Swapsies||Chapter 1
Prompt: in which isaac is human and lydia is the werewolf
Where Lydia turned after the dance, and therefore taking Isaac’s spot in Derek’s pack.
Lydia flew through the air, clawing at the ground as she made contact to slow down on the slippery wet grass of the cemetery, leaving five long talon marks across some well respected police officer’s grave. Not like he cares that much anyway. She’d known the guy, Arthur Smith, and he wasn’t someone to care much about anything except catching the bad guys. Growling, the werewolf didn’t waste time trying to catch her balance before she was using his gravestone to propel herself back at her unnamed opponent, claws blazing. Stupid move, looking back on it she should have seen how vulnerable she was in mid-air, whole midsection unguarded. All the thing had to do was thrust out a single scaly hand-paw-thing and she would have been hanging off of him like a shirt on the washing line.
It looked as if things were about to end that way when a dark mass ran into the beast and took it off to the left. Lydia landed on all fours in the new empty space, whipping her head to the left to follow the pair. They were a shadowed flurry of limbs until Lydia caught sight of a pair of gold eyes. A wolf, thank god. And not Derek, another plus. A howl tore through the air and the wolf backed away from it’s opposition. From this new view Lydia could see three long gashes across the side of the lizard thing. It hissed briefly, before scampering off into the night. Lydia sighed with relief and lethargy, and retracted her claws.
"Thanks." She breathed, leaning down to inspect her damage. Nothing too serious, a cut or two on her legs, a definite bruise to her shoulder, both of which however were already starting to heal. She suspected she’d be fine by the time she got home. She looked back up to the glowing eyes of Scott McCall a few feet away from her. "Scott. Why am I not surprised." She added the last bit under her breath, allowing a small shred of diplomacy to fall to her saviour, just this once. "What are you doing here anyway?" She asked, cocking her head. McCall blinked, and his eyes went back to their dark brown, almost black colour. "Saving your ass, apparently." He snapped.
The girl recoiled slightly. “What’s gotten you so on edge? Full moon’s not for like, a week.” Scott McCall had always been the most actively passive werewolf she knew, and he knew better to snap at her. “Did you have a fight with Allison?” She squinted her eyes, all of her body language study coming back to her. She saw the wince at the corner of his eye, the ever so slight curling of his fingers, and his shoulders turning in a bit. Lydia took the moment to be sarcastic and bitchy, relishing in the normalcy of the practice. “Ooh, I’m torn between being the best friend or the pack mate. On one hand ‘nice job, jackass’, and on the other ‘I’m sure she’ll come around, eventually’”
The boyfriend growled viciously, his eyes turning gold and his fingernails growing into claws. In a second he had his arm in the air, taking a swing at her uninjured shoulder. She caught it quickly, her eyes matching his in colour. “You need to work on those anger issues. We need you in full form, now more than ever. You don’t turn you’re back on pack, okay?”
"I’m not pack, I told you." He bit back. She didn’t know why he was so insistent on being an Omega, or whatever he called himself these days. She recalled the boy spewing something about Stiles and Allison being his pack, his human pack, but it was stupid. He didn’t stand a chance against anyone in a pack of humans. He was better off joining them.
"You think that thing is going to care about the technicalities? Look, I get you’ve got issues with Allison, but you’ll pull through that good as new, you always do. What we might not pull through alive even, is whatever that was. So pull it together, okay?” She dropped his arm, her own eyes now a hazel dull in comparison. “And keep your claws to yourself.”
Scott seemed to ponder saying more, but opted for a curt nod before hurrying out of sight.
Lydia exhaled, ruffling a hand through her dishevelled hair. Picking her bag up from behind Arthur Smith’s grave, she trudged her way back to her car. In the silence her werewolf senses were heightened, and she finally picked it up. A faint double rhythm, a heartbeat. It was fast, and Lydia assumed the owner was scared. Probably a dog, or a raccoon, or a squirrel she thought. Lighting her eyes for the third time that night, she turned to where it was and growled in an attempt to scare it off. But what she saw scared her.
Two blue eyes.
Human eyes.
Isaac Lahey scrambled off into the darkness.
