Who, who are you?:
You give in. You eat the food they make you, take your antibiotics and antidepressants, the latter making you even more tired than you were before. You've never actually taken them before, always just flushed them, but you don't bother telling your parents that you're not really clinically depressed. Or maybe you are now. Either way they make you so lethargic you barely have the energy to sit up.
You drift. You spend most of the next day sleeping out of sheer boredom, woken intermittently by pain in your jaw, hunger pangs, or the need to relieve yourself. Your parents come up and try to talk to you every so often, but you don't speak to them at all. There's no point.
Days pass. You're not sure how many, though you could probably figure it out if you started counting the meals. You have vivid nightmares about being back in your kitchen in Beacon Hills, being tortured by Araya's men, being raped, and no matter how many times you tell yourself that it's over, that you have bigger things to worry about now, it doesn't help. You start to smell after a while, and when your parents notice your mother yanks you out bed and drags you down to the second floor bathroom, demanding you take a shower. You stand under the cold spray for a while, but don't bother to turn the temperature up or wash. You're no longer shivering by the time you decide to come out and your mother yells at you when she notices how blue your lips are and that you got your cast wet when you come out of the bathroom. They wrap you up in blankets on the checkered couch in the living room and make you drink hot tea while they examine your cast and discuss whether they should bring you to a doctor's office to get a new one. You stare blankly at the front door and wonder just how far you could get if you snuck out in the middle of the night. Probably not far. You're really in the middle of nowhere.
They're furious with you. Call you selfish, childish. Demand to know how long you're going to keep up the silent treatment. Their anger used to terrify you, but it's lost its effectiveness now due to overexposure. And as they invariably lose their temper and patience, you've learned to wait it out until they give up and stomp back into the kitchen.
You spend the rest of the day on the couch, watching the leafless branches sway back and forth from the wind through the front window. It starts to snow just before sunset and an even eerier silence falls over the house, broken only by your parents low conversation in the kitchen.
"You're just going to lie around forever?" your father asks cuttingly as he comes into the dark room after the sun has set. He sets something down on a side table and turns on a lamp. "Make your mother and I wait on you hand and foot like a vegetable?"
You've just taken another painkiller and are a little woozy, the only explanation why you actually respond.
"No one asked you to do that," you say hoarsely, not looking away from the front window. You haven't spoken in days and both your jaw and throat protest in response.
"We're your family," your father shoots back immediately, still not understanding that that means very little to you right now. "We will never give up on you."
That's equal parts gratifying and terrifying, you think, and feel your eyes fill with tears. You close them so he won't see and don't respond. You have years of practice of not engaging, of choosing not to fight battles you know you will lose, your entire childhood really, and you are not about to break the habit now.
"What are you doing, Allison?" your father asks frustratedly, not about to give up so quickly when this is the first time you've responded to him in days. "How long are you going to wallow like this?"
Any hesitation from his previous declaration dries up immediately at this.
"I turn eighteen in less than two months," you tell him calmly, not opening your eyes. You have to clench your uninjured first at your side to keep yourself calm. "At which point I will stop wallowing and leave."
There is a long silence.
"Allison,"' he says shakily, but doesn't elaborate. You hear him leave the room and go back into the kitchen a minute later.
You open your eyes and look out the window again, wiping them carefully with your good hand. Your throat and chest feel very tight. You want to cry, but you don't have the energy.
Weeks until your eighteenth birthday. There's a light at the end of the tunnel, but you honestly don't think you can survive that long. Your birthday is at the end of January, which means you have to survive Christmas and New Year's up here, trapped in this little house with parents who will never support you. Who will never let you see your friends or boyfriends again.
You take a deep breath and try to tell yourself not to be stupid, that this isn't really that bad. There are so many people in the world in far worse situations than the one you're in now. If they can survive, so can you. You have to be strong.
It doesn't help.
You wake up in the middle of the night in a panic, struggling to get out from under the blankets and away, the sight of Araya's men advancing on you flashing across your vision. You can still feel the burn of ropes around your wrists and you suddenly can't bear to be static anymore. You get off the couch and walk mindlessly through the downstairs hallways.
You can't do this, you think frantically. You can't do this. How are you supposed to survive however many more weeks of this? What's to say your parents will even let you go after you turn eighteen? After all that they've done, do you really think they would hesitate adding kidnapping their own daughter and holding her against her will to the list?
