So, this is basically just a little one-shot in honor of Allison Argent and Scott and Allison's beautiful relationship. I'm still not over her death, and decided to vent my feelings in this little piece here.
I don't own Teen Wolf or any of the song lyrics. Song is All I Want by Kodaline.
Enjoy!
-:-
All I want it nothing more
To hear you knocking at my door
'Cause if I could see your face once more
I could die a happy man I'm sure
When you said your last goodbye
I died a little bit inside
I lay in tears in bed all night
Alone without you by my side
-:-
The first week was the hardest.
Scott would find himself turning around to tell her something—a lame joke that he knew she'd laugh at, or a probably dumb question that he knew she wouldn't laugh at, even if she wanted to—only to turn and end up staring at the wall, because she wasn't there to stand behind him anymore. Her feet were no longer planted upon the earth. There was no shadow for her cast. Now…now she was a part of the earth, and the last shadow of hers that he saw was the one cast by her casket.
Scott would pick up his phone and start texting her, only to realize that she would never respond to his messages anymore. He would call her, and only when it was halfway through her voicemail message would be realize that this was the only way he was going to be able to hear her voice anymore. He listened to her voicemail a lot. She sounded happy. The voice of a girl who hadn't yet realized that dying at seventeen was a very good possibility.
The worst time was just a few days after it happened, and Scott found himself driving to her apartment to study. After they broke up, they didn't hang out as much as they used to—it was too painful, too full of memories. But every once in a while they would find that the only company they wanted was each other's, so they would sometimes get together and waste a few hours. But now, it was only when he knocked did he remember that the only person that would open up the door would be her father. Chris Argent indeed opened the door, face more worn and tired than ever before because the last of his family—his daughter—had just died.
"Hey, Mr. Argent, is Allison—". That's as far as Scott got into their conversation. Then he remembered and it hit him like a bullet to the stomach, that ripped through him, white-hot, and stole all his air. And he knew what that felt like. Mr. Argent just stood there, leaning on the doorjamb for support, trying to force a smile while tears shone in his eyes. Eyes that had lost some of their light. Scott apologized, but it was too late. He'd already been standing there long enough to smell her room, smell her. Rather, what was left of her slowly fading scent.
Because she was fading. Every day, it didn't get better. It got worse. Because every day Scott got closer and closer to realizing that she wasn't coming back. Scott kept trying to picture her in his mind, kept trying to remember her face and the feel of her hair and the softness of her skin and the sound of her voice and her laugh but every day it got a little more blurry. Her eyes weren't as brown, her skin not as smooth. Her laugh didn't ring in his ears quite the same. He struggled to recall the feel of her lips against his and that tore him apart.
He was sure—so sure—that one day, after they'd been through a couple more relationships and just as many heartbreaks, that they would find each other again. So sure that they would get married, have a couple of beautiful brown haired and brown eyed kids, and then grow old together. Now...now they would never get that. She would never get that. Scott would have to grow old without her. He was sure that someday he'd fall in love again, find someone else to marry and grow old with.
But when his future wife asked him about his first love, he'd have to tell her that his first love died in his arms with blood in her lips. He'd have to tell her that he got all dressed up in black because his first love died at seventeen. He'd have to tell her that while he was giving her eulogy, something in him snapped because he finally realized that she wasn't coming back.
And when his future wife asked what her name was, he wouldn't say it right away. Allison, he would think. And her name would sit there, right on the tip of his tongue, but he wouldn't be able to say it. Allison reminded him of her headstone that didn't have nearly as many years between the dates as it should have. He would think of that tombstone and how, the night of the funeral, when the graveyard was abandoned, how he sat in the fresh dirt and cried till his head hurt and his throat was raw. Allison made him think of that first date when they danced so close he was breathing her air. It made him think of an autumn day spent out in the woods rather than school because they were too in love to care about ditching. He would think about nights spent on rooftops and her hand in his whenever they got the chance because touch had always been so important to them. To him. He wanted to make sure someone that beautiful wasn't just going to slip away. Allison made him think of the last time he touched her hand and how he couldn't take the pain away because it didn't hurt. He would think of red lips and red nails and the tears in her eyes as she told him she loved him.
