A/N: I think I'm having too much fun with these two: but I can't get enough of their potential dynamic! This is friendship mostly, but obviously I have to put in a couple of tiny hints of foreshadowed romance.
This is your basic character-driven angst with a side of h/c. Let me know what you think! :D
Bruises, when they're inflicted hard enough, can take quite a while to heal.
Stiles realized this when he woke up every morning to look in the mirror, only to find the purple swelling on his face still present, albeit in the process of diminishing.
Gripping the marble counter, he'd wince at his reflection, his small cuts and misshapen discolorations the reminder of Gerard Argent's brutality. And though he resented it, he almost relished the injuries as if they were reminders of his own incapability and uselessness. Stiles stared hard at the person in the mirror, his eyes dull and apathetic, his mouth set in a permanent line.
He didn't recognize himself.
Stiles visited his mother's grave on very rare occasions. In fact, he and his father only went to it twice a year. Once on the anniversary of her death, and once on her birthday. He'd never really questioned why he never went there on a whim or from a desire to be with her. Perhaps it was his cold logicality that prevented him. Perhaps it was because it was just a grave and he couldn't really talk to her and graveyards were simply too dismal anyway.
But on a foggy Saturday morning, not even a week after everything that had happened with the Kanima, Stiles found himself shrugging on a jacket and climbing into his Jeep and heading to the Beacon Hills cemetery.
The sky was overcast, fit for the occasion (though Stiles had never really minded a cloudy day), and the fog was not thick but spread thin and sparse, appearing as sporadic bursts in the air. Stiles drove slowly, just to take precaution, his hands gripping the steering wheel a bit too tightly.
It wasn't very long of a drive; in fact, it was too short, because when he parked the car, Stiles realized he didn't really know what he was doing there. He almost wished he hadn't gotten there so quickly. The chill of the air bit into his exposed skin that wasn't under the protection of his layers, the effect of the cold just another harsh example of his fragile humanity. Stiles crossed his arms, though it didn't really make him any warmer. It was odd, really, considering that usually by mid-March the feeling of spring would start to emerge, but Stiles supposed that the fact it was eight in the morning added to the drop in temperature.
The Beacon Hills cemetery wasn't that big, but the town of Beacon Hills itself was rather small, so it was to be expected. Stiles made his way down the path with a hurried stride, his hands in his pockets. Upon finally reaching his mother's grave, he stopped abruptly, face turned downwards, staring at the carved letters in the tombstone. Then he crouched down, propping his head up with his hands.
Stiles opened his mouth, and closed it, feeling idiotic. He was not one to talk to a grave. But there was something inside him, a pit of need and desperate anguish that wanted to relieve itself through words.
"I'm- not really sure why I'm here," Stiles said, his voice low and cautious. Then he laughed, the sound bitter. "Hell, I barely come here in the first place. It's kind of awkward: talking to a grave, that is. I keep feeling like someone is going to jump out of nowhere and say "What are you doing? She's dead!'." He rubbed at the sleeves of his jacket, absently wishing he'd put on something heavier than a windbreaker.
"So…" Stiles began again. "It turns out werewolves exist. Oh, and Scott got turned into one." He paused, as if letting the tombstone take that in. "Yeah, that happened. But that was a while ago, and a whole bunch of other shit happened, too. It's just funny, because, all this time I've been trying to help- I've tried to help with Dad, after you died, and it worked out fine for a while, but god, I really screwed some stuff up with him. He lost his job. And I always tried to help with Scott when he went through his parents' divorce- we don't actually talk about anything important very often but I was always there, just in case. And then all this supernatural insanity started to happen and-" Stiles cut himself off, staring at the grave, blinking fast. "And I realized how much of a liability I really am. I mean, yeah, I helped Scott when he turned, but- maybe I should've stayed out of all of this in the first place. Or maybe I helped too much and there's nothing left for me to do. I'm just… I'm tired. I'm really tired."
