Hey wolflets. It's been a long time, huh? In case any of you are wondering why it's been like 803 years, my last update was a few days before my dad died unexpectedly, and since this was the last story I wrote before he died I just did not feel okay posting it - especially because of the subject matter. I'm not entirely sure I'm ready now, but I owe you guys an explanation at least. I have written this story and I do intend to finish updating it, but I hope you all understand why it might take a while.
That said, here is the next chapter, and I hope you enjoy it.
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It takes a while, but eventually Stiles manages to get through to Malia. She's still a little sensitive – since she's well aware of his history with Lydia – but she seems to accept his apology. It would be an overstatement to say that things go back to normal, but they do settle down a bit. Still, Malia's been acting strange, and Stiles is starting to worry. She's been spending less and less time with him, and she's even turned him down on occasion. This hadn't happened before – Malia never said no to a trip to the mall, or the ice rink, or even the farmer's markets in the next town. She was always up for anything, always ready for another adventure or even just a chance to hang out; except now, she's not.
Stiles has spoken to the rest of the pack, but they haven't noticed a change. He hadn't really been expecting them to, because Malia's never really been one for crowds, and with the possible exception of Scott, the werecoyote isn't really friends with any of the pack. So when they all tell him that he's just being overly cautious and there's nothing wrong, he doesn't quite believe them.
But, as always, there are other things to keep him busy. He and Scott had no luck with the first victim, even when the Sheriff had given them her name (after making a few pointed but semi-joking comments about the supernatural and how he'd like it to stop interfering with his job); they'd tracked down and questioned her friends, and Scott had assured Stiles that none of them were werewolves. The same thing had happened with the next victim, and when the third came along, they began to rethink their original theory. None of the victims knew each other, and it didn't seem likely that they were all coincidental. There had to be a pattern – it just wasn't what they'd thought it was.
Stiles hasn't really spoken to Lydia since their argument in the school. He's not sure what to say to her anymore, so he figures it's best to just stay out of her way. She's been spending less time with the pack, too, although he has no idea what could be more important than helping solve the murders of innocent teenagers. So Stiles and Malia have been working on tracking down the killer, and Scott's been working with Ethan, Isaac, and Kira; and no one really knows what Lydia's been doing, because none of them think it's their place to ask.
On Wednesday after school, Stiles invites Malia over to study. She quickly declines, and she sticks with her refusal even when he changes the offer to make it seeing a movie. Come to think of it, she's been acting strange all day, and although she's normally a little terse, Stiles can't remember her ever being so mean. But she turns him down, not offering any explanation, and he watches her go with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Since hanging out with Malia is out of the question, and Stiles doesn't really gel with the rest of the pack most of the time, he starts to drive himself home. But he's only just left the school's parking lot when something else occurs to him. It's not a pleasant thought, but it feels somehow… right. So after a quick stop he pulls up outside the cemetery.
He's made it a point to come here every week, without fail, since the funeral. But normally Malia comes with him, so he spends most of his time answering questions about life and death and everything in between. It might be nice to be here by himself.
But when he gets to the right grave, he realizes he's not quite as alone as he'd thought.
"Hey," he says, approaching slowly. Scott looks up as Stiles rests his bouquet of flowers on the ground in front of the tombstone.
"Hi," the alpha says, before turning his gaze back to the headstone. Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes is written underneath her date of death, and Scott's running a finger along the intricate lettering. It had been Mr Argent's idea to put the hunter code on the tombstone; she died a warrior's death and she deserves to be remembered for the hunter she was.
But it makes Stiles' mouth taste sour, and he can't help but wonder who was protecting her. While Allison was off saving the innocent and hunting down demons, nobody was taking care of her. And now it's too late.
"Mind if I sit?" Stiles asks, gesturing to the ground beside his friend.
"Go ahead." Scott doesn't look at him when he speaks, and Stiles can almost see a physical weight pressing down on the alpha's shoulders.
They sit in silence for a while, lost in their thoughts. Stiles always starts his visits with the same thing – remembering the day she died. It's not a pleasant experience for Stiles, but he knows it's necessary. It's a reminder not to let things get that bad again, a cautionary tale for the future. And, more than that, it hurts. And Stiles knows he needs to let it hurt; he needs to let himself feel the full weight of what he'd done, the damage he'd caused.
After a while, Scott clears his throat. "I, uh, I usually talk to her."
Stiles nods, encouraging his friend to go on. They haven't really talked about this since the funeral, when there'd been no choice but to let their wounds show. But since then they've been grieving in their own way, at their own pace, and they haven't opened up to each other. Stiles hasn't really opened up to anyone, actually, but for now he's okay with that.
Scott rests a hand against the tombstone, closing his eyes. Then he opens them, fixing his gaze on Allison's name. "Another girl was killed," he says, and Stiles stays respectfully quiet. "We think it might not be a werewolf after all. I was thinking of asking your dad if he had any ideas, but he's still in France and I didn't want to bother him."
A light wind picks up, rustling the flowers that Stiles had brought. He looks at the roses and the tulips, feeling that same sickening guilt twisting his heart. If it hadn't been for him, they wouldn't be here. Allison would still be alive. He may not have been the one who killed her, but she's dead because of him.
"Kira's been working on her katana skills," Scott goes on, trying to lighten a mood that's thundercloud-dark. "She's pretty clumsy at times, but she's getting better. I think – I think you really would've liked her, if you'd gotten to know her better."
