His hands. He couldn't keep his hands still. He twisted, squeezed, squeezed together, trying to massage the blood from his skin, from the red caked into each nail bed. Every commotion, every movement felt like it was exacerbating the situation. Inhale, exhale. This wasn't a lacrosse game. This wasn't Scott crawling home embarrassed and bloodied from his lycanthropy's accidental slaughter of the rabbit. It was serious, and he couldn't concentrate. Stiles forces himself to lift his feet to walk towards the window in his dorm room, only to turn back and wear down the floor with another invisible increment in the trail he's left. I had been walking up and down for the last part of an hour. He pulled out his cell phone like clockwork, paling in the light of the LCD, glancing between the device and the heavy stack on the bed, frowning intermittently at his empty inbox. Fuck. It had been months since he left for college, months since he had been accepted, months since he left Beacon Hills and the memories of a past war zone he had almost abandoned there. He thought he had gone too far...
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