Stiles jolts awake with a shout on his lips, his heart beating wildly, blood rushing in his ears. He slumps back against the foot of his bed and tries to catch his breath. He must have drifted off while he was working. He rubs his sweaty palms on the knees of his jeans and tries to will the violent onslaught of images to stop. Twisting the sword into Scott...the deputy bleeding out on the floor...the frantic rush of people in the hospital...Allison fading in Scott's arms.
Stiles hangs his head and covers his face with his hands. Bile rises up the back of his throat as he remembers the twisted rush of power...the sick thrill of chaos. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and climbs to his feet. With shaky hands he flicks on his bedroom light and stumbles over to the bathroom sink. He spins the tap and scoops up handfuls of cold water and slashes it over his face and the back of his neck. Water runs down his face and soaks through the front of his shirt. He grips the sides of the sink as another wave of nausea rolls through him. He spits the sharp taste from his mouth into the sink.
Stiles tears off his t-shirt and mops his face with it before bunching it up and tossing it in the corner. He brushes his teeth three times to rinse the foul taste from his mouth, but even afterwards it lingers in the back of his throat. He avoids his own eyes in the mirror. Stiles moves back into his room and grabs the plaid shirt that hangs off the back of his door handle. He shrugs it on, its a thin and well-worn brushed cotton shirt, and its soft comforting weight feels good against his agitated skin.
Stiles fumbles slightly with the buttons as his eyes take in the room. It's immaculate. He must have finished cleaning before he dozed off. He retrieves his phone from the floor where he had fallen asleep. Tapping his phone he checks the time... 5:38 am. He pockets the phone and pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are still bleary. He couldn't of had more than three hours of sleep. He has a few hours before he needs to be up for school but he doesn't want to chance falling asleep again.
His eyes drift around the room for a moment before landing on his lacrosse stick. He reaches out and inspects the mesh for frays. The strings are worn but not frayed but he decides to restring it anyway, just to keep his hands busy. He sits on the corner of his bed and starts working the knots and loops free.
By the time he walks into school that morning, he had restrung both of his lacrosse sticks, rewrote his English paper, taken a lot of Adderall and washed it down with two pots of coffee. He walks with his head down, and his backpack slung over one shoulder. He can feel eyes on him but he doesn't lift his head. All throughout school he's been somewhat of a spectacle. He's always riled up teachers, with his inability to keep still and his smart mouth. And that has always given people enough reason to talk. But this is different. He can hear snippets of their conversations; '...sheriff's son...' '...mental hospital...' '...what a freak...' '...that girl that died...'
He grits his teeth, as anger courses hotly through him. He feels this overwhelming urge, to strike out. He wants to break things — preferably his hand on one of their smug faces — he wants to kick them when their down. A dark sinister voice claws its way out of his memories; That's right...twist the knife, Stiles. He shudders and moves away from them quickly...before he hurts someone. He ducks down a quiet corridor and unfurls his fingers. His hands are shaking. There's a sinking feeling in his chest. Shame. He's afraid of his own hands. Of what they might do.
The second bell rings but he stays still. He doesn't leave the wall until his hands stop shaking. Then he starts down the corridor, passing by the computer lab and a few quiet classrooms. Until he sees a flash of someone out of the corner or his eye. He stops and backs up a few steps and peeks through the open classroom door. There on the empty classroom floor, Scott is sitting with his knees drawn up, his eyes staring out the window.
Stiles hesitates for a moment at the door. When you have a best friend—that person you never get sick of being around. And their hurting because of something you've done, it's hard to know what to do with yourself. Scott has never blamed him for anything that happen while he was under the nogitsune's control. But he doesn't have to. Stiles already knows it's his fault. So this is what he does now, he hesitates. He hesitates before he texts him, he hesitates before he talks to him. Things that had always been a second nature for him, now make him feel so uncertain. Stiles shakes his head and moves into the room. No matter how responsible he feels, he won't let Scott go through this alone.
"Scott," he says softly. "Whatcha doing?"
