The last thing James "Jay" Hale ever imagined was to begrudgingly return to Beacon Hills, find out his older sister was murdered, and then be forced to go on a wild goose chase after some fuck ass Alpha that seemed to have a particular interest in r...
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CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR:
Don't Worry! Three Idiots and the Sheriff Are On The Job!
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Jay walked into Stiles's room after two straight weeks of slumming it in some dingy, rat-infested train car, and the first thing he did was flop onto the bed and let out a very loud—and probably inappropriate sounding—groan.
As one did.
It was loud enough that everyone in the room raised a judging eyebrow in his direction. Including the cat.
But honestly, after the day he had, they were lucky he was still awake and moderately functional. The only thing keeping him from the sweet embrace of dreamland was Stiles and Scott's aggressively persistent reprimands.
Something about how he'd "foolishly tried to kill the Master of the Kanima" and now "couldn't afford to blink, let alone sleep," in case a "very vengeful, very scaly visitor" decided to "pay him a midnight call."
Whatever that meant.
Jay thought they were overreacting. Matt probably wouldn't kill him without making a spectacle out of it, the same way Jay made a spectacle out of him getting pushed into the pool. He was safe for the night.
They didn't like that argument for obvious reasons.
So, here the three of them were. Fresh from Lydia's poisoned party, trying to convince the Sheriff that, no, they weren't just a bunch of drunken teenagers pointing fingers at some random creepy kid. And yes, they had absolutely no proof to back up their very bold, potentially life-ruining claim. . .
And to make matters worse, they looked like the living embodiment of a wild night out. Stiles was the hyperactive, chaotic beginning; Scott, the lowkey spiralling but still along-for-the-ride middle; and Jay? Jay was the barely conscious, sloppy, one-second-from-passing-out finale.
But that wasn't the point!
The point was, if the Sheriff could just believe them instead of grilling them like a responsible adult about where they'd been and why they looked like death warmed over, things would be so much easier! And honestly, they needed a win so badly that they were about one second away from grovelling if it didn't happen soon.
Groveling or passing out. Jay was firmly Team Passing Out.
As evident in his current state of being.
Noah Stilinski, observing said sad state of being, raised an unimpressed eyebrow as Jay immediately threw himself onto the bed and rolled himself into the blanket. When it was clear the boy wouldn't be getting up anytime soon, the blanket cocooned around him in a way where only his narrowed eyes and the tufts of his messy hair were peeking out, he turned his attention back to the yearbook his son was furiously scribbling on. All the while his expression was fixed in the patented "I Am Questioning All My Life Choices" look every parent mastered.