You scour the first floor in blind desperation for your mother's purse, but of course she isn't stupid enough to leave her keys anywhere you could get to them during the night. Then your freakout turns into a full blown panic attack, and you hide yourself in linen closet across from the second floor bathroom as a last resort to quell your irrational terror. It doesn't really work, but it does give you the illusion of the tiniest bit of control over your life, something you're severely lacking at the moment.
You're too terrified to sleep, and curl as much into a ball as possible without straining your ribs, leaning your head against the back wall. At some point you realize you're freezing, your sweat cooling on your trembling body, and reach up to bat a dusty towel down from the shelves with your cast. You drape it over yourself and huddle into the corner.
How did you get here? you wonder blankly. How could you have been worried about finals and winter break mere days ago? What has happened to your life? How could it change so drastically in less than half an hour?
Thinking this just makes you feel worse, and you vainly try to turn your mind elsewhere. Don't think about it, Allison, you tell yourself. Don't remember it. You can't change it, just like you can't change your situation now.
Your mind seems to go blank after a while out of self-preservation, but you can't fall asleep for a long time, the creaks of the house from the outside wind causing you to jolt into wakefulness every so often.
You wake from an uneasy sleep to the pounding of feet outside your closet.
"Allison!" you hear your mother shout as she climbs the stairs to the attic. "Allison! Chris, wake up, she's gone!"
You hear your father bolt out of the second floor bedroom and listen to them search the house for you idly. You feel very numb and detached listening to them panic, even when they inevitably discover your hiding place.
"Allison!" your father exclaims down at you and you clench your eyes tight to block out the light. "What are you doing in there, didn't you hear us yelling for you?"
"Allison, come out of there immediately!" your mother demands from farther away and you hear quick footsteps on the stairs.
"Alright, Allison, come on," your father says, and pulls you out of the closet. You keep your eyes shut as you're lifted into the air and carried downstairs into the kitchen.
"Are you hurt?" he asks you, sitting down on the bench of the kitchen table and balancing you in his lap.
Your jaw and ribs kind of ache, but not as badly as they did when you first got here. You're slowly healing, the bruises on your face turning a sickly green and yellow, and the ones under your shirt fading to a lighter purple. You stopped needing the gauze for the inside of your mouth days ago and your nose doesn't hurt as much when you move it. You welcome the relief, but you also know it means that you'll be out of painkillers soon.
"Allison?" your father says and you flinch as he puts the back of his hand on your forehead to check if you have a fever. You hate that he's holding you like this. It reminds you of Scott. You don't want to be touched by him.
"What were you doing in there?" your mother demands angrily. "Do you have any idea how worried we were?"
You open your eyes and look longingly out the small hexagonal kitchen window that reveals the snowy backyard. You wonder how long it will be until they let you outside again.
"This can't go on," your mother says shakily, but she's not talking to you anymore. "What is wrong with her?"
"Should we not have left?" your father says quietly. "Should we have staye-"
"No," your mother says definitively. "No, we had to get her out of there, it wasn't safe. But, Chris, I think...I think she needs to talk to someone. Not some hack like that Pearlman woman. Someone who specializes in...in..."
She doesn't seem to be able to finish and sits down across the table from you, sagging down to lie her head on the table in defeat. You've never seen her so miserable before and it occurs to you you should be feeling something besides apathy about this, but you don't. You think the antidepressants you're taking might be dulling your emotional responses. Maybe you should start taking more than one dose a day.
"Why won't you talk to us?!" your mother demands, sitting up suddenly and looking tearfully at you. "How are we supposed to help you if you won't tell us what you need?!"
"I really don't see much of a point in that," you say with difficulty, throat dry from not speaking. You look away from her face, uncomfortable at her uncharacteristic display of emotion and slide out of your father's arms to sit at the other corner of the table. You'd like to leave, but you're so tired and you know they'd just follow you.
You hear her cough, like she's suppressing a sob, and almost shiver in disgust.
"Who could she talk to who wouldn't think she's insane?" your father asks. "They'd have to be one of us."
You let out a snort of laughter at the thought. A hunter psychologist. Yeah, probably not many of those.
"You think that's funny?" your father snaps.
You put your elbows on the table and rest your left cheek carefully on the heel of your hand. "Not really," you mumble, staring down at the wood grain. It kind of looked like a screaming face.
"You need help, Allison," your father says tersely. "Look at you, you barely eat, you won't get out of bed, you're hiding in closets. I don't think those pills are working."
