curled up. He's not even laying on his pillow so much as he's got one arm around it. His eyes start to close but he doesn't really allow them to. Not yet. He has to respond to his best friend. To Stiles. "I... I know." Scott yawns a little bit as he gets comfortable on the bed. "Can't... wait... to meet him." Those eyes of his finally start to close on a more permanent basis. Temporarily permanent.

"... *Before* the party." And with that, Scott's gone. To sleep! Not anything else.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, watching Scott pass out, so he rises, gathering up his bag, to leave. He turns off the light, glances back at Scott with a somewhat puzzled smirk, and... just shuts the door quietly behind him. Scott knew. Of course he knew. Werewolf senses, probably. Or maybe best friend senses. Who knows?

Whatever. There's a party to plan.