— OVEREXPOSED
storm. / calm
I.
Malia's favorite color is green—like katydids and clovers and the broccoli she never eats and prickly, wrinkly caterpillars and tourmalines and the nasty veggie drinks her mom used to make. It's the color she scribbled across her bedroom wall at age four with a forgotten permanent marker, but that was now painted over, and where she glides her hand across when she feels lonely. It's the freshness of the dew in the morning that glistens on blades of grass, of peridot gems and moss and the color of flower stems before they die, and sage, sickness, and Christmas trees.
When she was six, her favorite color became purple, and then when she was seven, it was red.
Red is vibrance. It's stoplight bright and popsicle cool. It's the shade of radishes and sliced watermelon and sunburns and ladybugs. It's endurance, her mother's lipstick and her sister's dress shoes and the color of the family van. It's rubies and carnations and warmth and frilly dresses bought off the clearance rack and Coca Cola in the summer heat. Red was the last thing her human eyes saw, and—
Red is violence. It clung to her hands like paste, a stain, a label and reminder that lingered for days, years. It's what scared her nearly half to death and then what kept her alive for years later through the forest wildlife. It's terror, shame, longing, and regret. It's what made her keep coming back to her family's grave, leaving flowers and gifts like a lingering phantom, so in plain sight but never seen. It's morose and envy; it's what brought two boys from Beacon Hills in search for her with the police on their tail.
Red is what saved her—it's fire-bright and thumbtack sharp and haunting, ghostly.
Red is cotton candy soft, statuesque firm, and sun-kissed and it's gentle. It's a broken record spinning, a list of promises never able to be fulfilled, and coffee dark hair. Red keeps a lucky dollar coin in his pocket, hesitates often, and she thinks he eats pizza too much. Red thinks more with his heart; it's peppermint fresh and radiant like a light she'll never be.
Red is the small, sleek little carve on the inside of her wrist—two circles, a thinner one dwarfed by a thicker duplicate—a sort of inverted tattoo and indication that tingles and throbs. And she can feel it stretching and pulling and its guidance growing, strengthening.
Then Malia changes her favorite color to blue. But it's the color of sapphires and raindrops and her sister's baby blanket and butterflies and the color of her eyes now. Blue is a reminder, and she doesn't want that, can't have that.
Malia concludes that green isn't such a a bad choice after all.
II.
It's been eight years since she has heard her mother's voice, and Malia remembers it like lights through a dense morning fog—it always brought little comfort. She finds herself glancing a little too long at the front door or hoping that the kitchen blender would magically start working on its own. When her dad would catch her like this, he would show a weak smile and Malia remembers that their named mugs sat untouched in the cabinets. Then her father would rise from his chair and ruffle her hair like he used to, and call her "Champ." Sometimes they'd go to the park and just sit, sometimes the grocery store or that little restaurant like years before, sometimes they'd gossip.
Sometimes, Malia looks at the mark on her wrist and wishes that her mom had told her more about this, because she's seen three couples get together at school because they claimed theirs were corresponding.
She and her father bond over the memories of their late family.
But still, she's terrified and second-guessing and guilt stricken—and she can't reveal to him why—and it begins tearing at her inside.
At times, she feels so alone—it's most times, actually.
It's almost a year since she was "saved" and she's grasping at straws and shifting in public and failing exams and quite honestly, she wants to flip the desk table if that teacher calls on her to answer a math problem one more time. She's rash and impulsive and it helps a little with the training from Scott and the attention given from Stiles. But she doesn't belong, and she knows that, can practically feel the glares and judgement coming from others in the school halls, and she thinks that this must be similar to Lydia's description of "having voices in your head." But Malia is told that it's anxiety—whatever the heck that is—and her doctor tries to prescribe her medication—
She ends up flushing it down the toilet instead.
But the voices are still there and though she doesn't speak it, she feels the trickling sureness of fear seeping through her veins like a slow illness. And she carries it, silently, like one.
But she can't brake. She has too many responsibilities now, she has a pack, and she has Stiles.
But when this boy looks at her with those wide brown eyes beaming, she almost wants to tell; she almost doesn't want to hide because now she has something to take care of besides herself and has something to get in return, and the way his lips turn up in that crooked smile of his and the map she could make of the freckles on his back—Malia is still trying to get comfortable with all these newfound emotions.
