Allison finds herself quite enjoying having a human sparring partner. To her shame, Allison can admit that she'd thought Lydia would be more... well, delicate, for lack of a better word, about this - but the girl is surprisingly unbothered about getting sweat all over her new work out gear and she doesn't seem to mind her hair getting all messy (though, it did take her a few sessions to concede and pile the lot on top of her head in a bun - a bun that got progressively messier and less neat as the sessions went on, Allison has found) and, surprisingly, (though Allison thinks she shouldn't have found it surprising) the girl didn't complain when she broke a few nails.
She just sharpened them into points and dug them into Allison's side. A clever tactic, Allison will admit. The strawberry blonde hadn't apologised - as Allison hadn't apologised for the bruise on her left thigh after tackling her a bit too hard that one time - but she was careful when she applied the antiseptic and four individual plasters.
Allison put her shirt back on, and nodded in thanks. Work-outs and sparring matches were some of the only times the brunette bothered with a bra (admittedly, she doesn't really need one) just to be on the safe side. Right now, she's glad of that, because that could have been embarrassing.
Not awkward. Lydia isn't the type to let things get awkward - but Allison would at least be slightly uncomfortable.
"We'll stop there for today." Allison says. "You still telegraph your punches, but your kicks are getting stronger and you've stopped unnecessarily twirling around, which is good."
"Waste of energy, exposes your back, the back of your knees, and makes you vulnerable." Lydia repeats, easily, as she packs away the first aid kit.
"Good," Allison nods, as she takes a drink from her water bottle, and turns back to the other teen.
"... So how are you?" Allison asked, softer in tone. They usually talked about whatever after a session then Lydia ran of to god-knows where, and Allison checked over her dad's and her own weapon and ammunitions stock, to see if they were running low or if someone had stolen some.
After that, well, Allison generally read, or watched something on TV to pass the time.
France would be a good change in scenery. It'd be nice to have something to distract her from the image of her dad blowing Gerard's brains out on her orders, at the very least.
(A nice distraction from how good she'd felt at getting rid of such a monster, and how guilty she feels now, whenever she looks at Scott.
He hadn't wanted them to be murderers. Allison, now she is one - at least, vicariously - understands why.)
(They're still kids, really. Allison still gets nightmares about Stiles nearly dying, bleeding out on her lap in the back of Jackson's Porsche. Now, she has this, too.
At the very least, Allison knows she's capable of what might need to be done at some point. Because Allison knows, in her heart, a sinking feeling in her gut, that things will only get worse from here on.)
"I'm fine," Lydia smiles, teeth too obvious and eyes too wide. "Why?"
"Jackson left without saying goodbye," Allison says, blunt and to the point. They've been dancing around this topic since the week before last, and Allison sick and tired of Lydia's fake smile. (Her and her dad's flight got delayed for a couple of days due to a bad storm, apparently. What actually happened was a wendigo that used to be a druid ravished the area around the airport... according to her dad, the Tribunal - a force she was to meet this summer, as the Argent Matriarch now that her mother and Kate are dead - had had a rather tough time cleaning up that mess.)
(The Tribunal's got enough druidic power behind it that a mass-scale memory modification isn't too difficult, but it is draining. That's what the witches and sparks are for. Allison still has a lot to read up on, and she's only got another three days...)
(She's panicking, okay, but Allison can handle this. She's going to handle this, and she's going to handle this well.)
Lydia's got a great smile. What she's had on her face lately isn't that smile, and it almost scares Allison with it's insincerity.
Jackson died, and Lydia nearly lost him. Allison thinks that him leaving anyway, that even though he didn't die and they confessed, finally, that they do indeed actually love each other, wasn't enough and Lydia lost him anyway - Allison thinks that that hurts more than if he'd actually stayed dead in the first place.
Lydia's smile drops off her face immediately, and her stare is intense in it's 'don't you fucking dare' nature.
"Lydia -" Allison starts, helplessly, "You've got to talk to someone about it." Allison takes a step forward, reaches out to place a hand on Lydia's arm, but the other girl steps back, so Allison drops it.