"Pills will not make me hate you any less," you say, idly running your fingers over the face in the table.
There is a long pause and you wonder if they're going to start yelling again. You think it would be preferable to their fake concern.
"We have done nothing to deserve your hate," your mother says, suppressed rage behind every word. "You may not understand this now, but we're trying to protect you."
"You're holding me here against my will," you say tiredly. "You took me away from my f-friends-" Your voice cracks on the words and you squeeze your lips shut for a moment to regain your composure. "And I don't know how long you're going to keep me here," you finish finally, closing your eyes against the tears welling up in your eyes.
"We're trying to keep you safe," your father says hoarsely.
"I don't feel very safe," you tell him, resting your forehead on the tabletop. "I feel like I want to go to sleep and not wake up."
To be fair, this doesn't have anything to do with them, though they sure as hell aren't helping. After what happened, you probably have PTSD or something. But you don't want to be fair. They kidnapped you, took you away from your support system when you needed them most. If you have to be in pain so should they.
"What do you want?" your mother barks. "We're not taking you back to Beacon Hills. Back to those...boys. It's not safe, how could, how could you expect us to do that?"
"I expect nothing from you," you say quietly. It helps that you're not looking at her.
Neither of your parents have anything to say to this, and after a second you stand and make your way out of the room.
"Where are you going?" your mother demands.
"Upstairs," you tell her without looking. "I'm cold."
You're shaken awake a couple hours later.
"Allison," your father says, sounding very distant. "Allison, please, we need you to get up."
"Go 'way," you mumble, hiding your face in your pillow, though it kind of hurts your nose.
"Allison!" your mother says. "Get up now, please."
"I don't want to," you mumble. "I just want to sleep."
"Allison," your father says, and you feel a hand between your shoulders shake you gently.
"Leave me alone," you tell him tiredly.
"We need to talk about the future," your father says. "Now, come on, sit up."
His words send a pang of fear through you, and you reluctantly roll over and sit up, eyeing the two of them warily. They're both sitting on the edge of your bed, closer than you realized. You scoot to the side to put more space between you.
"What?" you say testily when neither of them say anything, just look at you.
"We're not going back to Beacon Hills," your mother says slowly. "We'll go to a different town, a safer town, where we can start over."
"I'll run the first chance I get," you spit.
Your mother looks mutinous, lips thinning dramatically.
"We're trying to come to some sort of compromise," your father says, fist tightening on the bedspread.
"That's your idea of a compromise?" you say in disgust, leaning back against the headboard. "How typical. No. We go back to Beacon Hills and you let me do what I want."
"That is not going to happen!" your mother snaps.
"Victoria, wait, just…" your father says, and turns back to you. "That's not a compromise either," he says, mouth twisting with effort to keep his composure.
"Oh, yes, it is," you snap. "What I want is for you to leave me alone, but since apparently that's not going to happen, I think that's the next best option."
Your parents look stricken and anger rises in your chest. Did they not believe you when you told them you were done with them? Of course they didn't. They've never thought you were worth listening to.
"We will not allow you to see those werewolves again," your mother says angrily.
"What are you going to do, keep me here for the rest of my life?" you say, voice rising with every word, tears stinging in your eyes. The mere thought of it makes you want to vomit, even though you know there's a worse alternative. There's a chance that if they think they can't change your mind they might send you to some hunter camp to be brainwashed.
You don't want to see how they react to that and bring your knees up to hide your face in them, willing yourself not to sob.
How is this happening to you? you think for the hundredth time.
"We have to keep you safe," your father insists, but he sounds bewildered by your reaction.
You don't reply. There's only so many times you can have this conversation before you lose it even more than you already have.
"You can't trust them," your mother says. "Allison, you have to understand that. No matter what they pretend, they're vicious animals. They kill people, you have no idea how many."
"Isaac and Scott have never hurt me," you say dully. "They're pretty much the only reason we're all alive."
"That may be," your father says tersely. "But that still doesn't mean they're safe to be around."
You sit up straight to glare at them. "Do you know how many times I've been alone with them?!" you say, hands shaking with rage. "How many times I've fucked them? You think they're going to hurt me? They cou-"
"You watch your mouth!" your mother says, leaping to her feet, face tight with suppressed fury.
"Or what? Are you going to hit me again?" you say, only barely managing to keep your voice from cracking you're so enraged.
