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Scott McCall was six years old when death touched his life for the first time. His great aunt Maria passed away peacefully in her sleep. Scott hardly knew her but he could see the strain in his mother's face as she explained what death was and why he had to wear a suit to the funeral.
—
Scott McCall was nine years old when death touched his life for the second time, in a much more substantial way.
Scott had had asthma issues for as long as he could remember. It got worse in stressful situations. It got worse when he was afraid.
Like when a brawling dog, a mess of teeth and snarls, lurched at him. Scott panicked, pulled his hand away too late, after it had been bitten, stumbled backwards, tripped, gasped for breath.
The dog was coming, coming, coming. It was going to hurt him. It might even kill him. And Roxy.
Roxy.
Roxy jumped in front of him. His childhood pet, his protector. Roxy barked at the other dog, obstructed its path to Scott, snarled and snapped and refused to let harm come to him. But the other dog was bigger, more vicious. This was a losing battle.
Scott wanted to help, to get Roxy out of there but he couldn't. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see.
Everything went black.
When he came to, he was in the hospital. Roxy's leash, soaked with blood, was tight around his arm. "Where is she?" He asked his mother.
She shook her head.
—
Stiles Stilinski was ten years old when death touched his life for the first time and Scott was there to watch. Scott had memories of Mrs Stilinski from before, when she was well or at least well enough to bake cookies for Scott and Stiles and ask Scott how he was finding school and tell them off when they made too much noise in Stiles' bedroom.
He hadn't seen her much in the months leading up to her death but he'd seen Stiles. He'd seen how it broke him.
And now.
Scott held his hand at the funeral and gave him tissues when he cried. All Scott wanted was to help but he didn't know how. How could he fix this? His best friend had just lost his mother. Things were never going to be the same again for Stiles. Scott gave him a hug as they left and didn't mention the snot Stiles got on his blazer. It was the least he could do.
—
Scott McCall was fourteen when he started volunteering at the vet clinic. As euthanasia became a more prominent feature of his life, he wondered if he should stop counting.
—
Scott McCall was fifteen years old when he was bitten by a werewolf for the first time. Very soon after, he officially stopped counting.
Kate, Peter, Allison's mom, Erica, Heather, Boyd.
—
Scott McCall was sixteen years old when he died for the first time. He thought this one was special enough to deserve counting.
At the time, though, he was too preoccupied with the mission of stopping the Darach to recognise it for what it really was. Later, when he realised, he tried to imagine telling his middle school self that one day his own death would be so unremarkable he wouldn't notice it was happening.
He died to protect Beacon Hills.
And then he came back because Beacon Hills needed more protecting.
So yeah, this one counted.
—
A bomb went off in the Sheriff's station. Scott stopped counting again. And then…
—
Allison.
Scott McCall was seventeen years old when Allison Argent died and it felt like his heart had been torn out of his chest. He held her in his arms as the life left her body and a part of his did too.
In the days after her death, he did what needed to be done. He protected Beacon Hills. He tried not to resent Beacon Hills. He didn't always succeed.
He kept seeing her face, kept expecting her to show up to class, or join him at the lunch table. He kept believing she'd be there the next time a supernatural threat came along. Because they needed her. She'd died once before, as had he, and they'd both come back from it. They'd survived. She could do it again, couldn't she? But she never did.
He kept believing she'd be there the next time he woke up. Because he needed her. But she never was.
—
Scott McCall was eighteen years old when he died for the second time. He noticed this one. He felt the life leaving him as Theo walked away and he recognised the significance. He wondered how many eighteen year olds could say what he could.
That they'd died. Twice.
For a brief moment, he hoped he could rest. That whatever came after, he got to rest. How many eighteen year olds could say what he could? Why him? He just wanted to rest.
And then he remembered: There was a reason for this fight. There was a reason that he had known since before he'd ever said it out loud.
There was a reason that she said out loud.
We protect those who cannot protect themselves.
—
Scott McCall was eighteen years old when he was brought back to life for the second time.
And he was going to keep living.