Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf.
Summary: "Stop looking so sad," she wants to tell him, needs to tell him. "I'm right here." But, however hard she tries, Allison Argent can never seem to find her voice. StilesAllison, oneshot
My latest attempt at the Teen Wolf fandom, which I love, and my first attempt at the StilesAllison pairing, which I love. It's weird how much I love these two together Stydia is my OTP and I can't stand seeing Stiles with anyone else besides Lydia...except Allison. Maybe I'll start shipping him with other people soon, but I just can't bring myself to do it. Anyway! I hope that y'all enjoy this little fic. I've had this idea in my head for a while, so I hope that everyone likes it!
From Beyond
Allison Argent watches them.
It's become something as commonplace as breathing - or, well, when she used to breathe. Even when it is not necessary to her survival, it is difficult to break the habit. She still finds her chest rising and falling, and something about the motion comforts her. Just like it comforts her to watch them, to know that they are doing fine - or, at least as "fine" as they could be, after everything they have been through.
Some part of her is surprised at this. The mourning, the way that they show their grief. She never expected to be so important to so many people, but she sees that she is in their every action - the solemn set of their shoulders, the sadness in their eyes, the way that they lean against one another as they visit her gravesite - sometimes in twos, sometimes in threes, or sometimes solo.
She's not sure what hurts the most - missing them or being missed.
Of course, then there's this.
What she's looking at right now is a whole new, different kind of pain.
She's staring at her gravestone. It really is a kind of strange cliché, a ghost standing at her own grave, but she finds that she is drawn to this place, the place where her earthly body now rests.
And that's where she finds him.
It's not who she expects to see. She's seen Isaac a few times, Lydia even more, Scott even more than that, and her father the most out of anyone. Kira visits when she can, as well.
And then Stiles...
She sees Stiles a surprising amount of times, and that is who she is staring at now.
His shoulders are hunched, as if he is carrying the weight of the world on his thin frame. Fists are clenched at his side, slightly trembling. His eyes do not break gaze with the grave stone in front of him, as if trying to memorize each and every detail of what he is staring at. He is like this each time, as if the time before that hadn't seared the image of her name, carved in that stone, into his mind.
Stiles never says anything, no matter how many times he visits. The others attempt to say something to her, however brief, however trivial. Her father is more vocal than others, telling her about the recent events and what current enemy they are fighting. She guesses that is something that will never change - Beacon Hills being the battleground for all sorts of supernatural creatures at war with one another.
Even now, he is silent.
Every time she finds him here, she cannot bring herself to move any closer to him. Her feet stay locked in one place, her fingers practically tingling with the desire to touch him, to smooth away what she knows to be a furrow on his brow. To gaze upon his face during a time of such grief makes her feel embarrassed, as if she should flush and stare at her feet.
And she remembers. Dead girls do not have pink cheeks and racing heartbeats. Dead girls have the haunting sound of silence, the feel of stagnant air around them, the echoing quiet of their own coffin...
While pondering, Allison finds that Stiles has now looked up. He looks almost lost, as if he cannot quite comprehend how he got there or why. His nose wrinkles, as if trying to decipher this puzzle, but he can't figure it out. She finds her gaze moving over his entire face, now illuminated by the dreary light the sun is casting over the cemetery. His eyes are sunken, circles darken the spaces beneath them. His skin is pale and his clothes hang even more loosely from his body than usual.
"Stop looking so sad," she wants to tell him, needs to tell him. "I'm right here."
But her voice catches in her throat. She can never seem to find her voice around him, for more reasons than one, but this time she wants to pinch herself. This is the one time he needs reassurance. That this is not his fault, that he is innocent, that he is not held responsible at all, because that is what he's thinking right now. She knows it. And she can't stand it.
Somehow, she finds herself moving toward him, slowly and quietly and somberly. Allison arrives near him, sighs the great, heavy sigh of the dead, and places a hand on his shoulder. He does not move; after all, he probably feels nothing - she's tried touching her father's hand countless times, kissed Scott's brow, and none of it affects them. All Stiles does is clear his throat, almost like he's about to cry, and turns back to the stone, as if it were sentient.
"I'm sorry, you know," he croaks. "I say this every time I visit, but I feel like I can't say it enough."
Then, abruptly, Stiles stomps forward determinedly, his shoulder passing right through Allison's hand. Allison stares after him, an almost hurt look on her face, as the wind blows around her, ruffling not even a strand of her hair.
"Me too," she sighs, and then vanishes.
End.