But she feels the mark on her wrist rippling and vibrating and pulling, and telling—
Malia has made a lot of bad decisions, but Stiles isn't one of them. Sure he's meticulous, persistent, rebellious, and kind, yes—and she finds that she ultimately likes that—and he's just right because, well, she doesn't need some thing on her wrist to tell her that, she doesn't. She's sure.
She doesn't.
But then she finds herself staring at the little symbol and wondering, contemplating, refusing. And at times she wishes that she had been told more about all this. But she was nine then, and her main concern had been not getting any Valentine's Day cards from cooty-infested boys in her class.
She doesn't need some tattoo to tell her who to like.
But still, she can't help but wonder...
It was Lydia who the first to tell Malia what the mark means, who told her the century-old, distasteful, mystical tale:
"My grandmother called it a destiny mark. Everyone gets them, but at different points in your life. And on different spots of your skin. Sometimes it's someplace cute," she held out her ring finger on her left hand, showing her mark. "Or...it could end up being a tramp stamp, unfortunately... Anyways, they say that your mark is important because it's the mark of your…significant other—"
"You mean mate?" Malia had interrupted, trying to grasp this outrageous concept.
"You could say that. Others would say soul mate. Or fate."
But Malia already had someone, someone who was intelligent and a chatterer and who was her first time. He was supposed to be her mate, her other half—that's what it always indicated in books and fairytales; the hero who came and saved the princess was the one who was always the best choice, who could comfort her and show her the world, and they always ended up together. Happily ever after.
And Malia grew angry. This whole fate ideal, this pointing of direction—how could something like this exist? What cruel game by the gods thought this would be funny, amusing? She didn't like it one bit because she was content here and actually likes her relationship with Stiles, albeit she hadn't intended for it to turn into one, and didn't need some tiny tattoo governing her every thoughts and actions.
"That's not how it works," Lydia calms her down.
This isn't how it was supposed to happen.
But life wasn't a child's story, and was more like a Grimm's tale, and she would become inexplicably angry at this because it's not right; this isn't supposed to happen, and—
Her mark tingles as weeks go by and she finishes up gaining her powers under control with Scott's guidance and it's getting on her last nerves when she can barely concentrate on her English quiz because it's twisting, vibrating, and pulling her away—
Malia chooses to ignore it.
III.
It's over a year since Malia had been "changed" and quite honestly, Kira was starting to grow on her. Lydia, on the other hand...
This Kira girl, she was quick, quirky, a badass fighter, and a terrible dancer. And Malia couldn't resist but to help her improve, and—she likes it when they dance together; she's having fun; they both are.
She likes Kira, Malia admits. Lydia, on the other hand...
Lydia was sassy, sultry, and sarcastic, and a genius. And Malia knows that she just won't be able to catch up with them. And she feels very, terribly self-conscious about it. She watches the way Scott shows her control, making it seem so effortless, and Stiles' marking on his board like a sleuth, and she stares back at her textbook that has more tab marks than an internet browser and she wants to chuck it across the room. Because she's a dimwit, a dullard, a decelerate, and a loosened lightbulb, and she's so goddamn behind with everything, she feels—she knows—that there's no way—
She sees the way that she and Stiles have grown but she still feels hesitant; their kisses are lovely, yes, but deep down, it's like she knows—that she can feel that something's there, and it's not first date jitters.
She decides to go to Scott for help.
Malia makes a lot of bad decisions.
IV.
There's a small, abstract design on Stiles' shoulder blade she sees one night in his bed, and a part of her knows that there's something unimaginably wrong about it, because she doesn't feel a connection, doesn't feel the pull that Lydia described and part of her wants to get up and leave, to climb out the window if she had to and bolt through the night, not caring about the rain, and to just run and run as fast as she could to wherever she was being pulled to, where she knew she had to be—but she doesn't. Because she knows Stiles and she believes she loves him and he the same, and she kisses him anyway like he's the last great thing on Earth, and by now she has a pretty good, pretty solid idea whose mark she has and it's so goddamn crazy that it's not—that it just can't be—
And she chooses to ignore it, and pretends that the mark is not there.
She's in denial, and she knows that.