Bringing his hand up to his face, he touched his bruises gingerly. "I'm, uh… I'm sorry I only come here a couple times a year. I've never been much of the grave-visiting type. I'm not really one to talk to them either- but hey, I didn't think I'd be hanging around with a bunch of werewolves so I guess life just keeps giving you surprises."
Stiles stood up, feeling that same hollowness in his stomach that he'd always felt when he thought about his mother, though it had numbed over time. "I miss you," he said, his voice rough and quiet. Then he turned, his hands shoved back into his pockets; they were shaking and he couldn't tell if it was because of the cold or something else.
He would have left the cemetery then, if not for the sight of a tall, dark-haired girl in the distance, walking in his direction on the path, her shoulders slumped and sad, the morning fog slightly obscuring her shape.
It was Allison.
If he was honest with himself, Stiles realized he'd rather have not acknowledged Allison at all. It wasn't if he intentionally wanted to avoid her all the time, at least not really, but everything had gotten so weird and he wasn't sure how to interact with her now. It was probably inevitable, anyway, because they were walking opposite directions on the same pathway and they were going to pass each other whether Stiles liked it or not.
Allison caught his eye when they were close to walking by one another. She looked undeniably forlorn, with her eyebrows scrunched together and her mouth pulled down in a frown. Any resolution Stiles had in ignoring her gave way immediately.
"Uh… hi," Stiles said awkwardly, raising his hand in greeting before quickly bringing it back down again. When she didn't respond right away, he added, "Just saying hello at the cemetery on a random weekend morning. The usual."
Allison merely nodded, her mouth forming the ghost of a smile. She dropped her gaze to the ground, her hair falling into her face.
Stiles nearly started to walk past, but after a beat of silence, Allison spoke up. "It's- um. It's my first time here to visit... well, you know." Her voice sounded small and scratchy, like she had been crying. She pushed some of her hair behind her ear and looked up, her eyes lost and searching as if she thought Stiles had the answers to some unspoken question.
"Do you want me to…" Stiles trailed off, trying to decipher the response Allison wanted. "Uh, do you want me to come with you?"
Allison bit her lip, her eyebrows pulling together again. She didn't say anything for a few seconds. Finally, she murmured a slightly choked sounding, "Yeah."
The walk to Victoria Argent's grave was a quiet one, the only sound the scrabbling of the pebbles and shifting of the grass under their shoes after they'd moved off the paved path and into the maze of stone slabs and eternal sleep. When they got there, Allison didn't speak, but simply crouched down (like Stiles had done, he realized) and wrung her hands together, her head bowed. Stiles hovered, wondering if he should try to comfort her or just keep standing back, but he was soon startled out of his internal dilemma when he heard a string of noises coming from the lowered girl, almost like a chant or a mantra. He strained his ears, confused. Then he heard it.
"I'm sorry."
Over and over again, Allison repeated the apology with a hushed intensity, her shoulders shaking slightly, her head still stooped. Stiles felt a pang in his heart, a real, physical pang that clenched at his insides, making his stomach twist with empathy. On impulse, he stepped toward her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She froze and swiveled, almost as if she had forgotten that he was there.
The startled, lost look in her eyes faded to resolve, and she stood up, straightening her shoulders with a false indication that she was okay. It reminded Stiles of the girl he used to know, the one with the straight back and the fearless determination.
"I guess- I should go," Allison mumbled quickly, but as she started to leave, Stiles caught her by the hand.
She stared at him, shocked; Stiles was rather startled himself by his own actions, and he let go of her hand hastily, putting it behind his head. He felt his face heat up a little.
"Uh," Stiles said stupidly, then sighed. "Allison, this wasn't your fault."
Allison looked away, glaring. "Stiles, you don't-"
"Don't tell me I don't understand," Stiles cut her off, taking a step toward her. "Because I do. God, I do understand. But sometimes you get to a point where you have to accept that… there was nothing you could have done." He heard his own voice tremble a little and wondered how much of an extent he was talking about himself.