So, no, Scott wouldn't be able to say her name. Not now. Not for a very long time because his name…his name was one of the last things to fall from her lips. It wouldn't feel right to say her name. Not when she wasn't there to hear it. If he ever said her name, it wasn't intentional. It only happened when he dreamed. Though those dreams, more often than not, tended to be nightmares. Even now, months later, he would still wake up in a cold sweat, sheets tangling around his ankles as he tried to find the air he needed to breathe. The images—vivid, bright images that made it seem like her death had just happened yesterday—tended to knock the air out of his lungs. Seeing her die over and over again in his dreams ripped the stitches in his broken heart all over again.
Upon hearing him scream himself awake at night, his mom would come in and hold him until his body stopped shaking. She would stroke his hair, murmuring consoling words in his ear—not that he heard them. It made him feel small, like a child. He wished he could be a little boy again sometimes. None of this would be happening then. He didn't mind his mom coming in. Her presence soothed him. Be your own anchor. She would whisper this to him sometimes as she comforted him. If he heard any words, those were the ones he heard. And he tried—he tried so hard—to hold onto them. He had started to become his own anchor, but even after he and Allison broke up, he held onto her. She was still his anchor. She held him down, kept him grounded when no one else could—not even himself. But now that she was gone…he didn't know how to hold himself down anymore. He'd lost his tether and he felt like one wrong move and he would lose himself completely. Like he would float away into nothingness.
He didn't want to be nothing. But without Allison, he felt like he wasn't the something that he used to be. When she died, something in him died too. His heart was still beating, but it felt like it had been ripped out of his chest, like something vital was missing. The tattoo on his arm was only a constant reminder of the vital thing that was missing: Allison. He would often trace over the black lines on his bicep, try to feel her through them. The open wound the tattoo symbolized had started to close up as he started to move on, but with Allison's death, it was open wider than it had been before. It felt infected, too. Like every time it seemed like it was healing, something reminded him of her and it flared up red again. It was just a constant ache, a burn. Like he was being stabbed. Just like Allison had been.
No matter what he tried to distract himself with—whether it was homework or getting involved with something supernatural—she sat there in the back of his mind the whole time. A weight on his heart every time he pictured her smile in his head, every time he caught a whiff of her scent, whether it was at her old locker or from the passenger seat of Lydia's car.
As the weeks went on, he tried to think positively. Remembering her was a good thing. Their memories—his memories—of her were what kept her alive. She was alive in their minds and their hearts and their very souls. She was there in her empty seat in history, there in Lydia's empty passenger seat, there in her empty room that her dad kept shut because he couldn't compartmentalize well enough to actually be able to go into her room yet.
She was there, in Beacon Hills Cemetery where Scott lay flowers every time he got the chance. She was there to listen when he dusted off her already immaculate headstone, sat down, and talked to her. Sometimes for hours. And even on the day that he called her, expecting to hear her voicemail and an automated voice said the phone had been disconnected, he didn't mind. He still called her number, even if all he heard was a robotic voice, just to remind himself that the number had existed at some point. He knew it was silly. Of course the number had existed, because she had existed. The pain in his heart was proof of that. The dash in between the numbers on her headstone was proof of that. He was proof of that.
As long as he lived, Allison would live.
The thought made him smile.
-:-
But if you loved me
Why'd you leave me?
Take my body
Take my body
All I want is
And all I need is
To find somebody
I'll find somebody like you
-:-
So I hope you guys liked it! This will only be a one-shot, so this is the end.
Please leave a review and let me know what you thought! It would mean a lot to me!
Thanks for reading!
-DaughterOfPoseidon333