AutumnXd
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CHAPTER 4
🕑 Added 2025-05-18 16:47:40 +0000 UTCThe descent into the small, unassuming airport that served the outskirts of Beacon Hills was, for Alex McCall, an unwelcome interruption. Darkness had long since fallen, the lights of distant, scattered towns twinkling like fallen stars against the inky canvas of the night sky. The private jet, a sleek Gulfstream G650ER that was more flying penthouse than mere aircraft, had been his sanctuary for the past few hours. A sanctuary filled with plush cream leather, endless champagne, and two exceptionally accommodating flight attendants named Tiffany and Crystal, who seemed to believe that "in-flight service" was a very broad and flexible term.
Alex was currently demonstrating his appreciation for their five-star hospitality, tangled with both of them on the oversized divan that converted into a surprisingly comfortable bed. His charcoal cashmere sweater was a forgotten heap on the floor, along with various other discarded items of clothing. The scent of expensive perfume, champagne, and heated skin mingled in the cabin's recycled air. Tiffany was laughing, a low, throaty sound, as Crystal traced patterns on his chest with a perfectly manicured fingernail, her crimson lipstick leaving faint, artistic smudges.
"You know," Alex murmured, his voice husky, nuzzling Crystal’s neck, "I think I'm developing a serious fear of landing."
Crystal giggled, pressing a kiss to his jawline, leaving another artful smear of red. "Is that so, Mr. McCall? Perhaps we can offer some… therapeutic distraction for the bumps?"
"I was hoping you'd say that," Alex grinned, just as the jet gave a gentle bump, followed by the subtle shift in engine noise that signaled they were on final approach through the night.
A discreet chime sounded, and the pilot's smooth, professional voice came over the intercom. "Mr. McCall, we'll be on the ground in approximately two minutes. Hope you enjoyed the flight."
Alex groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back against the plush cushions. "Two minutes? What the hell? The night is young! I haven't even properly started the pre-flight checks for this particular journey."
Tiffany, now straddling his lap, leaned down, her blonde hair tickling his nose in the dim cabin light. "Oh really?" she purred, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Then what, pray tell, have we been doing for the last hour, flyboy?" Her own lipstick, a vibrant shade of fuchsia, was artfully smudged across his cheekbone and near the corner of his mouth.
Alex grinned up at her, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Sweetheart, that was just the appetizer. The amuse-bouche, if you will. I was planning on taking you both to the moon and back, maybe a quick detour past Mars." He winked. "But alas, terrestrial concerns, and apparently, small-town curfews, beckon."
Just then, his personal assistant, Marcus, materialized at the doorway of the private suite. Marcus, perpetually stressed and fueled by an IV drip of pure caffeine and anxiety when Alex was in full playboy mode, looked particularly haggard under the jet's ambient lighting.
"Mr. McCall," Marcus said, his voice tight, his gaze fixed determinedly on a point somewhere above Alex's head. "We've landed. Your car has been brought tarmac-side as requested. Your father also reiterated that any significant delays on your part would… and I quote… 'result in him personally flying out here to drag you to Beacon Hills by your very expensive, K-Pop inspired earrings, and he wouldn't care if it was three in the morning'." He paused, swallowing. "Also, your mother has called. Three times. In the last ten minutes. She sounded… concerned. And possibly like she was sharpening something. Maybe a wooden spoon. Or a small axe."
Alex sat bolt upright, nearly dislodging Tiffany. The mention of his mother, the wooden spoon, and the potential axe, had an immediate, sobering effect that no amount of champagne could counteract. "Right. Okay. Mom. We can't keep Mom waiting, can we, ladies? Especially if she's arming herself." He flashed a charming, apologetic smile at Tiffany and Crystal, who were now trying to subtly rearrange their slightly disheveled appearances. "Duty calls. The terrifying, potentially pointy-stick-wielding kind." He disentangled himself, grabbing his sweater from the floor. "It has been an absolute pleasure. We must do this again sometime. Perhaps when I'm not being forcibly exiled to the land of plaid, perpetual dampness, and early bedtimes."
