Chapter Text
[Camera slowly eases into the room as STILES, back to it, fiddles with something on the steel table in front of him. It’s a plain room, concrete floor, IKEA-style cabinets and cardboard boxes piled up against one wall. One box is opened to show a stack of vacuum-packed syringes. Camera then pans to the counter, which is spartan by comparison, with just a few glass jars on it, filled with cotton swabs and plastic-wrapped gauze rolls and…a small heap of thin off-white sticks. Upon zoom in, the sticks resolve into bones. That then suddenly assemble into a rat skeleton, skull cocking curiously from side to side.]
STILES: Okay, what’s the damage?
[Camera hastily jitters back, then swivels suddenly as somebody enters from the left. It’s ERICA, a pair of latex surgical gloves thrown over one shoulder, busy touching up her lipstick as she simultaneously scrolls through her phone.]
ERICA: Well, the rush fees on the brownfield permit alone’s gonna blow the contingency fund for this month, and apparently union means you get deli plates from the good grocery, not whatever didn’t move at Trader Joe’s this week, and—
STILES: I meant like the patients? You know? The cute little animals we’re here to help out and their photogenically grateful owners? And—and also, what the hell, brownfield, Frosty’s spitting out pure fertilizer there, we should be charging the organic farmer down the street for access to that stuff.
ERICA: Look, you want to get on the phone and lay your science down with the EPA again, be my guest. All I’m saying is those photogenic pet owners better have property damage coverage this time.
[“Tell Sales to find an insurance sponsor and call me back at lunch,” DIRECTOR mutters to an underling. “We’ll cut a spot with those interns who they keep dumping on me. Their intern’s anxiety face will be perfect.”]
STILES:…yeah, yeah, sure. *staring hard off-camera, at DIRECTOR’S corner* Money money money, keeps you in Urban Decay and us in antibiotics. So let me rephrase: who are we doing damage control for today?
ERICA: You actually know what that is?
STILES: Okay, honestly, can you just—
[As STILES turns around, irritated, the camera catches a brief glimpse of what appears to be half a raw chicken with a squirmy brown-furred lump bulging out of the cavity at the rear end. But just then the surgery doors bang open, causing everybody to whip around. Inside the room, ISAAC is falling off the wall he’s just been thrown into, while something makes garbled but still ear-piercing screeches. Just barely audible over them, SCOTT is shouting something about the worst is over and it’s all right and just let the drugs do their job.]
ERICA: Well, that’s a PSA I never thought was gonna come out of McCall’s angel-boy mouth.
STILES: I don’t even know why you’re around again, you have the bedside manners of a…whatever. *takes a couple steps towards the door, blocking the view of the table* Scott? Buddy? You good there?
SCOTT (off-screen): Yeah! Yeah, we got it out, just it was a real long root and Isaac had to crack it in half. But the worst is over and don’t worry, Frosty, we’re gonna pack it up till your healing can do its stuff and before you know it, you’ll have a nice new bicuspid growing in.
ISAAC (off-screen):…think my spine is cracked, oh, my God…
ERICA: So, anyway, after little Frosty there’s moved to post, we have two annual check-ups with felinoids, one small animal, one semi-corporeal—
STILES: What, is the squonk back? How many times do we have to tell that idiot, stop sponging it up and just let it come back naturally, or no wonder if it’s gonna be missing a couple feathers?
ERICA: Nope, new patient. Dwarf jinni.
STILES: *excited* Seriously?
ERICA: Hey, before you get all up in your bestiary porn, you also have a couple field calls. Jordan’s got a seized kelpie down at the station, and they think they have a hive of quantum honey bees in the preserve.
[“What’s that noise?” mutters SOUND TECH. “Is that still coming from surgery?”
“Well, make it stop, it’s going to cost an arm and a leg to filter it out later and we already got the dragonet footage,” DIRECTOR mutters back. She waits a second and when nobody moves, rolls her eyes and then points over her shoulder.