Your mother freezes for a second, and then her mouth twists in discomfort. "I shouldn't have done that," she says lowly.
"No, you shouldn't have," you reply, but you're honestly surprised to hear her say it. Your parents rarely admit they're wrong. "You could have screwed up my jaw even more."
Your mother looks away from you after a second, crossing her arms over her dark blue sweater and looking at the long dresser in front of your bed instead.
"You can't trust them," your father repeats your mother, shoulders stiff as a bored. "You think hunters have never been bitten? They have. A friend of mine was and when he turned on the full moon, he tried to kill me. I was forced to put a bullet in his head," he says furiously, eyes bright with intensity. "The whole while he lay there dying he was still trying to claw his way toward me, still trying to kill me, like it was the most important thing he could do with his last breath."
You say nothing, looking at him with muted horror turning your stomach. He killed a friend of his. This is who they are. Why are you even bothering trying to convince them? It's like arguing with religious fundamentalists. Facts and reason mean nothing to them.
"Do you understand!?" your mother snaps in a tone of voice that never failed to make you cower growing up. "They are more dangerous than you could possibly imagi-"
"T-they are not dangerous to me," you say shakily. "You are."
"Don't you understand we're trying to protect you?!" your father bursts out, cheeks reddening.
"You don't protect me, I protect me!" you shout back, refusing to be cowed by his outburst, even though shouting hurts your jaw. "I found out what Gerard was planning. I stopped him. You...you make me miserable."
Your father looks at you incredulously, mouth falling open a bit.
"Why didn't you come to us?!" your mother cries, tears running down both cheeks. "Allison, all of this could be avoided if you just talked to us!"
"After you murdered Emily Doroshenko!?" you retort, your eyes stinging. "I was supposed to trust you after you slit my classmate's throat in our backyard?!"
"We're your parents!" your father shouts, but he looks small in his white undershirt and you tell yourself you are not afraid of his ire.
"Your classmate?" your mother frowns, distracted from her tears. "Was this in Colorado?"
"Have you killed more than one of my classmates?" you ask disbelievingly and let out a despairing sob. You wipe your eyes furiously, but can't stop your face from crumpling in anguish. You cover your face and force yourself to take deep breaths to regain your composure. You can't appear any weaker in front of them than you already have.
"That girl killed three people if I remember correctly," your father says after a moment. "We have a code, we only kill those who've hurt people."
"She was begging for her life," you say hoarsely, not daring to look up at him. You see it all over again, flashing in front of your eyes like it was yesterday. You remember everything: her desperate pleas, your parents' impassive expressions, the blood splatter on her black and white band t-shirt, your father's ripped denim jacket. "She needed help. And you killed her."
"Tell that to the families of the people she murdered!" your mother says sharply. "We gave them justice!"
"Revenge isn't justice," you tell her with a helpless, inappropriate laugh, finally forcing yourself to look up at her. "It's just revenge. You killed her. You ended any chance of her ever gaining control."
"Werewolves don't have control on the full moon," your mother retorts.
"I can tell you from personal experience that they can," you tell her. You wonder what they would say if you told them you lost your virginity on a full moon. You guess that's not the best example, though, considering how much of a disaster it was. Isaac was always pretty reticent to do anything more than kissing on the full moon after that and Scott always actively avoids being around people if he can help it.
"But you don't care about my personal experience, do you?" you ask, feeling suddenly very tired and lean back against the headboard. "You'll never stop."
"Is that what you want?" your father asks. "For us to stop?"
You scoff up the ceiling. What a stupid question.
A pause.
"We…" your father says slowly. "We can discuss that."
You look down to stare at him in shock. What?
"What?" you say suspiciously.
"That is an acceptable part of our compromise," your mother say stiffly, not looking like she finds this acceptable at all.
"I don't believe you," you tell them, heart pounding in your chest. This can't be happening, you think, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just like that? Hunting is their entire life. And they're going to stop just because you asked them to?
"That's what you want, isn't it?" your father says, a deeply uncomfortable look on his face. He is not used to making concessions.
"Yes, I want you to stop," you say vehemently, the words bursting out of you without forethought. "You have to stop hurting people. You have to stop killing. You can't hurt anyone anymore."
"We protect people from-" your father starts.
"Then protect them! Don't kill anyone. Do you honestly think you've never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it?" you say accusingly. "Because I know you have."
