Chapter one: Highly Sensitive.
When the summer came, with a temporary break from the school classes, the girl with short black hair thought she deserved space and rest. Maybe retiring from all that madness wouldn't be a bad idea after all. At the beginning, the feeling of holding an arrow to a target gave her a sensation of power - Allison Argent wasn't a sixteen year old pretty face anymore. When she had a gun in her hand - or hidden in some strategic place in her clothes - she used to feel the power and responsibility she carries on her last name.
But all of that faded from her chest while she drove back home. She had passed her first vacation weeks with Lydia Martin, the closest person she have had in life. Lydia's long ginger hair was falling like a waterfall right by the side of her face, going down through the neck to her chest, which was going up and down in rhythm to the calm breath of her sleepiness. Allison felt grateful for that, because then she wouldn't inquire her with that cynical wide eyes why the hell they were parking in a gas station, in front of a store, and not on the road going back home.
Allison had to admit: not even the surprise of when she discovered that her ex-boyfriend is a werewolf was as shocking as the surprise that Lydia Martin is one, also. The pretty face, the caring about her appearance and the attitude meant nothing - the ginger was, for sure, the bravest and smartest person Allison ever met and in that moment, all she wanted was Lydia's strength for her.
"When are we going back to the road?"
Allison jumped in her seat, honking unconsciously and catching the attention of the people around the car. She passed her hand through her hair, ignoring the bad looks. She had bigger problems than that. Allison looked at Lydia, who was still keeping her eyes closed and the breath controlled and regular, but Allison wasn't crazy, Lydia was awake for sure. She licked her lips before responding:
"How long have you been awake?"
"I never fell asleep." Lydia's voice, however, was hoarse and tired, giving a serene impression. Allison kept in silence with her mind working on some excuse, but Lydia's voice came back filling the tight ambient. "Allison, is there something you want to talk about?" She hadn't moved yet.
Allison, in her turn, was keeping her hands on the steering wheel, gripping it in a way that her knuckles went white. She stifled a sigh.
"No." She lied.
"Then why are we not on the road?"
Again, Lydia's words took her speech. Allison's own words, however, were tingling on the tip of her tongue. She had, actually, a long and detailed response for each one of these questions - but, if she was hiding from her own truths, would it make any sense telling them for someone else?
She heard the familiar sound of tissue scratching and looked at Lydia again. The ginger had turn to her with a straight posture. With her flowery dress and slightly swirling hair, Lydia was looking like someone from royalty. She was now staring at Allison with skeptical eyes and expression, in the way the brunette knew she would do.
"Allison, if there is something you want to say, you can count on me" she said, climbing a little bit to her friend, but saying it like it was something simple and obvious. Everything seemed to work out to Lydia in this way.
Allison sighed. Her fingers relaxed on the steering wheel.
"Coming back here...", she finally started, "seems almost surreal. I'm not sure if I want to go back to that... mess of reality and manipulations, but it's all part of my own reality now. Maybe I should've already got used to it."
Lydia pursed her lips, looking up to the car's roof, appearing to think about the situation. Allison kept looking ahead, but put her elbow in the window's gap, then the head lightly inclined on her hand. The other hand squeezed and loosened the steering wheel.
Lydia sighed loud.
"You're right. Who would want a reality where you're a magnificent and powerful hunter who knows all the truths of this world, surrounded by hot werewolves in a very good shape?" She clucked, turning ahead. "It's a real mystery."
Allison raised her eyes to look at her, with a little smile raising up one of the sides of her lips - the first good sensation of the day.
"That's a different way to see the facts" she said, now excited.
Lydia almost seemed bored.
"I know. Can we, please, now accept this, so we can go back to the road before the night falls?"
Allison started the car; now, feeling a little better, a smile spilled all over her face, making her squeeze her shiny eyes.
"What's with the fear, by the way?" She asked while driving in reverse gear. "If a werewolf show up, or I can kill him or you can attract him to your bed."
"Yeah." The ginger one answered, turning to the other side to sleep. "Wake me up if that happen."
"I think his hand is dead or something like that" the taller one commented. Despite his half-closed eyes to protect from the sun, its green color was marvelous.
"Trust me, he uses his hand like no one else does" said back the smaller one, with a crooked smile.
The palest, smallest and skinniest of the group turned around, his thin lips in a tenuous line.
"Okay, I can hear you, alright?" He said in his clumsy voice. The boy was gesticulating frenetically, like he suffered of hyperactivity. "You guys are right behind me, you know."
Scott McCall looked from Stiles to Derek Hale, who was keeping his arms closed and a fun expression. He, however, didn't have turn away his eyes from the pale boy.
Stiles had passed his last two weeks begging Scott to teach him some lacrosse tricks - he was determined to get out of the bench and shut the coach's big mouth, saying himself he didn't need super lycanthrope powers to send a ball to a goal.
"Okay, Stiles, if you really want my help," said Scott "you have to stop spinning your body like that when you launch."
Stiles relaxed his hands on the crosse he was holding, sticking his lips. For a moment, he seemed about to say something sarcastic, but he gave up with a huff.
"Alright" he said to himself, turning around. He took a ball from the little pile on his feet and got prepared, staring to the goal. When he launched, the ball flew five meters away from the goal.
Scott repressed a laugh, but Derek didn't contain himself to laugh loudly. Ashamed, Stiles turned to him, observing his muscled shoulders shaking and his neck inclined to his back. Furious, the boy kicked the crosse base on the floor, like a scepter, and looked to his best friend.
"Can you please remind me why he's here?"
Derek inclined his head back to its place and, when he stared at Stiles, his green eyes seemed fun.
"Because, Stiles, with the city this calm, I am dead of boredom. And you, like everybody knows, are an accurate font of fun."
"Well, for someone who used to have fun turning weak and oppressed teenagers into werewolves..." He said back, coming some steps near. Derek's expression lost all its enjoyment like someone had pressed a button, turning off his humor. Stiles had to stand on his feet, nose to nose with the men ahead. "You even got..."
"Stiles" Scott censured, despite not seeming really threatening. "Let's not lose focus here, okay? Just ignore Derek."
Stiles looked to his friend without turning his face to him, then looked to Derek again, like a challenge. Nevertheless, he put his heels back to the floor, backing up.
"Why did you bring him, then?" He grumbled in a bad mood to his best friend, turning back to the goal.
"Okay, Stiles, I will try to be useful" said Derek, seeming to be back having fun. He took another crosse that was on the floor, right by the side of the ball's pile. "If you really want to learn lacrosse, you have to stop simulating. Scott, go to the goal." And then threw to the younger werewolf the last crosse right by the pile.
Scott took the crosse without even looking, and he left to the goal, making fun of the situation.
"Try not to kill each other" he said when he got there.
"Right, Scott, because if there's something lethal to werewolves, this something is a crosse" said Stiles, feeling more nervous than actually looked like. With no way out, he took position and said to himself with a sight: "I'm screwed."