"Not yet." Lydia says, jaw so close to being clenched in outright refusal that Allison winces. "After you come back," She says, in compromise.
"Promise you'll come back." Lydia snaps, and it's angry, sure, and she has every right to be but it isn't Allison that left, it isn't Allison that broke her heart into two then stomped on the pieces.
"You don't get to be angry at me." Allison says, firm but soft. "I'm your friend, alright, your best friend, I'd never hurt you like that and you know it."
Lydia's jaw quivers, ever so slightly. Allison thinks back to just after her mother had died, thinks back to how Lydia just... held her and they cried and Allison tried her best to help Lydia with what she went through even though she told Allison so very little, and Allison almost wishes for that casual intimacy back, but Lydia's closed herself off now and wishing never gets you anywhere.
You have to work for what you want, not just want it. Allison is patient - she'll help Lydia, but it's Lydia that needs to determine whether she's ready for anything remotely close to resembling intimacy, even that of a platonic nature.
Lydia's jaw stops quivering, and her eyes harden. "I'm not," She says, firm. "But you are coming back, and when you're back, maybe I'll talk." Lydia says. "Let me make my own mistakes, Allison." Lydia continues, softer. "Let me do stupid shit and let me figure out how to help myself out of this... mess, okay, and if I fail you can tell me 'I told you so' and we can talk it out, but let me try, first, to help myself."
"Okay." Allison agrees quickly, because that's likely the best she'll get. Lydia hates talking through her own problems; her sessions with Morrell are evidence enough of that fact. But this - this is something, progress, maybe, in a somewhat decent direction.
Lydia smiles, slightly, properly, and throws her coat on. Allison feels something like hope.
Heartbreak doesn't break you, Lydia finds. Allison treats her like it might - and maybe, if their places were swapped, it might have indeed done such a thing to the dark haired girl.
But Lydia isn't Allison, and Lydia's been through far worse than an arrogant boy toying with her feelings.
Once Lydia returns home, she opens up the bestiary.
Banshee. Also known as The Wailing Woman. Human in appearance - apparently of the same species or at least a close enough relative that breeding between the two can happen accidentally. Supernatural creature, not a preternatural or magically inclined human (see; spark, seer, psychic, witch, druid/darach, among others)
Lydia smiles. She's found something that fits her, Lydia thinks, and it's something that's steeped in the Irish heritage her family doesn't even bother to hide. Lorraine Martin was likely the last banshee in the family, it seems, as it appears Banshees are only ever female (specifically, according to the bestiary, biological, however there have been cases she's found online of those expected to be Banshees not being them and those not expected to be banshees being them, and as far as Lydia can tell that is tied to their trans nature, so Lydia supposes magic doesn't really care about biology all that much, which, she admits, does make sense, because it's magic) and the Banshee side is on her father's, not her mom's, which is... unfortunate, but Lydia can deal with that if it means she has some sense of understanding of what she is, and more importantly...
What she can do.
Stiles gives not a single shit about how it might appear to rock up to Peter's apartment, out of the blue, because even if the asshole younger version of him is gone, finally, Stiles still has questions, thank you very much, and also maybe he wants to punch the older man because of how he ignored the fact that Stiles had said no, and had fucking meant it.
Stiles bangs on the man's door not once, not twice, but ten very loud times, and after a moment the door is opened.
"Stiles," The man says, smoothly. Stiles knows the asshole probably smelt him coming or whatever, which is why he isn't surprised at all, but Stiles kind of wishes he was, because that would maybe give him some vindication.
Or something.
"Derek told me where you live," Stiles says, without preamble.
"Ah." Peter nods, and momentarily purses his lips in what Stiles can only assume is annoyance. "I see."
"Well?" Stiles asks.
"Of course," Peter steps aside. "Do come in."
Stiles feels like this is probably a stupid idea, but he steps past Peter into the man's apartment regardless. It's surprisingly tastefully decorated, with more colour than Stiles had expected.
"Less cave-like than I expected," Stiles comments, as he wanders about the living space and glances, with vague interest, at the man's bookshelves.
