Scott stood on Jackson's doorstep, his hands firmly in his pockets as he peered around nervously, looking out at the neighborhood he'd only been in a handful of times in his life. And even though he'd only lived a few streets over for most of it, nothing had changed the wholly unsettling experience for him.

In fact, it was so ingrained in Scott's psyche that he didn't belong in a place like this, when he did finally take his hand out to knock, it hung in the air, hovering in front of the door like he might be unsure of the simple action.

Thankfully, graciously, Scott wasn't sure which, he noticed Isaac Lahey standing on his own porch next door giving him a strange look. He rushed to offer a wave and a smile, but Isaac only managed to return the clumsy greeting before he scrambled back inside his own home.

As Scott turned back to Jackson's door, he noticed it was open and Jackson was waiting for him to say something. Literally anything.

"Hey, McCall," he finally remarked slowly. "Come on in, man."

"Uh, hey, Jackson. Thanks. Sorry."

For Scott, it was a knee-jerk reaction to apologize, but in moments like these, if pressed, he wouldn't have even been able to explain what it was that he'd been apologizing for in the first place.

He stepped over the threshold, instantly assaulted by the smell of the best home-cooked meal Scott would probably ever have, and followed Jackson toward the source without hesitation.

"My Mom set out snacks," Jackson said, motioning to the large spread near the coffee table where he'd set up all the playbooks already, "and I've got all the team stuff we need."

"Uh, that's nice of her," Scott responded lamely, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Is... is she here? So I can thank her?"

Even now, with his own Mom nowhere to be seen, Scott knew if he didn't extend his gratitude she'd likely murder him for his rudeness. Melissa McCall wasn't someone who tolerated being impolite, least of all from her own son.

"Nah," Jackson admitted, looking back at Scott over his shoulder. "Her and my Dad went to, uh... a fundraiser, I think. They left already. But it'll be nice 'cause we'll have plenty of time to ourselves to figure out this whole co-captain thing."

"Just the two of us?" Scott questioned, taking in the sheer amount of food stationed on the bartop leading into the living room. "I mean, it's cool if you wanted to invite Danny or somebody over. I don't mind."

"Uh, no. Sorry. That's just my Mom. She goes overboard a lot. She'd rather have too much than run out." Scott nodded, like he could remotely comprehend the way Jackson and his family lived. "Grab a plate, man," he commanded. "We can talk and eat at the same time."

Unable to resist any more, Scott rushed over and picked up a plate, expecting them to be paper and realizing quickly they're china. And the fancy china, like the kind his Mom had locked away in their attic. Sure, he was completely and totally out of his comfort zone being around all the decadence, but Scott was hungry.

Between the Italian sub and cheese fries, Scott noticed he'd filled his plate well before he'd had a chance to really hit the tip of the iceberg in front of him.

"Your Mom considers this 'snacks', dude? What are dinners like around here?" Scott wondered out loud, seemingly incapable of not inserting his foot directly into his mouth.

Jackson chuckled, grabbing his own plate and loading it up as well. "You, uh, didn't want to try the cheesecake?"

Scott peered down at the spread in the direction Jackson was pointing, realizing the dessert had a silver pie server wedged underneath the first slice. His brows furrowed, trying to discern if Jackson was being intentional with his choice of silverware, or if it had been coincidental.

But it wasn't like Jackson had figured out he'd invited a werewolf over, Scott reasoned.

"I'm actually allergic," Scott lied easily.

"Ah, so practice with Derek didn't cure everything then, huh?" Jackson teased.

"No," he chuckled. "Not quite."

Scott headed over to the coffee table, tucking his legs underneath him as he sat on the floor next to some of the playbooks, Jackson joining him shortly after and sitting entirely too close. But Scott did his best to ignore his proximity as he dug in.

"My Mom goes overboard, I think, because she leaves me alone a lot," Jackson explained unprompted. "I mean, I tell her constantly that it's fine, and that she's doing good things for people, but it doesn't really help, I guess. So.... I just let her do it."

"Yeah, my Mom works a lot too," Scott agreed. "Mom guilt is pretty intense."

"Yeah, it is," Jackson conceded, a sinister edge to his tone. "What about you, Scott?"

"Me?"

"Is there anything you feel guilty about?" Jackson asked, chewing slowly as he examined Scott's face closely. "Anything you want to get off your chest?"