He quickly pulled on his clothes, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirrored panel. Lipstick art decorated his face and neck like abstract war paint. He chuckled, grabbing a napkin and attempting to wipe some of it off, mostly just smearing it further in the dim light. "Looks like I had a very enthusiastic welcome party."
As he headed for the jet's exit, Marcus already holding the door, Alex paused. "Oh, and Marcus? Send Tiffany and Crystal a… generous bonus. And maybe a spa day. They've earned it. And book them a flight back to LA, first class. No one should be stranded in… well, wherever this is."
"Of course, Mr. McCall," Marcus said, his expression unchanging. "Consider it done."
Stepping out of the jet, Alex was met not by the crisp air he expected, but by the cool, damp kiss of a light, persistent rain. The tarmac glistened under the airport lights. And there, gleaming under the downpour, looking utterly out of place and sinfully beautiful, was his matte black BMW M3 E92. A stoic-looking driver stood beside it, holding an umbrella.
Alex grinned. "Now that's more like it." He strode towards the car, waving away the offered umbrella. He took the keys from the surprised driver. "Thanks, I'll take it from here. You can, uh, go find Marcus. I'm sure he has a thrilling night of logistical nightmares planned for you."
The driver, looking slightly bewildered, simply nodded and retreated.
Alex slid into the familiar low-slung seat of his BMW, the scent of expensive leather and high-octane fuel a welcome comfort. He fired up the engine, its throaty rumble a defiant growl in the quiet night. With a screech of tires that was probably entirely unnecessary but deeply satisfying, he pulled away from the private jet area and onto the access road, heading towards the main highway.
The rain picked up, drumming a steady rhythm on the roof as he drove, the wipers swishing hypnotically. The highway signs for Beacon Hills began to appear with increasing frequency. With each mile that brought him closer to the town he’d spent years trying to forget, a strange sensation began to unfurl within him. The familiar, gnawing emptiness that was his constant companion in LA started to recede, replaced by a subtle, almost imperceptible feeling of… fullness. Of being more solid, more present. It was bizarre.
"One of the great wonders of the world," he muttered to himself, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Why do I only ever feel remotely like a complete human being in this godforsaken, perpetually drizzly corner of nowhere when there's absolutely nothing here for me?" He shook his head, pushing the thought away. He fished his phone out, a sleek, cutting-edge model, and speed-dialed Scott.
The rain was coming down in earnest, a relentless curtain of water that turned the familiar streets of Beacon Hills into slick, reflective ribbons. Scott McCall was just about to lock up the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic for the night. Dr. Deaton had left earlier, leaving Scott to finish cleaning and close up. He was toweling off his hands when he heard the frantic screech of tires outside, followed by a dull thud and a yelp – both human and canine.
His heart leaped into his throat. He rushed to the front window, peering out into the stormy night. Through the rain-streaked glass, Scott saw a car slewed at an odd angle by the side of the road, its headlights illuminating a figure kneeling in the downpour.
Before Scott could react further, the clinic door burst open and Allison Argent stumbled in, her face pale, her dark hair plastered to her head, rain dripping from her clothes. She was cradling a small, whimpering Golden Retriever puppy in her arms. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the raindrops.
"Help! Please, I… I hit him!" she cried, her voice choked with distress. "He just ran out… I didn't see him until it was too late! Is the vet here?"
Scott’s earlier anxieties about his own strange afflictions vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and a surprising wave of protectiveness. "Deaton's gone for the night, but bring him here," he said, his voice steadier than he expected, gesturing towards an examination table. "I can… I can take a look. I've helped Deaton with stuff like this before." It wasn't entirely a lie. He'd watched Deaton enough times.
Allison gently placed the trembling puppy on the stainless-steel table. It let out a tiny, pained whine. Scott found himself moving closer, his hand instinctively reaching out. "Hey there, little guy," he murmured, his voice soft. To his own surprise, the puppy, which had been tense and fearful, seemed to quiet slightly under his gaze, its whimpering subsiding a little. He gently ran his hands over the puppy, checking for obvious injuries, his touch surprisingly sure. "Okay, I don't think anything's broken, but he's definitely in shock."