Scott turns his head from the window, his eyes unfocused as he shrugs, "I don't know...I just-uh wanted to sit here for a while." he tells him in a flat toneless voice.
Stiles shifts closer, "O.K." he says as he slips his bag off his shoulder and moves to slide down the wall beside him. Stiles draws up his knees and stares at his hands as they quietly sit shoulder to shoulder. It's a long time before anyone says anything. Stiles struggles to quiet his busy thoughts and to keep from fidgeting too much. He counts the ceiling tiles until Scott's shaky voice breaks the silence.
"I...the first time I saw her...was through that window." he whispers, running a hand through his hair.
"I'd never seen anything so perfect." Scott whispers reverently. His mouth is turned down, the corner of his lip quivering. "I..." he sucks in a shuddering breath. "I-lent-her-my-pen-" he chokes. Stiles grips Scott's shoulder hard in support. Scott painfully muffles a sob. It the kind of low pitiful sound we make as children, the kind that starts in your stomach and shakes all the way through you. Tears spring to Stiles' eyes, at the sound of it coming from his best friend. He braces Scott's shoulder and sits helplessly beside him, unsure of what more to do.
Stiles thinks of Allison. He had thought she was perfect when he first saw her too. I mean who wouldn't? But then he got to know her. And she wasn't perfect. She was stubborn and a bit of a risk-taker. She bit her nails and she snorted when she laughed. It was impossible to sit through a movie with her because she always asked too many questions. And sometimes when she went into 'hunter mode' she was a little scary and intense.
But Stiles missed her. He missed her clever smiles. And the way she would shove him playfully when he would get too anxious or worked up about something. She was fun to tease and to bicker with. She could be funny, bull-headed, fearless and sweet. And no matter what was going on with her and Scott she was always good to him. Allison wasn't perfect...she was real...she was complicated...and flawed...and vibrant. She was his friend. And she had died that night trying to save him.
Scott has gone quiet beside him, his face in his hands. Stiles felt the words rising up his throat before he could stop them. Allison would want him to know.
"She loved you." Stiles whispers.
He's not sure that Scott heard him until a few minutes later when he lifts his head. "She picked, Issac." he corrects.
"She cared about Issac. She loved you." Stiles insists.
Scott shrugs, "Maybe..." he says as he brushes the back of his sleeve across his eyes.
"Did she ever tell you about the hunter's code?" Stiles asks.
Scott grimaces. "Yeah, after her mom died she told me about it. 'We hunt those that hunt us'"
Stiles nods. "When she convinced her dad to start hunting again...she made a new code."
Scott turns his head toward him. "What was it?"
"'We protect those who cannot protect themselves'" Stiles recites thoughtfully. Scott drops his head and smiles sadly. Stiles squeezes his friend's shoulder. "She got that from you, Scott." he insists. "She believed in you. And she stood by you. She loved you, Scott."
Scott drops his head and nods, barely holding back tears, his shoulders shaking. Stiles wraps his arm around him and braces him through it.
"I tried s—so hard t—to give her space." Scott chokes out, in a strangled voice. "I l—loved her s—so m—much." he whispers brokenly. "A—and now I—I d—don't know wh—what I'm supposed to do."
Stiles isn't sure what their supposed to do either. How do they piece themselves back together after something like this? How do you go on after your heart's been torn out? After you've lost who you thought you were? After you've buried your friends? He doesn't have any answers for him, so he just sits with him. His arm tight around him, so that he knows he's not alone...that he won't let go.
They sit there on the cold classroom floor for a long time. Then something stirs in Stiles' chest. "We keep going...we keep trying." Stiles says with conviction. "We protect those who can't protect themselves. For her...and for everyone we c-couldn't save."
Scott lifts his head and stares at him and something sacred passes between the two friends. A solemn promise. For Allison.
Author's Note: Allison Argent was such a solid character. She was brave, heroic, funny, strong and flawed. She was a great multidimensional character. I just wanted to say goodbye to her properly and I think the pack needed to.