Jackson then cocked an eyebrow, holding Scott's gaze as he shoved an entire deviled egg into his mouth, causing Scott to laugh nervously at the awkwardness that had descended on them.

"Nope. No guilt," Scott returned. "Aren't we a little young to be feeling guilty about stuff?"

Jackson merely shrugged before tearing his eyes from Scott and reaching over to grab another deviled egg, placing it directly on Scott's plate without allowing him to politely decline.

"Most of the food is ordered, but my Mom always makes deviled eggs from scratch. They're the best," Jackson declared. "One of my favorites since I was a kid."

Scott gave him an odd look and picked it up, swallowing it after one bite, just as Jackson had done.

"They're good," Scott conceded. "Thanks, man."

Another uneasy silence enveloped them before Jackson finally blinked, breaking whatever spell they'd both been under.

"So, uh, how is this co-captain thing supposed to work?" Scott probed. "Have you ever done anything like this before?"

Jackson shook his head quickly, probably knowing that Scott had already had the answer well before he'd asked the question. For one thing, they'd grown up together. Scott was well aware that Jackson had never been tasked with sharing. And as was evidenced by all their time together, Jackson had always been the kid in class that didn't like to do it either.

"No," he confessed. "But maybe we can take inspiration from you and Derek. How'd he train you over the summer?"

Scott licked his lips before taking another handful of cheese fries and shoveling them into his mouth, trying to determine how best to skirt the truth again. "Umm, what do you mean?" Scott asked, swallowing hard.

"Did Derek give you any input on your training? Like, what did you guys do? How did you choose where to focus?"

Scott smirked, unable to stop himself. He could see now what Jackson was trying to do with this new line of questioning. It would've been the same tactic Scott would've used if the situation had been reversed.

Scott laughed low. "Oh, you know Derek. He likes control. I just told him my goals, what I wanted to accomplish, and he figured out how to get me there." Then he shook his head, remembering their most recent training session. "Not that I didn't complain a lot. 'Cause I totally did. But he kept me on track, you know?"

Jackson narrowed his eyes and a small, menacing smile appeared on his face. As if he might've caught Scott in the lie he'd just told or something. Scott's heart rate picked up as he tried to dissect his own words and figure out where he'd gone wrong when Jackson picked up the knife nearby and clutched it in his fist.

"Scott. Scott. Scott," he issued, smacking Scott on the forehead with the knife before he had time to react.

Scott blinked rapidly, utterly shocked and slightly bewildered by what Jackson had just done. And also having absolutely no idea what to do next.

"Uh, I, umm..."

He stood slowly, walking backward as Jackson stared intensely at him, exhibiting a level of concentration Scott couldn't remember having seen on his face before tonight.

As he rounded the corner, he found the nearest bathroom and locked the door, and with shaking hands he pulled out his phone and dialed the only person that might know how to handle the strange turn of events.

"Hey, big boy," Stiles joked. "Whatcha doing? I thought you were out cheating on me tonight with Jackson."

"I am," Scott hissed low. "He just... he's being weird, man."

"It's Jackson," Stiles retorted. "He's a weird dude. All rich people are weird, Scott. Don't be rude, though, and say it to his face."

"I'm in the bathroom. He just, like, hit me on the forehead with a knife for no reason. He said my name and then just... smacked me."

"What?" Stiles chuckled, disbelief coloring his words. "He hit you?"

"It didn't hurt," Scott offered.

"Hold on," Stiles said with a sigh.

Scott could hear him frantically typing next, and he could effortlessly imagine his best friend huddled over his laptop searching for anything that might help him make sense of this.

"Oh shit," Stiles whispered. "He said your name? How many times?"

"I don't know. What the hell is going on, Stiles?"

"He knows," he exclaimed. "Jackson totally fucking knows you're a werewolf, dude. Or he thinks he knows and also can't read very well."

"Huh?"

"Like, one of the last lines in the Wikipedia section about curing werewolves is this thing about saying their name three times and hitting them with a knife," Stiles clarified. "I guess he read it wrong, though, because it was right next to the section about exposing a werewolf."

"Shit."

"Yeah, so... have fun with that."

"What the hell am I supposed to do here, Stiles? He can't know."