Allison stood by, wringing her hands, her eyes wide with fear and guilt. "Is he… is he going to be okay?"
"I think so," Scott said, trying to sound confident. "He needs to be kept warm, and maybe something for the pain. Deaton keeps some mild sedatives and painkillers for small animals." He moved to a cabinet, his mind racing, trying to remember what Deaton used. He found a small vial and a syringe. "This should help him relax and ease the pain." His hands were surprisingly steady as he drew up a small dose, his newfound werewolf senses perhaps guiding him more than he realized. He administered the injection with a practiced ease he didn't know he possessed, the puppy barely flinching.
Scott found himself focusing on Allison. She was soaked to the bone and shivering. "You're freezing," he said. "And you're bleeding." He pointed to a small scrape on her forehead where she must have hit it on the steering wheel or dashboard. "Here," he said, grabbing a clean, dry towel from a nearby shelf and a spare, oversized Beacon Hills Lacrosse sweatshirt he kept in his locker. "You should dry off. And put this on."
Allison looked at him, her eyes still filled with tears, but a flicker of gratitude in them. "Oh, I… thank you." She took the towel and sweatshirt, hesitating for a moment.
"You can change in the back office," Scott said, gesturing. "No one will bother you."
She nodded, then hurried off. While Scott monitored the puppy, whose breathing was already becoming more even, he couldn't help but glance towards the back office door. He could hear her moving around, the soft rustle of fabric. He quickly turned away, his cheeks feeling warm.
A few minutes later, Allison re-emerged, wearing his oversized sweatshirt. It swamped her, but she looked a little less like a drowned cat. The bleeding on her forehead had mostly stopped. She looked at the puppy, then at Scott. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I feel awful."
"Hey, it was an accident," Scott said, trying to reassure her. "It could have happened to anyone, especially in this rain." He found himself wanting to make her feel better, to see her smile again. The puppy was now resting more comfortably, its eyes closed. "See? He's doing much better already."
Relief washed over Allison’s face, so potent it was almost visible. "Oh, thank God. You were… you were really good with him."
"You can pet him now, if you like," Scott said gently to Allison. "I think he's forgiven you."
She approached the table hesitantly, then reached out a trembling hand and stroked the puppy’s soft fur. A small, watery smile finally touched her lips. "He's so sweet."
They stood there for a moment in comfortable silence, the only sounds the drumming of the rain outside and the puppy's soft breathing.
"So," Scott began, his courage suddenly returning with the puppy's improved condition. "There's this party. On Friday night. Jackson's having it, I think. Or maybe it's Lydia's. Anyway, a party." He took a breath. "And I was wondering… if you're not doing anything, maybe you'd like to… go? With me?"
Allison turned to him, her earlier distress replaced by a soft surprise. The oversized sweatshirt made her look small and vulnerable, and incredibly cute. "A party?" she said, a genuine smile finally blooming. "After all this? I… I'd love to, Scott."
"Really?" He couldn't keep the surprise, or the massive wave of relief, out of his voice. "That's… that's great! Awesome!" He was grinning like an idiot, he knew it, but he couldn't stop.
Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket, the heroic action movie theme Alex had chosen for himself cutting through the sound of the downpour. Scott fumbled for it, his gaze still locked on Allison, who was now looking at him with a slightly bewildered, slightly amused expression as rain dripped from the ends of her hair (she'd left the umbrella in her car).
"Aren't you going to get that?" she asked, her voice raised slightly to be heard over the rain that was still lashing against the clinic windows.
Scott stared at the buzzing phone in his hand, then back at Allison, his brain momentarily short-circuiting from a combination of rain, relief, and Allison’s smile. He was still basking in the glow of her "yes." The phone continued its insistent, heroic buzzing.
"Uh, yeah," he said, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears, the rain making it hard to think. He slowly, almost reluctantly, brought the phone towards his ear, his eyes still fixed on Allison. "I'm… I'm slowly… I am gonna pick up…" He blinked, realizing how utterly bizarre he must sound, especially shouting over the rain. "I mean! I mean, I am totally gonna pick this phone up! Right now! Picking it up!" He fumbled with the answer button, nearly dropping the phone.
