I don't own anything.

- Rest easy, fearless soldier -

"Losing a member of the pack isn't like losing a family member, it's like losing a limb." - Peter to Stiles, 3.08

As he tied the tie around his neck, Scott fell as if he was tying a knot attached to an invisible cord that would be his doom. As he adjusted the collar of his shirt and did the button, he couldn't breath. As he heard the quiet heartbeat of an equally distressed Isaac standing at his door, his jaw clenched. As he felt his own heartbeat, he was reminded that he was breathing. That he was alive. That She wasn't. The young Alpha heard his Beta take a shaky breath before saying in a whisper:

"It's time."

He adknowledged his statement with a small nod, staring at the wall in front. Staring at pictures. Pictures of Her. And for the umpteenth time in years, he wondered what would have happened if he wasn't caught in the crossfire. What would have happened if they weren't always chasing a new supernatural creature. What would have happened if they weren't losing friends by dozain. Playing with death. Lying to loved ones. What would have happened if he hadn't been bitten and became an werewolf. A True Alpha. Co-captain of the Lacrosse team. Popular. Noticed. What would have happened if he was still sickly and wheezy Scott McCal, invisible to everyone but his best friend and mother, terrible at Lacrosse. Mocked. Ignored. Normal.

I don't want to be normal. I want you to be alive.

Her voice was echoing in his mind so loudly it was almost painful. It was painful. Pain that woke him up from his dazed trance. Letting a lonely tear roll on his cheek, Scott gave another nod before turning his head toward the red-eyed and blonde werewolf – now standing next to him was his mother – and whispered:

"I know."

It was time to say goodbye.

Lydia had stared at her reflection at least a hour a week since she had become aware of that she was attractive. She knew that she was pretty, hot, smoking – beautiful – and so on and so forth. She heard the whistles at school, in the street when she wore low skirts and short dresses, showing her not-so-long – Wow, you're little, had smartly remarked Stiles a saturday, working on some school project at her place - and pale legs. She felt the jealous and appreciative glares/stares when she walked by. But she always felt the need to see for herself what made some hate her and others desire her. And today, she didn't see it.

All she saw, today, were her flaws. Her too-big green eyes, her ridiculous height, her pouty mouth, the long scars caused by numerous creatures, her pale skin. Skin that contrasted with her red hair, falling on a shoulder in an almost perfect french braid, and the long black dress she had chosen to wear. It had long sleeve, the top skirt was in lace and it, surprinsgly, only showed the tip of her toes sticking out of her flats – nails painted black – and her peter pan collar revealed a small necklace, with a A as a pendant. The bags under her eyes were hidden under a tone of make-up, as were the scars on her neck, and her leps were red as ever. She didn't care about her puffy and red eyes, she'll hide them behind a pair of thick sunglasses later – thank god she was living in California – would ignore the looks she also got not matter where.

The strawberry blonde didn't know how long she had stood in front of the mirror before a knock on the door startled, stopping her staring. When she turned, she almost expected a tall brunette girl smiling sweetly at, combat boots at her feet and a wolf on a pendant hanging from her neck, or an arrogant werewolf flashing her his usual cocky smirk, biker helmet in a hand and his leather jacket on his shoulders. Instead, staring at her as if she was a ticking bomb was her father. Father that she saw for the first time in almost a year. She frowned, her lips pursed as he offered a weak smile.

"We're ready to go, sweetheart."

Don't frown, Lydia. Someone could be falling in love with your smile.

Not responding nor adknowledging his presence, the small banshee turned around and walked toward the chair of her desk, where His leather jacket was. Putting on – it still smelled like Him -, she then slipped the necklace in one of her pockets – she would have to give back to Her father – before putting her glasses on. Pushing past the older man, she rushed toward the front door. Lydia didn't want to smile. She didn't someone to fall in love with her. Not Today.

As all teenagers, he hated a lot of things. In his case, the young man hated two places in particular. Hospital. Graveyards. Yet, he had just gotten out of one and was heading to the other. Someone must really hate him. As his cheek came in contact with the cold window of his father's car, Stiles felt a wave of calm going through his body. He could fall asleep on it, no matter if he'd wake up with a prick in his neck later. He couldn't fall asleep, though. He was too busy thinking. People who weren't familiar with the boy might think that his unusual calm exterior could be something to worry about. People who were familiar with the boy knew that a storm was brewing inside and the calm wouldn't last for long.