The unlucky crew member freezes. Then sighs, rolls up his sleeves, and darts into the surgery bay once the camera’s panned to focus fully on ERICA and STILES.
“Hey, wait, you’re not sterilized—” ISAAC croaks, before he’s suddenly and unceremoniously cut off.]
STILES: Still excited! You know daddy loves nothing better than extradimensional healthcare! Quantum bees, this is gonna be so awesome, you know I’ve been dying to see if I can get a tesseract up and down without accidentally inviting eldritch tentacle aliens to town—
ERICA: Also Peter left a message.
[Camera waits expectantly on STILES’ face, which somehow slips from sincere thrill to polite boredom without actually moving.]
ERICA: Peter. Left. A. Message.
STILES: *turns around* Yeah, I know. *reaches around and twists hard, without wincing at the gross-sounding pop noise that ensues, and then holds up a miserable, congealed-blood-smeared rabbit* There you are, that’s better, isn’t it? Now have we learned a lesson about trying to bite off more than we can chew? I mean, sure, I’m all for the impossible dream and all but there’s a difference between that and just being delusional because you have no sense of proportion. None. Like, the Renaissance never happened and we’re all living in a two-dimensional frame on some crappy ancient Greek wine-jar because everything’s got to be such a goddamn classical three-act tragedy with you—oh, shit, okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Don’t fucking die on me, you stupid fucking rab—okay, okay, fine, you’re not stupid, you’re fluffy and cute, I mean, you would be, if you hadn’t decided to breakfast in the trashcan!
ERICA: Oh, my God, here. *marches over and takes the rapidly wilting rabbit*
[ERICA pins the rabbit to the table belly-up, then flips her lipstick around and presses the end of the metal tube against its breast. Meanwhile, STILES, who’d dived under the table, comes back up holding something that looks like a clunky glue-gun with wires trailing out of the gluing end. He pinches the wires together against the lipstick, presses a button, and electric sparks fill the air. The rabbit convulses violently, arching so its ears almost touch its hind feet. Its mouth opens and the sparks glint off rows and rows of tiny needle-like teeth.
Then it flops back down. For a second it can’t be seen as STILES and ERICA huddle over it, and then ERICA moves back, allowing the camera to see that the rabbit, still gore-covered, is now sitting placidly on the table. STILES heaves a relieved sigh. Then, squawking, grabs at the rabbit and drags it back as it starts to nose at the chicken again. He casually maneuvers around its snap at his fingers and drops it into a pet carrier that he pulls up from under the table.]
STILES: I know I shouldn’t say this, but rabbits drive me crazy. All they wanna do is just find an excuse to roll over and almost die. And then you have to save them and it fucks up your whole day.
ERICA: You know this isn’t even transference, right? This is shoving your dirty laundry in my face and asking me why your boyfriend’s a sexy self-destructive sociopath.
STILES:…what.
ERICA: Whatever. *examines lipstick, which is still smoking* Also, I upgraded to Fenty, so remember that when you approve my expenses. I’m gonna check in some patients and then give Donner a bath. Scott! Hitting reception! Also Stiles isn’t talking to Peter!
SCOTT: *comes through the door, still in surgical scrubs* What?
STILES: Hey, I thought we were supposed to focus on the work here.
* * *
“We’ll fix it in post,” Lydia says, eyes narrowed, the stylus dangling from her nails somehow expressing worlds of boredom. Then, as Stiles inhales purposefully, she pushes off the counter and dismissively pivots away from him. “Look, you read the contract. You negotiated the contract. You’re one of three people who’ve ever made it through all of the exhibits without checking into an insane asylum and out of sheer appreciation, you made our Legal give you approval rights on the rough cut. So don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were signing up to.”
“A nice spotlight for this clinic’s good work in treating the hard-to-treat pets out there, when we’re not tackling local wildlife problems,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. “That is what we signed up for. That and getting our mortgage paid down.”