Allison chuckled, shaking her head. "Okay, Scott. Well, I should probably get him home." She gestured to the puppy, who was now sleepily blinking. "And maybe myself too before I catch pneumonia." She smiled again, that warm smile that made his chest ache in a good way, despite the cold rain. "See you Friday?"
"Friday! Yes! Definitely Friday!" he managed, as she carefully scooped up the puppy. Scott helped her get it settled in a carrier she’d had in her car. He watched her go, a goofy grin plastered on his face, before finally pressing the phone to his ear, huddling slightly under the clinic's small awning as she dashed to her car.
"Hello?"
"Dude, what took you so long to answer?" Alex’s familiar, slightly impatient voice came through the line, remarkably clear despite the distance and the storm. "Were you busy wrestling a rabid raccoon? Performing emergency surgery on a goldfish? Don't tell me, it was that weird werewolf fanfiction Stiles is into, wasn't it? Did you finally write a chapter?"
Scott’s face flushed, though thankfully the rain probably hid it. "What? No! No, no, no! I was just… talking to somebody. Outside. It’s raining."
"Ohhh, 'somebody'?" Alex drawled, a teasing note in his voice. "In the rain? How romantic. Is it a girl? You finally got a girlfriend, Scotty my boy? Why haven't you told your dear twin brother, the internationally renowned expert on all things female and how to woo them, even in inclement weather?"
"What? No! We're just friends!" Scott insisted, perhaps a little too quickly, shivering slightly.
"Riiight. 'Friends'," Alex said, his skepticism palpable even over the phone. "A guy who, last I checked, willingly hangs out only with Stiles Stilinski, suddenly has a female 'friend' he's chatting with in a downpour? I find that incredibly hard to believe, little brother. Unless she's also into Dungeons and Dragons and has a passionate interest in the migratory patterns of local squirrels."
"What? No! Anyway," Scott said, desperate to change the subject, "why didn't you tell me you were coming here? Mom just sprung it on me this morning!"
"Well, buddy, didn't exactly get a lot of advance notice myself," Alex said, his tone shifting, a hint of his earlier annoyance with his father creeping in. "Let's just say Dad finally reached his scandal threshold, and now here I am, about ten minutes out from the ancestral McCall homestead, navigating what appears to be a biblical flood. Just got kicked out, basically. So, yeah, surprise!" He sighed. "Listen, call Stiles, tell him to meet us at the house. I'll be there in a bit. Let's all have dinner together. It's been a while. And I’m starving. Jet food, even on my jet, is still jet food."
"Uh, yeah, okay," Scott said, still processing the whirlwind of information. "See you soon, then."
"Later, bro. Try not to drown." Alex hung up.
Scott stared at his phone, the rain still pouring down. Alex. Here. Tonight. This was really happening.
About twenty minutes later, Stiles’s Jeep, affectionately nicknamed "Roscoe," wheezed to a stop in front of the McCall house, its wipers battling valiantly but mostly unsuccessfully against the relentless rain. Scott climbed out, his clothes damp, his backpack slung over his shoulder, his mind still a chaotic mix of Allison, Alex, and the ever-present, unsettling changes happening within him.
Just as they reached the porch, its welcoming light a beacon in the stormy darkness, the low, guttural rumble Alex’s BMW had made on the phone echoed down the street, cutting through the sound of the rain. It grew louder, a deep, aggressive throb that vibrated in their chests. Both Scott and Stiles turned, their eyes widening as the sleek, matte black monster of a car, its headlights slicing through the downpour like predatory eyes, turned the corner and glided to a stop directly in front of them, water sluicing off its aerodynamic curves.
It was Alex’s BMW M3 E92, looking even more menacing and out of place on their quiet suburban street in the middle of a storm than it did in paparazzi photos. The windows were tinted so dark they were practically opaque. The engine idled with a sound like a caged panther, a stark contrast to Roscoe’s asthmatic wheeze.
