x
he doesn't know.
he doesn't know the exact moment it's happened. if he had, he would've done something. tried saying something (even though he isn't good with words).
he would've done something.
but he didn't know that when she smiled over at him—his hand on kira's back, guiding her into safety and her's safely tucked away in isaac's—it meant it was already done. she was already gone.
it meant they were moving on.
he hadn't known. and if he had—
x
he sits by her grave now and then, reads the number 1 followed by a 9 and a 9 and then a 6. he then counts and counts and counts, to see if the years have become longer, if she's become older. but nothing's changed. she was—is still too young.
he brings her a pen on her birthday, whispering, "in case you forgot". not to her, but to a cold, grey headstone bearing her name but not her story. not all the things she did as an argent. as allison argent, because she did things her way. and never for herself.
now all there's left is a cold, grey headstone. it doesn't seem very heroic.
reading the numbers (1, 9, 9, 5) indicating she was—is too young and he thinks about her bones, slowly turning into dust, ashes, like she had never even been here, never been real.
sometimes he isn't sure himself either.
x
he's a werewolf, one of his best friends is a banshee, he has a werecoyote in his pack, he saved his town from a kanima and he's pretty sure his next door neighbour could be the next wicked witch. these things are normal. these are things he knows (not always by choice).
what he hadn't known was that a pretty girl with the cutest dimples and the fiercest will, had been an angel. an angel on earth, guarding them, hunting evil and putting herself last. she always put herself last, even in her last moments (not his choice either).
all these supernatural beings invading his life and taking others' and the one thing he wants—needs he can't have. for this once.
ghosts. he wishes ghosts were real.
x
he sees her this one time. he's at a party his friends forced him to go to and he doesn't want to ruin it for them but one beer turns into two and then two beers turns into four and it's an exponential line of drunkenness that doesn't seem to stop. none of it every seems to stop.
he's sitting against the kitchen cabinet and he's really drunk, and, he's not seeing clearly, and, he can't think, and, fuck, he misses her. his head is pounding.
but he thinks it's her.
he thinks it's his sweet allison, with the short silky brown curls falling over her shoulders, with the sparkling stars in her brown eyes and her lips curving into a smile and making his heart skip a beat (or two).
stiles asks him if he's okay and helps him up and lydia appears by his side and holds his hand tightly and then she's gone. he hates them. he hates everything.
x
he likes kira. he liked her before, too. before allison... still, he feels guilty. she was supposed to be his one true love, he was supposed to not give up, they were supposed to find their way back and be in love forever, she was supposed to be alive.
and none of that turned out to be the truth. and he missed her.
he missed the way she smelt in the morning when he would kiss her cheek and his heart would flutter in his chest. past tense.
and the way she fought so intensely and passionately and completely for what she believed in. past tense.
he missed the way she could always make him feel the feeling of being home, and giving him hope and showing him the light even when things seemed useless. past tense.
and the way she loved him not with all she could but all she had. past tense.
he loved allison. past tense. he likes kira. present tense. he loves allison.
present tense.
x
stiles sits with him sometimes. at allison's grave. lydia bakes him cakes and cookies but her talents obviously lie with science.
lydia takes his hand now and then and she always smiles at him, in this knowing way. because she knows. she knows exactly how it feels. allison was her best friend. and she was gone. and so were pieces of them.
the pieces she formed or helped to form.
it would always hurt.
but in those five seconds when she would hold his hand or bring over a stupid cake or even when stiles would just sit with him and not talk (which is very, very difficult for him) or isaac would sent him a letter from france, trying to pretend he was happy, in those small moments—
it hurt less.
x
he forgets about the little things. it happens slowly and surely and at first he doesn't notice, but it happens.
it takes a photograph to remind him or a careless comment by lydia over lunch, and he remembers, but he doesn't. he feels like they're someone else's memories. he feels numb. it drains him.
he feels empty.
x
he blames himself. sometimes. often.
he lays on his bed, thinking about his day when suddenly something reminds him. reminds him of her and ultimately what happened to her.