The teenager honestly didn't remember much. He didn't talk much. All he did was sleep. Not that he could on his own and his pillow, no matter how screwed up his life became, had no magical proprieties. When he slept, he remembered. Her. Him. Dying because of him. Because of his orders. Because he was too weak. Because he got possesed. While he didn't get along with the Werewolf and didn't much care for Him, the Huntress was his friend. For Her, he cared a lot. However, he still found laughable that others were waiting from him to get better to have Her funeral. Considering he was the reason They were dead. Considering the fact that they should hate him. Or at least be mad at him. He was mad at himself, why shouldn't they be too?

He found laughable that Scott had hugged him tightly during on of his panic attacks, whispering that it wasn't his fault while Stiles was too busy counting his fingers – 10 - . He found laughable that Lydia was the one comforting him after one nightmare, during his stay at the hospital, running her fingers through his hair and saying that she will kick his ass – no matter her height – if he kept blaming himself. It isn't you. It wasn't you, they said. Then why did he remember the addictive taste of power. The satisfaction and relief he felt when chaos and pain surrounded him.

"You still with me, kiddo?"

Stiles turned his hand, his bright brown eyes meeting his father's blue one. Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he shot him a weak smile and nodded. However, the Sheriff wasn't stupid. Especially it concerned his hyperactive, over-sarcastic 17-year old son. Letting out a sigh, he parked the car at the entry of the cemetery, leaning into his chair. As he turned to look at the teenager again, he found the latter playing with his tie with trembling fingers, staring in front of him.

"You know, we can still go back, nobody would blame you."

I would, he thought, restraining a scoff and sarcastic reply as he stared through the window. From where he was, he could see Lydia's almost red head, the banshee hugging Ethan. Behind her was Scott, Isaac flanked at his side. Stiles look down when he saw their heads turned toward his direction. Clearing his throat, he nodded again as he said:

"I know. But I need to be here. I need to say goodbye."

I need to say I'm sorry.

Chris was alone. He was standing tall in front of Her coffin, near to the already digged-up hole. Where She would be buried in a few minutes. Next to Her mother. Close to Kate. Six feet under him. As he looked around him, the Hunter was pretty sure all of the town had showed up. His lips curled in disdain. While most of them were friends and knew his daughter, others were just curious and morbid tattletales, convinced that some curse had been put on his family. He wouldn't be surprised if it was true. Kate had died, Victoria followed a few months and now, Her.

If anything happens- I love you.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the McCall pack gathered in a small group. Lydia was sandwiched between the Stilinski kid – the boy still looked like he was about to pass out, his skin deathly pale - and Scott. He honestly didn't who was supporting who, they all looked like they were about to collapse. In front of them were standing Lahey and Ethan. Chris had proposed the latter to organise and pay for his brother's funeral, so had Derek and Lydia. The former Alpha had automatically refused, saying that he wouldn't stay in town for much longer and that he didn't want to be in the middle of a mediatic circus.

The tall man sharply turned his head when he felt someone walking toward him. Derek Hale was standing next to him, his hands stuffed in his worn-out leather jacket pockets and dressed all in black. The werewolf gave him a small nod, which he accepted and returned. That was one of the reasons he started to like Derek. They had known each other for so long that they didn't need to talk to understand the other. He startled a little when he felt a small hand slipping into his. Turning the other way, his grey eyes found the brown gaze of Melissa McCall, Stilinski by her side. The woman squeezed his hand gently while the Sheriff shot him a small smile and nodded at him. Again, Chris returned the nod and squeezed back.

Strangely, he realized that the three persons standing next to him were probably some of the few that understand what he was going through in that moment. So he kept holding Melissa's hand and ignored others as he turned to look back at Her coffin, vision blurred by the unshed tears in his eyes.

The McCall pack had been joined by Kira – now glued to Scott – and Danny – glued to Ethan. Lydia had her arms wrapped around Stiles' waist while the boy had an arm around her shoulder, Isaac was standing on the side, his hands stuffed his pockets. The Yukumiras had come to them to present their condolences, quickly followed by Finstock – who had hugged each one of them, Stiles tighter than others – before going to stand with their parents and Derek. Other teachers had followed, then imitated by people that they didn't recognized. People that they ignored for the most part.