"And he doesn't. Not yet, anyway," Stiles pointed out. "He's totally on the right track, sure, but he doesn't know anything. And if he thinks that was going to expose you and nothing happened, maybe you can just laugh it off or whatever."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess that could work," Scott decided. "Thanks, Stiles."

"Yep. No problem. Just, uh... steer clear of silver or whatever. Maybe check for door handles slathered in wolfsbane."

"Wolfsbane?"

"Dear God, Scott, you've gotta pay better attention in Werewolf 101 with Professor Derek," Stiles complained, and Scott could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"Okay, bye."

He hung up without giving Stiles a chance to say anything, turning on the water and deciding it was best to at least pretend like he'd been using the bathroom and not hiding. It'd be way easier to go with Stiles' plan, anyway.

When he re-emerged a few seconds later, wiping his hands on the guest hand towels in the downstairs bathroom, he plastered a smile on his face, determined to act like nothing weird had just gone down.

"Hey, so, maybe we should start figuring out our goals for the team," Scott called as he walked back to the living room. "That way if we know where we want to be at the end of the year, we can just work backward."

He rounded the corner and saw Jackson had hardly moved, but he did look up when Scott came to sit down next to him again. He nodded along with Scott's suggestion too, another good sign.

"McCall, that's actually a good idea," Jackson acknowledged.

And while Scott wasn't sure whether to be offended or not by his comment, and the obvious surprise in his voice, he was glad to see that Jackson was also onboard with his plan to ignore everything strange.

An hour later, they had managed to cobble together a solid strategy.

"Not bad, McCall," Jackson praised. "This is some good stuff."

"Do you think Coach will be impressed?"

Jackson snorted. "Coach doesn't do impressed. About anything."

They laughed at Jackson's comment shortly before being interrupted by the sound of shouting outside. Scott turned, looking out the window to his left and catching sight of Isaac again, though this time he was accompanied by his Dad.

"What's going on over there?" Scott inquired.

"Oh, uh, they get like that sometimes," Jackson remarked without looking at them. "They go at it a lot. Isaac tries to come outside so his Dad won't hit him, but he always just ends up dragging him back inside."

Scott whirled back around to Jackson, unable to hide the surprise written on his face. "What?"

Jackson nodded gravely, appearing troubled by the information, but not enough to actually do anything about it. "Yeah, man."

"Well, call the police!" Scott boomed. "Stiles' Dad can come. He'll do something."

"He's been here, Scott. Plenty of times. A few of those, I called myself," Jackson asserted.

"And what? Nothing happened?"

"Basically. I asked Sheriff Stilinski about it, but he just said he can't do anything unless Isaac wants to press charges and he never does. His Dad is smart, Scott. He never leaves bruises where people can see and Isaac isn't about to flaunt that shit, right?"

"I..."

"I guess his Dad wasn't always like that," Jackson said with a shrug. "He used to coach the swim team back in the day. And his mom was a lawyer. That's why they have a house over here. But then everything kinda went to shit, I guess. His Mom died and then a few years later his brother did. And then his Dad just... kinda lost it. He started coming after Isaac, as far as I can tell."

The yelling reached a crescendo as Jackson unleashed what little bit of the history he knew about the boy next door that Scott had never given a second glance to over the years. And he couldn't help the guilt and shame that seeped into his marrow at the idea of missing something so monumental.

"Well, I can't just sit here," Scott admitted. "I have to do something."

"It'll just make it worse for Isaac, Scott. I've tried," Jackson hollered after him as he rushed out the front door.

But Scott McCall didn't have it in him to be a bystander, no matter how sound the arguments.

"Isaac!" Scott bellowed when he reached the Lahey's door, banging on it with his fist. "Isaac, open up, man! You promised to study with me, remember?"

Thankfully, graciously, Scott still wasn't sure which, the door opened to reveal Isaac, his eyes wide and bruises littering his biceps where his short-sleeved shirt didn't quite reach.

Scott grabbed him bodily and pulled, slamming the door shut behind them both without giving Mr. Lahey an explanation about where they were headed. Not that Scott thought for a second he really needed one. It was clear Isaac's well-being wasn't on the top of any of his lists as a parent.

As they walked down the street at a leisurely and measured pace, both of them oddly quiet, Scott could tell Isaac was giving him a funny look. But he didn't turn to confirm it, only taking note of the fact that he didn't appear all that distressed. More determined than anything.