Scott blinks. Then takes a breath and smiles and steps in between Stiles and Lydia, sliding one hand down Stiles’ arm and pushing its glowing tattoos behind them. “Okay, look, we all agreed this wasn’t going to be stage-y because that’s lying, and we wanted this to show the truth, warts and all. And we’re all people here with lives, so that means you’re going to catch things not about work,” he says in a calming tone. “But at the same time, you’re not focusing on it, right?”
“God, no,” Lydia snorts. “I get paid to make interesting things look interesting, not to make dull people less dull. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the market’s glutted with heart-warming cat stories right now and we need the first episode to bring something new to the game, so we’re going to skip the check-ups.”
“But—we got all the releases signed!” Stiles says, jaw dropping. He jerks at the arm Scott is still firmly holding down, then twists towards Scott. Then back towards Lydia, as she continues to walk away and shout at her team to break down except for the interns. “Unedited! And Heather’s dating a lawyer, do you know how much I had to sweet-talk her mom to blow him off?”
“Overdone,” Lydia says crisply. She consults her phone, then a phone shown to her by an assistant. Then gestures for the interns. “Do you or do you not want to make money?”
“Stiles,” Scott says, as steadily as he can. Even without werewolf hearing, he probably could hear the way that the blood is pounding through the other man. Especially that one throbbing vein in Stiles’ temple. “Stiles. Come on. She’s just trying to get a reaction, I’m pretty sure. That thing you did with their lawyers was pretty cool.”
“Not as cool as what I’m gonna do with our sponsorship veto,” Stiles snarls, and low enough that Scott clocks Boyd frowning and hefting the camera in a defensive manner.
“So you don’t want to make money,” Lydia says, abruptly turning around.
She and Stiles stare at each other. Boyd retreats along with the rest of the crew, while Scott desperately looks around for some kind of distraction. They’ve got a patient checking in but from the sound of it, their owner and Erica are taking their time because of some viral video they’ve just got to watch right now. Frosty’s sleeping off the sedation down the hall, and since it's Monday, they’re pretty light on overnight stays so don’t even have much to check up on.
“You’re good,” Stiles says. He straightens up, gives his arms a loose shake—the tattoos have disappeared, so he really has calmed down—and then snorts. “Okay, even for the morning. But you’re riding along for the field calls, right?”
“Do you think I wasn’t shooting B-roll at the police station before you even burped your way out of bed this morning?” Lydia tosses off. “Please. Try to remember who’s the director around here, would you? Now where is that intern of yours, the one with the twitches?”
“I think he’s still explaining anatomy to your gofer in the backroom,” Scott says, and then smiles at Lydia when she raises her brow at him. Sincerely. Because he is just trying to explain to her that they’re all here to work together and if they’ve got to ask Isaac to star in a sponsor clip for them, then of course he’s going to give the man some time to clean up after surgery. “Since if you’re going to help a werewolf realign his spine, I think you really should learn to do it the right way.”
“Jaden’s a werecoyote,” Lydia says flatly.
“So practicals all around! It’s not like we aren’t standing in the middle of tons of muscle relaxants, right?” Stiles says brightly.
Lydia eyes them another moment, then swings her hair dismissively. “Just make sure make-up gets a run-through on him. If we can upgrade this to season sponsor, that’s a guaranteed twenty grand to you.”
That…is a significant amount of money, Scott isn’t going to lie. He also isn’t going to pretend as if love alone keeps the clinic running.
“Damn it,” Stiles sighs, as they both watch Lydia stalk away. He rubs at the side of his face. “You know, when we’re done shooting, I’m gonna have some words with Alan’s sister. Best in the business my ass, I don’t even know why we’re taking showbiz recs from a psychologist anyway—”
“Hey, docs, I got Felicia and Scott’s number two wampus cat waiting in room one,” Erica says, swinging into the doorway. She holds out a clipboard, which Scott takes, and then readies up another one. But when Stiles reaches for it, she keeps it nestled against her chest. “Also, Derek’s lurking in the back.”