Then it happened. Isaac was the one who noticed him first. His blue eyes widened a little at the sight as he said, watching him walk toward them:

"Guys."

All heads turned to him then followed his gaze. Expressions of confusion turned into one of surprise and disbelief.

"Jackson." the banshee breathed out.

Jackson Whittemore shot her a weak smile and before he could say anything, his arms were full with Lydia, the latter burying her face in his collar bone, her arms around his neck. Taken aback by the sudden embrace and display of emotion, the werewolf bent and wrapped his arms around her waist, bringing her closer to his chest as he buried her nose in her honey-perfumed hair.

"Hey, Lyd."

After a few minutes, the blonde man relucantly let go of the smaller girl. As he looked up, his blue eyes met the brown eyes of Scott. Shoting him a small smile, he held out a hand at the Alpha. If it was any other, Stiles would have made a dog joke – What are you waiting for, for him to smell it? - but once again, the boy chose to stay quiet. Scott returned the small smile and, ignoring the hand, he detached himself from Kira and envelopped the Beta in a tight embrace. After a few seconds of hesitation, Jackson returned the hug as tightly before moving toward Danny and repeating the gesture. He was introduced to Ethan and Kira and adknowledged Isaac and Stiles with nods, both boys returning it.

Watching the scene from a distance, Melissa hesitated a couple of minutes before finally walking up to the group, clearing her throat as she put one hand of Isaac's back. All eyes turned toward and she choked back a sob at the sadness, distress she saw in each one of them. She felt her foster son put an arm around her shoulder as she slid one arm around his waist. Pulling the teenager closer to him, she said:

"It's time."

Scott honestly didn't know how he had gotten in front of the casket. He was aware of their parents' presence behind them. He swallowed as the crowd moved out of their way, so they could pass – they knew Her … He dated Her... She was Her best friend … Didn't his brother die? - whispering under their breaths condolences among other things. His hold on Kira's hand tightened when he felt her slipping away to go sit with her parents – I didn't know Her (…) She liked you, though – and brought her closer to him.

Stiles took a shaky breath as the minister started talking, feeling his father's rough hands on his shoulders, keeping him steady. A tear rolled on his cheek when he heard the redhead's sniffing next to him. Without an ounce of hesitation, he grabbed her hand in his and squeezed lightly. Gasping at the sudden contact, the banshee looked up at him before squeezing back and leaning her head onto his arm. Stiles could feel his other arm brush against his brother. The two exchanged a quick look, then linked arms, bringing the other as close as possible.

With her free hand, Lydia grabbed Isaac's as Her casket was slowly lowering into the ground. She felt like screaming. She felt like kicking the ground like a child. She felt like crying. The third option was the most reasonable one. Therefore, she cried. Sobbing as the werewolf let out a shaky breath and breathed a small kiss on her head, rubbing her hand with his thumb. He was crying too, she thought as she felt a small drop fall on her hair.

Isaac restrained a mournful howl as people walked forward, throwing white roses on Her grave – I love roses, especially white ones (…) Why ? (…) Because they're pure, innocent, stainless. They're perfect - Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek, closed his eyes and lowered his head. He looked up when he felt a hand grab his shoulder, only to see the Hunter staring back at him.

I'm proud of you. I'm proud of us. These words rang in Chris' ears and mind as they started throwing earth on the coffin. Almost covering it entirely.

"It's okay."

The familiar voice of his daughter made him look up, and sure enough, She has standing on the other side of the hole. Allison was wearing a white knee-length, her favorite pair of boots and the most dashing smile he had ever seen on her face. Looking around him, the Hunter found out that Scott, Stiles and Lydia were staring in the same direction, gaping. Her giggle almost brought him to his knees.

"It's okay." Allison repeated. "I promise, it's okay. Tomorrow is a brand new day."

A flash of lightning made him looked up. Black clouds had gathered in the sky and a storm was brewing. When he lowered his gaze, She had dissapeared and apparently, so had most of the guests. The only left present were Stiles, Lydia and Scott.

A small smile appeared on the strawberry blonde's lips as she took off her sunglasses.

"It's a brand new day.." she whispered.

"Not yet" The Hunter corrected. "but tomorrow is."

Stiles nodded as she snuggled closer. Scott smiled, stuffed his hands and affirmed, also nodding:

"It'll be okay. We'll be okay."

And for the first time in forever, Chris actually believed it.