Amelia 'Mia' Argent has been raised to fear the supernatural. Coming from a long lineage of werewolf hunters, she is being trained to hunt and one day become the leader of her team. But when her family moves to Beacon Hills in search for an Alpha, t...
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tw: self harm. it's not very graphic, and it isn't related to mental illness or emotional pain or anything like that, but i still thought i'd mention it. please read carefully!
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Mia was still seeing black when she felt a press against her neck. Memory kicking in, she instinctively flinched away from it, but this touch was gentle, cautious. The fingers against her pulse point retreated, replaced by a warm hand on her knee.
"You're okay," Derek said calmingly. He gently sat her up while her eyes were adjusting.
It felt like hours had passed, but when Mia looked up, she realized it had been minutes. Derek was still beaten up and covered in white dust and blood, hair a mess. She spotted Stiles glued against a wall further away, staring at her with wide eyes. Peter was leaning on the front desk, his arms casually crossed. The burns on his face were gone. He looked completely healed.
"Don't be so dramatic, she's going to be fine," he rolled his eyes with a petulant sigh, "We have other business to attend to, remember?"
Derek ignored him completely, guiding her attention back to him. His eyes were tired but reassuring, "I'm sorry you got involved with this. Go home, both of you. You'll be safe."
Mia wanted nothing more than to protest, because this was insane. Derek was insane for going along with his uncle's plans, whatever they were. But Stiles looked close to tears and Derek's expression left no room for arguments and she didn't want to get choked out by Peter again, so she just silently nodded.
"Chop chop," Peter hummed, annoyed.
Derek stood up and dusted off his leather jacket. He gave Mia one last glance, but she couldn't read his face at all. Without another word, the two werewolves walked out of the building like nothing had happened.
After a beat of silence, Stiles let out a long sigh, "I think I actually pissed myself."
The situation was so absurd she couldn't help but laugh quietly. She wasn't actually amused. She was nauseous, exhausted and in pain, but their circumstances warranted at least a pity laugh.
They made it out to the parking lot eventually, subconsciously sticking close to each other like abandoned cubs.
"Can you drive?" she asked, clutching her arm, "I think my wrist got fucked up again."
"Yeah," Stiles murmured, already sliding into the driver's seat on autopilot.
On the drive, both of them sat in silence. Stiles' eyes were fixed on the road, staring blankly. Mia had her gaze fixed on his glove compartment, counting the amount of scratches it had over and over again. Her wrist was burning, white hot pain ebbing in waves, but she kept her mouth shut. She couldn't stomach going to the hospital now.
