Unbroken ▹ Teen Wolf [02]

05; skeleton

From the time Derek & Scott left the loft until now (no more than twenty minutes) the dull ache in Rachel's head had evolved into a migraine— the pain now nearing that of the ones that'd interrupted her vacation months ago. For her, at this point, it had become more annoying than painful. She wanted to be able to worry about Scott & Derek, as Stiles had been from the moment they'd left, but the feeling of a hammer being repeatedly slammed against her skull was rather distracting.

She kept waiting for it to go away. All of the previous incidents had lasted no longer than a few minutes; they began suddenly, and they ended suddenly. Only this time, there was no sudden metaphorical brick hitting her in the face. The pain began gradually, and for as long as it had existed, it showed no signs of mercy. Rachel wanted to blame it on the full moon— on skipping lunch to ensure their rushed plan was as flawless as it could possibly be, on a mysterious werewolf sickness that no one aside from her had ever experienced. But unfortunately, the lie-detecting supernatural part of her brain refused to so much as consider the idea.

"I can't take waiting around like this, you know?" Stiles interrupted the silence, his voice like knives in Rachel's head. "It's nerve-racking. My nerves are racked. They're severely racked."

"I could beat you unconscious and wake you when it's over." Peter offered, the demon spawn laying back on the couch as if this were some sort of Derek-free vacation.

"I could beat you to death and burn you." Rachel counter-offered, shooting a forced fake smile at her psychotic uncle. She'd never killed anyone before, but she could easily be persuaded if the person she got to kill was Peter.

"Do you think Erica's really dead?" Stiles cut in before Rachel could add more to her threat.

"Yes." The reflector admitted, secretly just wanting him to shut up. At this point, even the sound of the rain hitting the window was starting to agitate her.

"Do you think I really care?" Peter remarked, not caring that the question wasn't directed at him. No one ever wanted to talk to him, yet he still managed to make himself a part of nearly every conversation that went on inside the loft.

"Are you sure I can't interest you in a glass of bleach?"

"Something bothering you, sweetheart?" He asked knowingly. Anyone with heightened senses could tell she was in pain— and that it was getting worse, and that she was fighting to hide it. "Still having trouble with the full moon? I'm sure that headband is around here somewhere.."

"It's not the moon I'm having trouble with, it's the psychopath on the couch with an inability to shut up." She grumbled, staring out the window at the pouring rain. It hurt her head but anything was better than listening to Satan. "I have a headache."

"Unfortunate." Peter faked a frown.

"If it didn't feel like someone cracked my skull, I swear I'd throw you through the window—"