Howl at Midnight// Teen Wolf// Stiles Stilinski

III

  I regretted it in the morning. The pain in my head had me swearing that I would never drink again if my headache relieved. It was no use, my head continued to pound. My migraine was coupled with the same floating colors around the people around me. The lights were too bright, the sounds too loud, my head throbbed and throbbed. I couldn't tell if it was just the horrible hangover or something more. To make matters worse I hadn't slept properly all night, I tossed and turned wondering about Scotts safety. My gut was screaming at me that something was terribly wrong with him and that I needed to help him. My gut was an idiot because Scott and I weren't even friends, we were barely acquainted.

I groaned, laying my head on my desk to try and get some of the coolness to sink into my skull. I massaged the side of my temples with gentleness but nothing was working. I was tempted to scream. A finger tapped on my shoulder and I didn't need to look up to know it was Stiles, I grunted my acknowledgement.

"Did you take any ibuprofen this morning?" I gave him a thumbs up. "Still feel like shit?" Another thumbs up, he giggled slightly and despite the pain a smile found my own lips. Something snuck its way under my arm and I peered at it, Ibuprofen. In the same little packaging that had been by my bed this morning. I didn't hesitate to take it. "I know you have a terrible hangover but I have a question." Terrible was an understatement but I still turned to look at him, the small movement making me wince. Concern riddled his expression before he shook his head and refocused. "What kind of danger was Scott in that you needed to leave so many voicemails?"

I jerked and then winced again, "What are you talking about? I only left one." Stiles looked at me as if I grew 3 heads.

"Uh, you left 7."

"No, I remember leaving one." My eyes squinted at him, trying to see past the yellow, blue and orange swirls around his head. He shuffled awkwardly.

"You left 7." He repeated gently, as if he was afraid to scare me off. "Do you speak another language?" It was my turn to look for the extra heads he was growing.

"I failed Spanish 1 last year, so that's another no." Jackson, Marie, and David all spoke Spanish as well as Italian, meanwhile I could barely manage an Hola without sounding like I was perpetuating stereotypes.

"Well you did last night, French more specifically, and you said something like 'Protect yourself' or at least that's what google translate said it meant." Stiles handed me a piece of paper with the words fais attention scribbled across it. "Do you know what it means exactly?" I stared at it for a moment causing my head to pound harder. I winced and Stiles went to remove the paper from in front of me but I grabbed it and stared harder. Fais attention, the language looked and felt familiar. Like I did in fact speak it, and the words didn't need me to separate and translate them into English because I knew what they meant just from one glance.

"Be careful." I whispered, still staring down at the paper.

"I thought you didn't speak another language."

"I don't." My voice shook, as did my body. I had never spoken another language, but the words seemed so familiar. The language felt like home, like what a native tongue would be. "I don't." I repeated more to myself than to Stiles, but his gentle hand on my arm told me he heard me. I looked up to find him looking at me with concern and I winced again. This time the damage was emotional, Stiles thought I was crazy.

He slipped the paper away and back into his pocket before clearing his throat, "Do you remember anything else from last night?" I took a moment to think about it.

"I remember," My head throbbed, "Forest green eyes, eating too much banana pudding," Stiles panting after Lydia like a dog, "and Randy being the gross sexist pig that he is when," I stopped. Eyes widening to the size of saucers as I looked at Stiles' red cheeks. He was the one who'd punched Randy last night and then kept me company for a few minutes in my bedroom. Minutes that felt like a dream because of how drunk I was. Minutes I would spend the rest of my life pouring over until I was sure I remembered each moment in vivid detail. "Thank you." He smiled softly in response and I would have swooned but something was nagging at me, "Something weird is going on. I swear I didn't feel any of the alcohol affecting me until I started eating the whip cream off the pudding." I narrowed my eyes down at my desk trying to think of a plausible answer.