A touch. The most basic sensation, the primal sense, the anchoring one. More sensitive and powerful than any other.
A sleek bullet.
A battered ensign.
A heavy watch.
A life summed up in one object. A loved one symbolized. A tangible reminder they hold on to with desperation, with all their thoughts aimed toward their parent, their guardian.
It's the sensation that lingers the longest, while the darkness engulfs them and death, one form of it, creeps inside their mind in icy waves and in their bodies with suffocating waters.
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Allison looked up from the asthma pump she was holding, the cold and wet plastic uncomfortable to her fingers, almost sticky. A temporary fix for someone, a crutch. She wanted something strong, like her father's resolve, or his faith. She closed her eyes and wished. When she opened them again, the Nemeton stood in front of her like a pillar, obvious, so obvious.
She knew where her father was. Relief washed over her, the warmth of knowledge, of certitude rekindling her from head to toe. The useless pump slipped from her grasp, instinct dictated that she tried to grab it again but her fingers only closed around the bullet again. She stared at it, turned it between her index and middle finger. It was no longer cold to the touch and she smiled.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
His t-shirt was clinging to every inch of his chest, dripping along with his pants to create a pool at his feet. Droplets fell down his face, nape, back, arms. Tiny, infuriating rivulets on skin and he could feel himself growing antsy, hands reaching everywhere to get rid of the annoyance. He was always alone, frantic, useless, just a witness no one cared about. The destroyed badge was a testament to his failure.
But then his father's voice resonated through the woods, booming, reassuring despite the reproaches it was saying. Then it wasn't a damp collar on his neck but a firm grasp around his shirt, pulling him away bluntly yet with care. Then it was the Nemeton in the corner of his eye, the answer to his quest, and a shiny, restored badge in his hand, its edges digging into his palm, a wonderful, sharp sensation.
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He had forgotten that helpless feeling. The air getting out of his lungs and refusing to come back in. The vise around his chest, unstoppable, gripping deep and pushing his ribs together. He was back there, chest being crushed, panting, and every breath laborious and shortening. He wasn't in control, nothing was working like it should. He had his mother's watch in his hand. The one thing that had worked, she'd said. The hands weren't moving.
He wasn't looking for his pump anymore. It was a bite that interrupted him, unimaginable pain but a newfound, immediate strength too. He rose again and felt it. He heard words yet to be said. His mother's voice, saying that if he could do anything to help, he should. He breathed in, deeply, and realized he could. He could feel his strength and more importantly, his will and confidence. He looked up and the Nemeton was the incarnation of his feelings. He knew what to do, how to do it, why to do it. True power. The ticking of the clock resumed.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
When they reunite in the immaculate room, there is no sign of unusualness. Nothing feels out of place, all things considered.
But Scott grabbed his friends' hands with determination, direction. A leader.
And Allison said "We can save them." With the assurance of a general.
And Stiles replied with "Everyone will be fine." With relief, and wisdom.
It was as if it all clicked into place, finally, and Stiles' words were the final key, opening the door.
Three breaths hitched, three stares glazed over. Three minds became overwhelmed by a vision.
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Allison's hand is fluttering over her stomach. She doesn't dare apply pressure, instead has only the tips of her fingers graze her shirt. Soon it won't fit her. She should be afraid, worried at least. She is young, her life still unsteady and full of risks.
Yet she has hope, and comfort, simply by looking down. The ring on her finger, two bands of silver entwined, reminds her that she isn't alone. She rubs her index over the smooth metal, the nail getting caught in the engravings. Two marks, an S and an I. Each on their own stripe, but twisted together. Circling her. A promise of love, support and protection. She will have a life to protect too. They will help her, she thinks (and knows) as she keeps playing with the ring.
She loves it, its texture, its shape, how it is solid like she is now. What it symbolizes. How she loves them, and now the baby about to be theirs.
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Stiles still has doubts, whenever he's alone. Doubts about his place, his purpose, his aptitudes. His thoughts will drift while he showers, the mindless routine providing too much free space for his mind to start galloping. Under the hot stream, his head hung low, wonderings flourish and feed a reactive anxiety.
Until the curtain is pulled and arms go around his waist, a hand that no longer threatens but curls gently around his hip. Until the flow of water is interrupted by a mouth, pressed firmly against his skin. Stubble rubbing in sync with his breathing and the fire it creates spreads far and deep. But Stiles still trembles, his thoughts still make him reel.
"I have to tell you again, right?"
"Y-yeah."
"You belong, Stiles. You're home."
He breathes out on his nape and Stiles can feel his smile on his skin, bringing one out for him too.
"You are home for me," Derek whispers.
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Scott awakens when the light starts filtering through the blinds and hits his eyelids. This is the alarm that pulls him out of the dream world. Not the heavy weight on his chest, even if it should be a greater disturbance. It isn't. Blonde curls and mahogany strands are sprawled on his chest, their owners wrapped around him like tangled roots in a cramped soil.
But he doesn't feel invaded or crowded. Their presence warms him, their combined heartbeats make music to his ears that sings of trust and love. They sigh and shift in their sleep, cuddle closer. His hands move reflexively up their bare back, cradle their head, keep them both close and safe against him.
They hesitated for so long, words with double meaning, sighs, looks, half-finished sentences. He came to understand that being a leader also meant catalysing events, not just keep them under control. And it's been lying dormant for too long. So he kissed him, kissed her, touched both, together. Lead them to the answer without doubt, that us didn't have to be just about two persons. Having them rest upon him, sated, bound, isn't a burden, it's a consecration. He did something right.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
They emerge, figuratively and literally, into a rush of emotions and cold panic. They learn it's been sixteen hours, that the threat is closer than ever, a present danger. Explanations are rushed and the ensuing resolution, even more. They don't have time to process what happened, let alone what they saw in the netherworld.
So they don't. They run around, fight for their parents and friends. Defeat the Darach, the Alpha pack. Derek and Cora leave, the twins stay. Life slides back into a normal rhythm, or whatever is close to that for them.
The promised darkness seeps into their hearts at night.
Allison dreams about her family being torn away and killed for what they do, about her being incapable of protecting the ones she loves. But she remembers the ring, and catches a look from Isaac at school, a smile from Scott. And she knows.
Stiles dreams about rejection and a terrifyingly impersonal, deserted house, about loneliness. But he remembers the touch and the words, and Derek texts him sometimes, talks about coming back, eventually. And he knows.
Scott dreams about plans that fail, powers that disappear, friends that die because of his shortcomings. But he remembers the trustful weight on his chest and Allison and Isaac gravitate around him more and more, share with him more and more. And he knows.
Everyone will be fine.