Scott glances down at the clipboard, listening to Stiles’ heartbeat spike again. He bites his lip and takes a step away, because he does have a patient waiting…and then turns back. “Look, Stiles, we do have a really long day with the shoot, so do you want to just talk about you and P—I don’t want to know what it is and I’m not going to tell you who’s right or wrong, just—you know how—”
“Lurking?” Stiles says, flopping back into a table, looking everywhere except the back door.
“Well—” Erica starts, and then they all freeze as a pair of howls split the air “—honestly, more like he parked in the handicapped spot and Boyd’s taking issue with it because Boyd’s got a sister with a clubfoot and Derek was all, I’m just here for five fucking seconds for none of your business but get the fuck out of my way ‘cause Peter will murder me so I’m gonna murder everybody else out of being scared of him, so. You think it’s our insurance or their insurance if the camera gets trashed?”
“Oh, for—Scott, just deal with the cat, I’ll go fucking deal with this,” Stiles snaps.
“Odds on Derek actually getting over himself long enough to convince Stiles Peter’s sorry?” Erica suggests, as Scott tries and fails to grab Stiles before he storms out.
“You know, you work here too,” Scott says, unable to help sounding a little exasperated. “You like working here.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s just ‘cause of the animals,” Erica says, grinning. Then she gives Scott a pat on the shoulder. “Oh, calm down. I was chatting with Boyd during the last break and he’s semi-pro MMA now, he’ll take Derek down before anything besides the leather coat gets ruined. Go look at Frankie and I’ll check on them once I get the jinni set up in the system. It’ll be fine, Scott.”
Scott opens his mouth, but Erica has a firm grip on his arm and is pushing him away from the back door. He could break free of her, but that’d just make a mess and he remembers the flaming catering and—
“Frankie!” Erica carols, dragging Scott into the hall. “Your favorite doctor’s coming to shove a thermometer up that furry little butt of yours!”
An unhappy yowl immediately echoes down the hall. Scott grimaces, then makes himself turn around and jog towards it. He’s a vet, he’s got a patient, he needs to do his job. They’re all adults here and can look after themselves, but the animals can’t do that and need him more.
Well. He hopes, anyway.
* * *
[Tight focus on STILES in the driver’s seat, while in shotgun, SCOTT is twisted around to face the camera. They’re both in street clothes, although once SCOTT leans forward enough, it becomes clear that his tee is emblazoned with ‘Beacon Hills Rescue Squad’ over a happy-looking cartoon puppy head.]
SCOTT: We’ve got a good relationship with the local police station, so they call us out whenever they have something to do with an animal.
CAMERAMAN (off-screen): So like impounding from drug lords?
SCOTT: *trying not to wince* Beacon Hills is a pretty nice area. I don’t think we have drug lords around here?
STILES: Are you kidding me? Did you totally miss the way Harris got exponentially more cheerful between fifth and sixth period, because of that bucket still everybody knew he kept in the back closet?
SCOTT: I don’t think that’s a drug.
OFF-SCREEN VOICE: Alcohol’s a drug. It comes with an FDA warning on it.
STILES: *mutters* It’s the USPHS, and also, wow, guess you can read labels now. Would’ve been useful to have that before anybody got injected with unnecessary herpes vaccine when we were asking for Nine Herbs.
OFF-SCREEN VOICE: Look, I read the label and it said Nine Nine—a
STILES: Nine nine like September Oh-Nine! Like an expiration date! Like how hard is it—
SCOTT: *alpha snarl, reddened eyes*
[Camera pauses on Scott’s face. The man is staring to the left, lips curled back to show a very impressive set of fangs. The car goes over a bump and things rattle, startling him. He glances over, freezes upon seeing the camera, and hunches up in embarrassment. His hand even goes up briefly to cover his mouth.