Somewhere beyond the confines of the cemetery, Stiles can hear a dog barking. A car drives past, someone rings the bell on their bicycle, and a crow lets out a desolate caw. Life goes on.
"Malia's getting better too," Scott says, with a glance at Stiles, who gives him half a smile. "She's still a little wild, but after you, I think we can handle it."
He lets out a feeble laugh, and Stiles finds himself remembering hundreds of times when Allison had followed her instincts and gotten herself in trouble. She'd never been willing to wait for anything, never willing to compromise who she was, never willing to change for anyone unless it was what she thought was best. Stiles feels his chest tighten.
"I really wish you were here," Scott finishes, his voice breaking on the words. It sounds like he's trying not to cry, and Stiles feels his heart snapping. He rests a hand on his friend's shoulder, wanting to offer verbal support but knowing that if he tries, he'll probably end up crying too. After a while Scott shakes his head and lets out a single sob before turning to face his friend. "Do you – do you want to talk to her?"
Startled, Stiles hesitates. He usually talks to her too, but he's not sure he can with Scott here. Scott seems to understand, because he stands to go. But he only gets a couple steps before he comes to a stop.
"Malia!" he says in surprise, and sure enough, Stiles looks over his shoulder to see the werecoyote walking over to them. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," she says, her eyes flicking toward Stiles.
"How did you know I'd be here?" He gets to his feet, dusting off his jeans and trying to shake some of the heaviness from his heart.
"I tracked your scent," Malia says, unabashed.
No matter how long he's part of the pack, Stiles has the feeling that he'll never get used to the way that werewolves and werecoyotes can just casually track him by scent. But the strangest thing is that it doesn't really seem strange anymore; it's just a little disconcerting. "Right," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Well, uh, you found me. So what's up?"
She shrugs. "I got bored and wanted to come say hi. Is that okay?"
"Y-yeah," Stiles says, still wondering what exactly she'd become bored with. He looks at Scott, who looks at the tombstone, and then they both look back at Malia. She hadn't come to Allison's funeral, and the only reason she ever comes to the cemetery is when she's tagging along with Stiles. It doesn't seem like her kind of place, even with all the open space and the woods right next to it; she already seems to be growing restless, and Stiles knows it won't be long before she'll need to get out of here.
"So what are you doing?" she asks, her gaze flicking between the two of them.
"We were just…" Stiles trails off, looking at the grave again. "… talking to her," he finishes.
Malia frowns. "But she's dead."
Trying not to notice the way that Scott flinches, Stiles address his girlfriend. "I know," he says, a little less patiently than he usually would.
"So why do you talk to her?" she presses.
Stiles just shakes his head, not up to the task of explaining sentimentality to a werecoyote. Scott steps in, but Stiles can tell he'd rather he didn't have to. "When you lose someone you love, it can feel like they're still here, somehow," he says slowly. "And it can help to talk to them. It makes you feel closer to them."
"How much closer do you need to be?" Malia looks down at the flowers and then back up at Scott. "You're standing right on top of her."
Scott covers his shock well, but Stiles isn't so quick. He clenches his fist, his patience rapidly fading away. He's been trying his best with Malia, he really has, but there are some things that can't be taught. They need to be felt. And there's no possible way to explain that to her.
"Not physically close," Stiles says tersely, "emotionally. Spiritually. Meta-freaking-phorically."
Malia tips her head to one side, a clear indication that she's not following. "But she's dead," she says again, and this time Stiles flinches. She shoots a confused look at Scott. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," Scott says gently, but there's a ragged edge to his voice. Pain. Tiredness. Resignation.
"Then why are you being like this?" Malia asks Stiles, her voice almost plaintive. When he doesn't answer, she spreads her arms wide as if to indicate that she doesn't care anymore. "I don't like it here. Can we leave?"
"Not yet," Stiles says, turning back to the grave. "I haven't talked to her yet."
Malia groans. "Can't you do that tomorrow?"
"No," Stiles says, "I'm doing it now."
He sits down in front of the tombstone, picking up the bouquet and fiddling with the flowers. He hears Malia come up behind him, and almost expects her to rest a hand on his shoulder. But instead she says, "Can't this wait? She'll still be dead tomorrow."
Five words, and that's all it takes. Something inside Stiles breaks, and anger surges up in him. "Go away," he grits out, and something in his voice must get through to her because the next thing he hears is retreating footsteps. And then Scott coming up behind him.
"Stiles -" his friend says.
He sighs. "I know, I shouldn't have been so hard on her, but -"
"It's not that." Scott kneels down beside Stiles, his expression grave. Stiles feels his heart lurch. "When Malia was here, I could – I could smell blood."
"What?" Stiles stiffens, a hundred horrible scenarios chasing each other through his mind. He's halfway to his feet before Scott pulls him back down. "Was she hurt? Is she okay? Was it -"
Scott shakes his head, cutting his friend off. "Stiles, it wasn't her blood."
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Like I said, I'm not sure how this will go. This chapter's kind of a test run, so I don't yet know when I'll update again. I will, though. I don't want to leave you guys hanging.
So, yeah. Sorry for the giant hiatus, and I hope to see you in the reviews. You guys are all lovely, and I have been reading and swooning over all the reviews, so keep at it.
#ShadowsOut