Allison looked at him; the sad desperation had crept back into her expression, the weight of grief pulling at her pretty features. She began to walk slowly, and Stiles took the cue to fall into step beside her.
They ended up at a wooden bench under a few oak trees. The sky was still gray, and the air still crisp with the remnants of winter. The wind picked up and rustled the incoming leaves. Stiles shivered and crossed his arms again, glancing at Allison. She was hunched over, her wavy hair covering her face so he couldn't see her expression, her arms pulled tight around her as if she was in pain.
He thought about trying to get her to talk about how she felt, but then he realized distraction was probably the better way to go. So he talked about himself. "You know, I barely ever come here."
Allison turned to him, frowning. "Huh?"
"I only come here on my mother's birthday, and the day that she died," Stiles explained, looking up at the sky, watching the clouds float with the breeze. "And today isn't either of those days."
Allison was silent. Then she asked cautiously, "Why did you come here today, then?"
Shaking his head, Stiles sighed. "You know, I'm not really sure myself. Maybe I… felt guilty I hadn't come here often enough. But then I would always think, what's the difference? Why does it matter, really?"
"Maybe it's because it gives something back to you," Allison said, her voice soft and serious. "Graves are for the dead, but they're also for the people still alive. They help you… remember."
Stiles stared at the ground hard, his brain recycling memories of long car rides with both his parents in front and his mother's laughter and her long, dark hair that always seemed to be pulled back in a bun or a ponytail. He swallowed, and moved to rub tiredly at his eyes, but he had forgotten the bruising and winced, letting out an involuntary noise of discomfort.
"What's wrong?"
He looked at her, lowering his hand, and realization dawned on Allison's face, her eyebrows knitting in concern. "I never asked about it. How did that even happen?" she asked.
"It was Gerard," Stiles said, surprised. "I thought you-"
"No, I didn't know!" Allison protested, her eyes wide and full of guilt, but she didn't look shocked. "I should have expected it, but I didn't know, Stiles. I didn't…" Biting her lip, she abruptly brought her hand to his face, the tips of her fingers grazing his cheekbone, right under the fading purple of his wounds, and the healing red of his cuts.
He opened his mouth a little, stunned, though not really objecting to her touch. Inexplicably, his heart skipped a little at the feel of her fingertips, lightly tracing over his harmed and unharmed skin. As if she'd been unaware of her actions, Allison pulled away quickly, looking distressed with an undercurrent of something akin to embarrassment. It had only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed longer than that, and Stiles felt a tingling sensation on his face where her hand had been.
"Oh- sorry, I-"
"It's, uh… it's fine," Stiles reassured her, confused, but for some reason unperturbed. And it was fine, which was weird, because Stiles normally didn't like that much physical contact. But somehow with Allison he didn't mind.
"I'm sorry," Allison said again, her voice thick. Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but she continued, "For what happened to your face."
Stiles exhaled, leaning back into the bench. "You don't have to be. It's Gerard who's the psycho, here."
"I- I mean I'm sorry for everything. God, the things I did…"
"Allison." Stiles stared at her until she met his eye. "You were grieving. Yes, you were definitely wrong in the way you acted, and right to apologize, but… trust me, if something had happened to my dad, I probably would have flipped just as much as you did."
Allison shook her head. "I'm not sure about that," she whispered. Stiles felt her shift beside him and lean back a bit so the distance between them was lessened. He glanced at her; she was craning her neck back to stare up through the branches of the trees, her long dark waves cascading down behind the bench. Then she sighed, and said, "Everything is so depressing lately!"
Stiles laughed shortly, in spite of himself. "You can say that again."
Stiles stayed on the bench for a while longer with Allison, long past after the morning fog had begun to clear and the wind had died, the sky still a cloudy gray with the sun every so often poking its golden head through. He was startled but not unreceptive when he felt the smooth touch of Allison's hand atop his own, resting on the bench; he flipped his hand over to grasp hers, welcoming the warmth, and found that the gesture relieved some sadness, if just for a little while.