Angle then changes—also clearly changing to a smaller handheld camera, given the abrupt increase in shakiness—to show a scowling, tense DEREK slumped in the backseat. His eyes are fading from blue to brown and his leather coat has visible, fresh scuff-marks on it.]
DEREK: I wasn’t going to jump him in the car. On the way to the police station.
SCOTT (off-screen): Oh! Right! So like I was saying, the police call us whenever they have to take custody of an animal. It’s not *pauses as camera switches back to him* really drug lords or anything that exciting, it’s more like if somebody’s calling because they’ve gotten into the garage or a baby’s been abandoned or, um, well, if somebody—somebody’s being charged with animal, um, abuse.
STILES: Unfortunately, assholes exist, and as much as I personally think people who want to adopt an exotic should have to take a test before they get to have one, that’s not how things work. So the police get a report and call us up, and we do what we can.
SCOTT: *warming up* Yeah, so this time, apparently, they got a call from a neighbor that nobody’s been coming in or out of this house for a week but something was moving around inside. It’s really sad but some people, if they move and don’t take their pet with them for some reason, they’ll just lock it in the old house. *eyes start going red again* They don’t even leave a note, or tell anyone, and it’s just—I don’t understand, why wouldn’t you just find out where we are and—
STILES: Okay, okay, let’s take a breath there, Scott. *reaches out and pats Scott’s arm* Assholes are assholes, that’s all. Let’s save all that energy for the poor kelpie.
DEREK (off-screen): Like…those things that try to get you into the nearest body of water to drown you and eat your liver? Somebody had that as a pet?
SCOTT: Well, okay, kelpies aren’t recommended for beginner owners, but when properly trained and housed, they make really great—
DEREK (off-screen): Psychotic homicidal guard dogs?
STILES: Familiar territory there, Derek? Why the hell are you coming along again?
DEREK (off-screen, though one gesturing hand is briefly visible): Because you won’t pick up the phone! Would you just call him back, and then we can all just—
STILES: Why am I calling him.
DEREK (off-screen): Okay. Look. He’s an asshole.
STILES: *suddenly agitated* Do you even know what he did? Or did he just come in, all, nephew, you need to go find Stiles before I land you with a corpse and I know you’ve annoyed both your sisters so you’re gonna have to call Scott to bail you out again?
DEREK (off-screen): Yes! Yes, he did! And no, I don’t know what he did, but I know he was an asshole about it, because he’s still being an asshole about it!
SCOTT: Okay, um, look, I think we’re getting off-topic here and I don’t know if we want Lydia to yell at us because we did the drive over and Boyd didn’t get any usable footage out of it—
DEREK (moves into view, grabbing the headrest of Stiles’ seat and hiking himself up to snarl at the back of Stiles’ head): But whatever the hell it was, he’s sorry, and you know you’re gonna take him back so can you just—
STILES: I’m not talking about this right now, Derek. Peter’s a grown man, if he wants to talk to me, he can come himself instead of sending minions.
[The car takes a sharp turn, causing everyone except for STILES to yelp and flail as they try to swing with the momentum. Even CAMERAMAN grunts before righting the camera; a second later, a startled-looking DEREK is glimpsed banging into the car door. Then the camera refocuses on the front of the car just in time to catch STILES irritably stalking out the door. It shifts over to show SCOTT scrambling to hook up some bags and follows, then pans back around to show DEREK, lips pressed together, still haphazardly crumpled against the door, staring after the two of them.
DEREK raises his hand and presses it against the side of his nose. His brows scrunch together and then he drops his hand. He briefly glances down, breathing out, before glancing sideways and pulling his scowl back together. He starts to say something and the camera bounces up a little. DEREK goes still and what might be alarm passes over his face. Then he grunts something about ‘no time for this’ and yanks open the door and quickly walks after the other two men.]