"Oh really?" Peter says, dryly, as he shuts the front door. Stiles tries his best to ignore whether or not the creep just locked him in here (or not) and turns away from the bookshelves to have a proper look at Peter.
He seems... younger. Weird.
Stiles frowns, and glances at the kitchen. "It's... not bad," Stiles admits. "There's probably about twelve bedrooms here, which seems excessive, but - not bad." He finishes, begrudging.
"I assume you didn't come here just to judge my interior decorating skills?" Peter asks, smooth as ever, as he folds himself gracefully into the armchair.
Stiles, in comparison, drops onto the couch as far from the man as is humanly possible and sits on the edge, awkward and alert just in case.
"And," Peter adds, "If you remember, back when my family was alive, twelve bedrooms wasn't excessive. We were a large pack." Peter points out, affable sounding but Stiles can detect a hint of something vaguely dangerous underneath.
"Suppose you could say the same about my mom's office," Stiles offers, internally hesitant but externally blasé. If there's one thing he will begrudgingly admit he sympathises with Peter about, it's the loss of his family.
"Indeed," Peter says, equally unaffected, but he appears to relax minutely, and Stiles figures he's probably less likely to be mauled on the spot.
"You can relax, you know," Peter says, amused, after a beat. "Unlike my dear nephew, I won't bite."
"Excuse me, but you biting go us into this mess," Stiles snaps.
"Let me clarify;" Peter says, ignoring what Stiles had previously said. "I won't rip your throat out with my teeth."
"Oh, great." Stiles nods. "Good to know. Doesn't mean you won't kill me in another way."
"It would at least be more dignified." Peter allows.
"Not going to relax," Stiles says, pleasantly. "That would be stupid."
"Indeed," Peter repeats, and then falls silent. Stiles fidgets, for a moment, then sighs.
"Your younger self continued to literally haunt me after you were returned to life, by the way." He says, abrupt, and Peter sits up, intrigued.
"Really?" Peter asks. "Interesting. I thought something felt different."
"He took me to this - tree stump, or whatever- whoa!" Stiles stands and backs up as Peter surges to his feet. "Whoa, okay, what? What?!" Stiles demands.
"How big was the tree stump?" Peter demands, and Stiles shrugs, hands still held up defensively. "I don't know?" Stiles protests, "Like, big, the tree was probably huge-" Stiles backs up again as Peter steps forwards.
"Calm down," Peter snaps. "What's wrong with your wrist?" He asks, and Stiles glances at his left arm, where the tree had grabbed it. Now he looks at his wrist properly, he winces. Stiles has... avoided looking at the bruising, okay, because he doesn't really want to think about what happened, and Stiles hadn't realised it was still there. It's been over a week already!
"Look -" Stiles starts, backs up a little farther, has to turn and attempt to circle his way around the room a little so he doesn't hit the wall. "Look, I don't really know?" Stiles attempted, "Your younger self stopped me from getting any sleep so I was tired, like fucking tired alright, so I don't really remember -"
"-Either you remember or I will help you to remember," Peter threatens, and Stiles blinks.
"... Uh, what?" He asks, momentarily confused.
"A werewolf can take memories," Peter says, bored sounding all of a sudden, "And they can return them. They can also surface memories that you aren't fully aware of."
"Oh, great, perfect," Stiles says, sarcastically, "And how is this gone about, exactly?"
"To put it bluntly," Peter says, amused now, as he flicks his claws out on his right hand. "We dig around in your head by sticking our claws into your neck."
"...wonderful." Stiles sighs. "How about no?"
"Fine," Peter puts away his claws, "But - if you aren't going to let me know that way, you're going to have to tell me." Peter gestures to his couch, and, warily, seeing no other real option, Stiles goes and sits down.
"Since you obviously came here because you want help you don't think anyone else will be willing to give you," Peter says, "I'm going to. First, though, I have to know what happened."
"Why?" Stiles asked. "Why would you even want to help?"
"Like I've said," Peter inclines his head. "I like you, Stiles. So... why not?"
Stiles sighs, because he can't really say anything to that because it's... weird, so Stiles talks.
"You dragged me out into the woods in the middle of the night..." Stiles grumbles, and Peter leans back, and listens intently.