"Where are we going?" Isaac wondered softly.

He hadn't even realized where they were headed until now because it definitely made more sense to go back to Jackson's and let him know what was happening. Instead, he'd just run out, without a proper goodbye.

"To Stiles' house," Scott answered. "We can talk to his Dad and he can explain why you need to press charges."

As Scott expected, Isaac stopped suddenly on the sidewalk and shook his head. "No. I don't want to press charges."

Several steps ahead, Scott did the same as he turned around to face him. "You have to, Isaac," Scott implored. "You have to get away from your Dad, man. It's not going to get better. And if you're not careful, he's going to really hurt you."

"Yeah, I know, but jail isn't the answer," Isaac emphasized.

"Listen, if you don't want to go to the sheriff, where do you want to go? Because I'm not letting you go back there tonight," Scott vowed.

"Take me to Derek Hale," Isaac demanded. "I want to be a werewolf like him. Like you."

Scott stared at him, trying to truly see him. Sure, they had all grown up together, but clearly Scott had missed a lot about the boy who lived next door to Jackson. Now, it appeared, he had been lurking in the shadows, like some kind of background actor, hearing all their secrets.

"How... how do you know that?" Scott stuttered.

"You and Stiles are loud, man," Isaac retorted wryly. "Like, really, really loud."

Scott sighed heavily and hung his head, placing his hands on his hips as he figured out his next moves. Well, struggled to come up with some and finding his brain comically empty was probably a better representation of the situation right now.

"I mean... yeah," Scott relented finally. "That means you've known for a while, huh?"

Isaac smirked as he waltzed over to Scott, patting him gently on the shoulder. "Yeah, but it's not like I was going to say anything."

"Why'd you keep it yourself for so long?" Scott questioned, his brows furrowed as he grappled with a possible motivation for Isaac's actions.

"I wasn't really sure what to do," Isaac confessed, removing his hand as they began to amble down the sidewalk again. "And tangling with a couple of werewolves because I figured out what they were didn't seem like the smartest plan, you know?"

Scott chuckled ruefully, watching Isaac closely out of his peripheral as they continued. "I'm sure Derek would appreciate that."

The boy next to him nodded, a smile on his face as he pointed it toward the moon like it was the middle of the day and he was soaking up the sun's rays. "Listen, man, I have no idea what the protocol for this is, but..."

"Don't say no yet," Isaac interrupted, never glancing over. "We can hang out with Stiles or something, but just think about it first, okay? Give me some hope."

"Yeah," Scott conceded, a sad smile of his own gracing his features. "Sure, man."

Scott hadn't been lying when he'd conceded the fact that he had no idea what the etiquette was for this type of crisis, but the way Isaac had clearly hinged every good thing left in his life on this idea made Scott disheartened in a way that he would probably never be able to articulate.

But he did know he couldn't very well let Isaac wander around by himself with this knowledge either. Eventually, he'd find someone who might actually believe him, if he decided to talk, and then they'd have a whole new mess on their hands.

A mess the town of Beacon Hills wasn't prepared or equipped to handle. Not right now. Possibly not ever.

A few more blocks, only punctuated by the sound of the gravel crunching under their feet before Isaac seemed to gather the courage to ask, "Do you need to tell Stiles we're on our way?"

"Nah, man. He never locks the door," Scott retorted, shaking his head as they came around the corner and emptied out onto his best friend's street. "Even if he's asleep, by some miracle, we can just walk in. And I'm pretty sure Noah's on night shifts right now, too."

Isaac nodded again mutely as they jogged up the few steps that led to the front door, and Scott managed to knock much faster than he had at Jackson's house. Here he wasn't near as nervous. This had always been like a second home to him, both of them finding comfort in their all-too-similar situations.

He snickered as he heard Stiles barreling down the stairs, tripping slightly as he went. Then he threw the door wide, his eyes even wider somehow as he took in the sight of Isaac towering over them both from where he stood nearby.

"Hey, uh, man. What's up?" he squeaked. "My Dad's not here, but I can call him."

Stiles spoke explicitly to Isaac as he'd tacked on that last bit, making him feel even worse for not noticing something so painfully obvious now. Clearly, Scott was the only one who didn't know of Isaac's troubles.

Isaac peered down at Scott for direction before he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "We have a problem."