The Hellhound's Mate

Angie's Return - Part 3

(A/N: This is based on the Motel California episode which contains major mention of suicide. Please don't read this if this is triggering for you.)

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Things had taken an absolute turn for the worse. The abandoned mall probably still smelled of blood, and Derek's body probably still lay on the broken escalators. Most of them were fine, fine being a relative term.

Scott was fighting a mortal wound on his stomach, and Derek...Derek hadn't made it out at all. The image of him going down, forcing Ennis back with one last brutal shove before the glass shattered beneath them, was burned into their minds. His last act wasn't rage — it was protection. Of Scott. Of the girl they were still trying to reach. Of Angie. And his sacrifice had him and Ennis falling down a three-story drop onto a set of metal stairs.

Now, hours later, Beacon Hills was quiet as the two teams regrouped. Scott, Stiles, Isaac, Boyd, Ethan, Alison and Lydia were all on a bus out of Beacon Hills on their way to a cross-country meet. And now, inside the dim light of Alan Deaton's veterinary clinic, the alphas tended to their own wounds.

The air was thick with antiseptic and iron. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the corner was the only sound besides the slow, ragged breaths of the creature on the metal table. Ennis stirred — the groan of a wounded animal, low and dangerous. His massive frame shifted, his claws curling reflexively against the metal. His blood had only just stopped flowing, now it was just a matter of time until the massive wounds that marred the rest of his body healed.

Deaton stood beside him, expression unreadable beneath the harsh fluorescent light. He peeled off his gloves with deliberate care, his movements calm, precise — the way a man might move when standing on the edge of something sacred and perilous. He'd only helped at his sister's request, at her reminder that if Ennis died, nothing was going to stop the alphas from going after the people responsible, and Scott wouldn't be able to stop them, especially if Deucalion let Angie loose.

Alan had barely got off one glove before the air shifted and two figures appeared in the doorway.

Deucalion stepped inside like a shadow made flesh — calm, composed, with that same deliberate smile that never reached his eyes. His cane tapped softly against the tile. On his arm was Angie. She looked different now — or maybe it was the lighting. There was no blood on her, no dirt, no visible wound, but her expression was distant. Hollow. The faint smear of ash on her cheek was the only sign she'd been in that same warzone. Her hand rested lightly on Deucalion's sleeve — not possessive, not affectionate — but as if it were the only thing tethering her to the room.

Deaton didn't flinch. "Deucalion."

"Alan," Deucalion greeted, voice almost polite. "It's been some time since you've treated one of mine."

The words were laced with poison, for it was Alan Deaton who both treated and proclaimed the alpha of alphas forever blind, a wound even supernatural healing could not heal. He came further into the room with Angie's guidance.

"How's our patient?" he asked.

"Out cold," Alan answered with the snap of his other glove.

"And the prognosis?"

"Surprisingly optimistic. He's going to make it."

Something flickered across Deucalion's face at the prognosis — something sharp and fleeting. Whether it was jealousy or disappointment, Angie couldn't tell. His lips curved faintly, but the expression didn't reach the rest of his face. Without a word, he extended a hand.

Angie knew what to do. She stepped forward, taking his wrist gently and guiding his hand to Ennis's chest. His fingers spread, gliding slowly up the Alpha's torso, over the half-healed gouges that marred his ribs. Ennis stirred beneath the touch, the air leaving his lungs in a pained groan. His eyes fluttered open, dazed and dark, finding nothing but the blurred shape of his leader bending over him.