Malia sees the way that Kira and Liam have made progress over their control, and Lydia's words replay in her head like a tape back at the annual lacrosse bonfire, because she had been alone and vulnerable and when she's finally dazed and stumbling, her words slur. And then it's red all over again—she can feel herself swaying, her restraint waning, her mark rippling, lips curling and giggles bubbling forth from her mouth as words that would be out of character almost tumble out—Malia refrains herself from speaking words that even she almost didn't want to believe. Almost. Because all she sees red again and he's standing in front of her, concerned for her again, like usual, and she feels a lurch in her stomach that may be a mix of the vodka and maybe it's not. She doesn't register the loose soil under her feet until too late and there's the words ready to tumble from her mouth, revealing her thoughts and opening a can of worms—words that she's been quite sure of for some time now but never really ready to say.
The world grows hazy and happy and numb.
And she notices red again, and he's confused, and she laughs. Because she's pretty sure she's drunk and she's pretty sure that she's not certain of how she'll make it back over to the table for another drink or the fact that she is starting to barely focus on the silhouettes of dancers in front of her...
Malia has made a number of bad decisions.
She decides that she should have never went to Scott's for help.
V.
The lacrosse bonfire had been some time ago, and now, Malia diverts her eyes down, rubbing her mark with her opposite hand. She quietly waits for Kira and Scott to pull away from a kiss, and she can't help but notice how Kira is smiling and the the smile on his face that's just for her, and—Stiles' arm encircles Malia's waist and then, it's all alright again.
Her mark is buzzing like an electric hair trimmer.
She goes on too long with her bad decisions.
Stiles pull Malia in for a chaste kiss. She doesn't see his eyes going over her head—that had been happening for a while now. She doesn't notice the dimming shine of Kira's smile either.
They were about to catch The Benefactor and stop a dead pool hit-list for other supernatural creatures and it was no time to worry about her own feelings.
Kira grins hastily, shyly. She and Scott pull away.
Malia doesn't know how everything will turn out, but there's a small bit of hope, a sort of electric current that cuts through the room and then, somehow, things feel just a little bit better.
Malia's starting to believe now.
VI.
A year later Scott dies.
And there's blood pooling under him, staining the school carpet, permeating the air, burning into their retinas...
Malia tries to be good, she tries to make the right decisions—and then Theo—
There's a small gash near Scott's temple. Blood pools from a hole clawed out from his stomach. Dimmed, red eyes staring, unfocused above.
Scott is dead—and so is all the red, her red, that was sharp and haunting and her gleaming beacon—
Scott is murdered.
And Theo did it, with help by manipulating Liam. Theo is the one who did it, who dug his claws into Scott's gut and twisted, punctured, literally sucked the life out of the other teen.
Malia could feel it happen, and—
She screams.
—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—
She searches for Theo next, and then she beats him until he's black and oozing thick red. She beats him, branding him with her fists, her knuckles connecting with bone and fat and muscle and then bone again, hitting him over and over and over and over and she throws him on a table and punches that demented smile of his again and again until she could no longer see the whites of his teeth or the straight line of his nose.
It doesn't matter that Scott had been brought back now—Theo killed him, and in the act, killed her too.
She watches her fist make Theo's head bounce backwards, earning a sickening, satisfying crack. And Malia's tongue is in her throat and a storm raging her rationing and as her eyes are blazing a brilliant, terrifying cerulean, she voices a guttural, menacing proclaim: "He's mine."
VII.
Stiles finds out. He always does, eventually.
"We...kinda broke up, I guess."
"You can tell me what's happening with you," Scott tries. "I mean, besides Stiles. You can talk to me—"
"Don't ask me to talk." And Malia knows the look that he's wearing—that he probably has his jaw slacked the slightest, and for the umpteenth time he's debating whether to speak his mind—eyes wide, blinking, and his tongue probably darting out—and she has to pay attention ahead. And he's staring at her, and she knows that if she were to turn around and look—this is wrong, and bad timing, and everything is, and, and, and—
"Does he know?"
Her mark vibrates, though with much less intensity than in the beginning. She fidgets with the leather bracelet she uses to hide it, and she hears that skip in his pulse, can practically feel the onslaught of questions coming.
She answers:
Of course he figured it out.
[ final ]
Malia meets her mother—and not her mother, unfortunately—her mother, like, biological, the one where she got her DNA and werecoyote genes. Her mother was not happy to see her, and neither was she when finding out that all the woman wanted was to kill her only daughter.