The driver's side door opened with a satisfyingly solid thunk, and Alex McCall unfolded himself from the low-slung seat. He was a vision in black and charcoal grey, his artfully messy dark hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, the silver hoops in his ears glinting even in the dim light. He wore a pair of expensive-looking aviator sunglasses, despite the darkness and the rain, which was just so… Alex. The smirk playing on his lips was pure, unadulterated McCall arrogance. He leaned against the car, arms crossed, rain dripping from his leather jacket, looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of a brooding rock album.
Scott and Stiles just stared, momentarily speechless, the rain forgotten.
Alex finally pushed the sunglasses up onto his head, revealing eyes that were a startlingly familiar shade of brown, yet somehow sharper, more world-weary than Scott’s, and currently scanning their rain-soaked forms with amusement. "Well," he said, his voice laced with that familiar teasing drawl, easily carrying over the drumming rain. "I know I'm devastatingly handsome, and it's been a while, but what's with the reaction? Seen a ghost? Or just a god who clearly forgot to check the weather forecast before gracing you with his presence?"
Stiles was the first to recover, his jaw practically unhinging. "Dude. That… that car… it's… it's even more beautiful in person, even when it's trying to impersonate a submarine." He circled the BMW reverently, his eyes wide with awe, seemingly oblivious to the downpour. "And you! You look like… like you wrestle sharks for fun, teach them calculus, and then critique their life choices, all before breakfast!"
Alex chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm in the cold night. "Something like that. Though usually, the sharks are less… wet."
Then Stiles’s gaze sharpened, zeroing in on Alex’s neck despite the rain and dim lighting. "Whoa, hold on. Even in this monsoon, I can see it. Who kissed you, Casanova? And did they use waterproof lipstick?"
Alarmed, Alex’s hand flew to his neck. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, but he could imagine. He rubbed at his skin furiously with the back of his hand. "Oh, that? That’s, uh… just an old grandma. Yeah, a sweet old lady. At the airport. I was helping her out, giving her a lift on my jet. She just gave me a little farewell kiss. You know how grandmas are. Overenthusiastic. And apparently, fans of very durable cosmetics." He finished with a slightly too-bright laugh that sounded a bit forced even to his own ears.
Stiles raised a skeptical eyebrow, water dripping from his own unruly hair. "Really? 'Cause that's a pretty vibrant shade for a grandma, even a jet-setting one. And a surprisingly accurate application for someone with failing eyesight, especially mid-flight. When I get farewell kisses from grandmas, it's usually on the cheek, smells faintly of mothballs and Werther's Originals, and definitely washes off in a light drizzle, let alone this hurricane."
Scott, finally finding his voice, stepped closer, shaking his head, a reluctant smile playing on his lips despite himself. "Really, man? Already? You haven't even been in town five minutes." He lowered his voice, though it was hard to be discreet in the pouring rain. "Seriously, Alex, Mom's going to have your head."
Alex clapped him on the shoulder, his smirk firmly back in place. "Relax, little brother. Just shaking off the LA dust. Or in this case, LA lipstick." He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping. "And don't worry, I won't be doing any… such things… around here. Or Mom will actually skin me alive, and then probably use my hide to reupholster the sensible family minivan she's always wanted. And trust me, no one wants to see me in plaid."
Scott couldn't help but crack a small smile. "She wouldn't care if you dated someone your own age, you know. But you always go for… not only older, but usually married women with, like, three kids, a mortgage, and probably a restraining order against their ex."
Alex feigned a wounded expression, clutching his chest dramatically. "Hey! In my defense, Sienna Glaze looks like she's in her late twenties, tops! It's not my fault she's Benjamin Buttoning her way through Hollywood and has excellent PR." He waved a dismissive hand, flicking rainwater from his fingertips. "Anyway, let bygones be bygones. The past is in another country, and besides, the wench is dead, or something like that. Or at least, her publicist will issue a very strongly worded denial by morning." He grinned, then his expression turned more serious, or as serious as Alex ever really got, especially when he was cold and wet. "So, dinner? I'm starving. And I need the full Beacon Hills debrief. Try not to make it sound too depressing. And please tell me Mom has towels. Lots of towels."