if only he'd been faster
if only he'd been
braver
stronger
smarter
better
he would've been able to save her, or come up with something to save her. he could've done more. he didn't do enough.
and she was dead. his anchor was dead. she was dead and she was slowly pulling him down with her, into the darkness.
x
this is beacon hills. no one ever stays dead.
so he keeps hoping. hoping that one day he'll wake up and he'll look over to the other side of his bed and she'll be laying there, her hair spread over his pillow and making them smell like her, with a smile that he could swear was blinding him and not the sun shining into his eyes. or he'd walk into school and he'd look over to the stairs and she would be walking down them, making everyone aware of her presence by being her own radiating self and he would feel peace washing over him.
this is beacon hills. no one ever stays dead.
but she does.
x
her father comes back from france. its been months. chris, with a sympathetic, cold smile hands him a box. it must be hard on him, because scott never thought of him. and that's selfish because allison would've wanted him to think of him.
"this is some of her stuff you might want," he tells him and they exchange a painful look. as if he could ever want anything as much as he wants her.
he leaves. scott opens the box.
the first thing he sees is a picture of the two of them. he's sitting behind her, arms wrapped around her waist and she's leaning back against him. she's smiling, her eyes shining and he looks happy.
he looks happy. and now he's not and he's not sure if he'll ever be.
he throws the picture against the wall and the glass frame shatters into a hundred tiny pieces. she was eighteen. eighteen.
regardless of how much he loves her, of how much they were supposed to be together, of how much he could've and would've given her, she was allison argent. eighteen years. hunter. no, not really a hunter, more a protector. and she did not deserve to die at eighteen, not in this cruel, heartless, pointless way. she did not.
x
kira's in his room and she makes a joke and she looks really cute and he almost kisses her. then his stomach sinks to the bottom of his stomach and he pulls back. it's the guilt. but he's not trying to justify wanting to kiss other girls by saying well, at least i feel guilty about it. because that's not enough.
him and allison weren't together when she died, but they always knew they were supposed to be. it was an unspoken agreement between the two of them. they weren't ready now, but someday they would be.
and they would be together, and have their happily ever after. their forever.
he gets up, makes up an excuse about getting more popcorn, or something, and then stands in the kitchen for ten minutes. he tries not to cry, so he doesn't, he cant.
allison wasn't just his supposed to be girlfriend, she was also his best friend. and he couldn't do this without her. he didn't want to.
(kira doesn't ask anything when he returns without the popcorn.)
x
he's sitting at his desk when he feels her presence. he can't see her, he can't smell her or hear her, but he can feel her.
he thinks this is the part where normal people run and scream for help, but he can't move. he's paralyzed and probably insane but—
he can feel her hand on his and he swears he hears her voice whisper
it's okay it's okay it's okay
it's unfair that she isn't real. he's probably hallucinating from lack of sleep. he wants it to be real. he thinks it's real. he thinks about his life and of allison, the wag she died, how he couldn't save her and then—then he thinks of kira and how she makes him smile even when he's hurt and he knows.
it's okay
everything's okay.
he swear he can feel her smile. her beautiful, beautiful smile.
x
he visits her grave on their anniversary. not their anniversary of the day they first kissed, or the day she died and he held her or the anniversary of their first date. he goes on the day they met. because he is who he is today because of allison. and she not here. not anymore.
but he is.
and its his legacy to carry out what she believed in, what she stood for, how she loved her dad and her friends and him. it's his legacy to remember her the best way he can, as his girlfriend, as his best friend, as his anchor, as the amazing human being she was. because he loved her.
he misses her, they all miss her. there's days he doesn't think about her, no matter how much he hates those days, there's days he only thinks about her.
but they had their forever, no matter how long it lasted.
and now it was up to him to show her how grateful he was. by living.
x
i love allison and i miss her. her death felt like a personal stab in the heart. scott and allison were and are my everything and i'm going to miss them so much. i already do. this kind of speaks for itself, i recently also lost my best friend and this kind of felt really good to write about. i've never cried writing anything and i wrote this at like 3 am when i was in a very dark place and it was relieving. i hope it doesnt suck and please review if you can. thank you.