Malia's mother was called The Desert Wolf, born Corrine. And still, a two weeks after the ordeal and the mess with The Dread Doctors was all over and Mason was restored and The Beast was vanquished, Malia still sees them, just out of sight, creeping in her dreams, claws scraping the walls, rows of razor fangs, of blue eyes just like hers in the face of a monster.
Malia still sees them, and sometimes she wakes startled and hurries to turn on the lamp at her bedside, or drenched in a cold sweat, or screaming. She's caught herself waking up screaming multiple times. Sometimes, she'd fumble with her phone after clicking on the lamplight, and she'd scroll through video, pictures, texts. She'll feel a twitch pushing up the ends of her lips; the coal-black cloud lifts in her stomach, and she wished she had called someone.
She sees that Kira posted pictures of Stiles' cheek sticking to a textbook page, a fine line of drool pooling on the page; Kira's in the picture and Malia sees the caption. It makes her stomach turn, but—
"We...kinda broke up."
It's true; Malia had to move on—Stiles obviously did. And she knew, somewhere deep down inside, that it was never going to work, to last, no matter how much she clung or wished or how hard they worked.
This had all been just last night.
That's why she hadn't felt too bad when asking Scott to come over.
But he's the alpha, so it was only part of the job, it was in the occupation description, the assigned responsibility, and this was nothing else.
"You sure you're alright?" he asks, and Malia doesn't answer right away. He fidgets with his helmet under his arm, and she's staring at the dark house in silence.
Everyone had gone home after a night out in celebration of the end of exams and vanquishing the last of their villains. Earlier, Stiles and Kira had hurried home; Lydia had offered to drive Malia home to which Scott insisted instead. Lydia had raised her eyebrows expectantly, giving a silent push forward when the werewolf wasn't looking. Malia had frowned instead.
"Malia—?"
She snaps back to the present. Scott looks her over.
"Yeah—I'm fine."
"You don't seem fine. Your heart's beating like craz—"
"I said I'm fine, Scott," she snaps, and once again his jaw snaps shut and his eyes steel up and there's the slightest movement in his face as he grinds his teeth together, stopping himself and deciding whether to object, to think of his words first.
They stand in silence for the few following minutes until she stomps up the porch stairs of her house. The keys shake in her hands the very slightest, and the house does look very uninviting and cold... Scott's still grinding the flats of his teeth when Malia whirls around, holding the screen door, and brashly advises, "you can go home now. Thanks for the ride."
And he's staring at her. It's not like back when they were reading The Dread Doctors novel or when they hugged for a beat too long or the time he caught her dancing alone—
He's staring at her with such intensity that, for a quick beat of a moment, she wonders if he's going to shout.
"What?" she questions.
Silence. His jaw is offset just the slightest and there's a tear at the collar of his jacket that she hadn't noticed before, or the scent of his cologne, she thinks it is—
He takes a breath. "Is your dad home?"
"No," she furrows her brows; inside her pulse speeds from both the empty house and her impulse of acting hard-edged. "He's been out of town for the last several days. Why?"
Scott hesitates. Then, to her surprise, practically shoulders past her and into the house. "I don't hear or smell anyone in here—"
"So you can just go home now," she interjects, brashly. The shadows inside the house swallow them almost entirely, save for moonlight.
"Malia—"
"What."
He sighs. "Malia..." It's said much softer now, delicately, pleading almost. "Stop it. Alright? I know you're terrified—"
"I'm not—!"
"—I can smell it on you," he finishes as if she hadn't interrupted again. He steps closer; she's surprised when he reaches to hold her hands in his; even more surprised that she doesn't pull away. "Talk to me, Lia." She shuffles on her feet. "You don't have to act like you're miraculously ok after all that's happened. None of us are, ok?" She looks down and the air of fear around her starts to despite. "I—I'm only offering!—you can come over to my place until your dad gets back—or-or Lydia's! I can call Lydia, see if—"
She has her arms wrapped around herself now and mumbles a calm, low "no." She breaths, trying to fool herself more than him: "I'm fine."
"Talk to me. Please."
"Scott. Please don't make me talk." Her eyes are wide and round and there's a hint of a plea that punctuates her words, and for a moment, Scott is struck silent.
Both no longer feel the distracting tremor of their marks. Ever since their ungraceful breakups, each's marks have been pulsating noticeably less.
Malia drops her hands and takes a step back.
And he doesn't show signs of moving either—or leaving—so she sighs again, this time in defeat. "Do you want something to drink then? Water? There's this tea my dad and I drink because all the other kinds are too sweet or nasty. ...There's soda, I think."
"No thanks," he smirks. Malia's looking off to the side. "Where can I crash?"
She leads him upstairs after Scott checks every lock and window despite her repeating that it was fine and that she could hold her own. He only responds with an "I know" and continued anyway.
And she feels nervous slightly, like a pit swirls around in her stomach, and as she asks him if he would stay in her room that night, there's almost a daze that drops behind her vision. But her room isn't as messy as it could have been or worse—Stiles', that she's seen—and so she doesn't feel too bad about asking, but still—he's her alpha, her friend's ex-boyfriend, her ex's best friend, lacrosse captain, her upperclassman almost, and far more experienced than she—
He was also Scott McCall.
He was also her soul mate.
"Your room's nice," he sounds slightly surprised.
"It's whatever; it's just a room." She tosses her jacket on a chair and hurries rummages in her dresser.
Scott examines the floor. There's a collection of stuffed animals pushed to one corner under her desk.
"Um," he starts. "What do you want me to do, exactly?"
"Keep watch."
"Of what?!"
"Everything. I'm tired, so—" she has a handful of clothes in her hands. "There's a bathroom's over there and to your right," she points over her shoulder. "Might want to change or...or whatever." She follows him out and turns to change in a closer bathroom.
When Scott returns, Malia is dressed in pajamas, going through her cellphone. Scott asks her is she really wants to go through Instagram, and she retorts that he wasn't her mother. He frowns, of course, and she has to hold in her smirk.
"Come here," she motions, tossing her phone to her nightstand.
Scott hesitates at first, leaning over her, genuinely curious. The wind knocks from him when she pulls him down to the bed.
"Get comfortable. I like to cuddle." She pulls his back in her arms and Scott is so baffled and caught off guard that he just lays there, Malia nuzzling her cheek into his back, and he surprisingly isn't as annoyed with it as he thought. He allows himself to relax.
—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—
It's roughly two hours later when she screams herself awake. She's thrashing around, hands flying and fangs flashing, screaming about brake-ins and them killing everyone, and her fists hit flesh instead of imagined leather, she fears that she was captured once again. But her fists are restrained and she hears the calming voice and familiar scent and she floats back to the present. She allows Scott to hold her still, and doesn't realize that there's tears until he comments. And of course she wipes them away, hastily, embarrassed.
"That was a bad dream, huh?"
She swallows, and doesn't answer. Malia nods. "I thought...'s was Theo and The Dread—" She doesn't finish.
But she knows that they aren't there, that they probably don't even exist anymore, even through Scott's reassurance. And she grows so frustrated because it's been two fucking months since all of this and she's still—
"I-I'm fine, S-Scott. I'm—"
Her sniffling cuts off at the feeling of something sliding across her mark, and a ripple is sent through her, up her spine and curling her toes.
Scott doesn't seem to notice. "Do you...do you wanna talk about it—now, Lia, maybe?"
Malia doesn't answer right away, loving the calming sensation of the pad of his thumb rubbing her engravement. Eventually, she sighs, defeated, because she's been holding in these thoughts, these monsters and green-eyed demons for so long and they just kept getting worse and worse...
"I'm just worried, I guess."
His chuckle resonates through her in broken waves. "I think we all are."
"But—" She tries, fails, and fails again at speaking. The room grows silent. Malia flops to her side, back facing the other, and Scott hesitates, because her wrist is still in his hand, and he knows that she's just going to keep putting it off and ignoring.
She shivers as he rubs her mark again. "I hate you," Malia slurs from sleep.
She stares at the darkness and she knows that he isn't going to let it go, let her go back to sleep until she speaks.
She's hesitant to open her mouth.
"We used to have a tree in our backyard," she speaks slow. "It was an alder tree, and...and me and my sister, we used to try and climb it..."
A/N: I hope this one was okay. I plan to have Stiles' up next. Feel free to let me know what you think (meaning: PLEASE tell me!)