"We hunt those who hunt us," your father says stubbornly. "You can't expect us to-"
"It's not that simple," you argue, starting to feel a little light-headed from exertion. "You can't just go from town to town looking for werewolves to kill no questions asked."
"That's not what we-"
"That's exactly what you do," you say, tearing up and clutching your legs tighter to keep from shaking. "That's what Kate did, what Gerard did, and it needs to stop. Or you will lose me for good. I promise you that."
Your parents look at each other dubiously.
"I thought you said you didn't want to be involved in hunting," your mother says, straightening the sheets at the end of the bed compulsively.
"Hunting, no. Protecting people, yes," you reply. "That's what we all want: Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Stiles, hell, even Derek's come around. But you don't get to decide who lives and who dies. Not anymore."
Your parents seem to have a silent conversation made up of unreadable expressions. You watch them nervously, your heart pounding in your chest and throat dry from talking so much, very much aware how much rides on this.
"We can do that," your mother says finally. "But you have to compromise too. You have to come with us to a new town. We can't stay in Beacon Hills anymore."
You freeze and look up at her in shock, even though you really shouldn't be surprised. You should have expected this.
"That's not fair," you whisper.
"Life isn't fair," your mother says predictably. It's one of her favorite expressions. "These are our terms."
You look to your father automatically, but of course he shows no sympathy for your predicament.
You lean your head back again and stare blankly at your reflection in the mirror above the dresser.
You know what you have to do. If you can save lives by going with them, you have to do it. It's what Scott would do.
It isn't what Isaac would do. Isaac is so broken from his trauma he would do anything to keep what he has, even sacrifice the lives of others. He would do anything for you. Scott wouldn't.
You could be like Isaac. You've always been more like him anyway. You could let this turn you selfish and apathetic to all except who you care about. You could be happy.
You'd rather be like Scott, if you had a choice. Find another way.
"Allison," your mother says impatiently. "What do you say? Do you accept?"
You don't have a choice, though. Saying no will not let you see Isaac and Scott again. You can't say no. They'll just keep you here forever.
"No," you say.
"What?" your father says, stunned. "What do you mean, no?"
"No," you repeat. "That's no choice at all. I want to go back to Beacon Hills. I want Isaac and Scott. And my friends. I want you to stop hunting."
"You can't always get what you w-"
"No," you agree with your mother. "But I will this time."
"And why is that?" your father says icily.
"Because you care more than I do," you say calmly, even though you don't feel very calm. You feel as though your insides might vibrate out of your skin because you know this is the only weapon you have against them. "And right now I care very little. You have a year and a half to change that. In Beacon Hills."
Your parents stare at you with disbelieving faces, eyes wide.
"These are my terms," you say and do not blink.
Your parents make potato leek soup and green beans for dinner, and when your mother calls for you, you actually get out of bed and go down to the kitchen to eat instead of ignoring her. You focus on your food, but you can feel them watching you intently as you cut your green beans into manageable bites.
"Is it too tough for your jaw?" your father asks brusquely while you hear your mother filling up her wine glass again.
"No," you reply neutrally, keeping your eyes on your plate.
Your mother slams her wine glass down on the table, the red liquid nearly spilling over onto the wood and you look up at her warily, tensing in preparation for a fight.
Your mother doesn't say anything for a moment, though, just looks at you with her jaw so tight you're surprised she hasn't cracked her teeth.
"Those boys..." she says tightly, voice dripping with disgust. "Isaac and Scott. You are...dating them both?"
"Yeah," you say, watching her face closely.
She looks like she might be sick. Next to her, your father grips his cutlery so tightly his knuckles turn white. His rage is so visceral it's almost comical. Almost.
"Why?" your mother asks in disgust.
"They're mine," you say flatly, swallowing back the lump of tension in your throat. Your parents would not believe you if you said you love them. Which is fair, because you wouldn't believe a seventeen year old who said that either.
They both look confused and uncertain at this.
"You've used protection?" your mother demands sharply. "Every time?"
"Yes," you say, expressionless, but cringe inwardly.
"That is not going to continue," your father says, looking like he'd rather throw himself off the roof than have this conversation. "Where did you even get those...rings?"
"Melissa," you reply, glaring at his interference. "She thought I was just dating Isaac, though. She probably knows now, I guess."
"So they share you," your mother says hollowly. Beside her your father takes a large swallow of wine, like it will offer him solace. So you guess that's genetic too.
"No," you say, even as you wonder if this is only making it less likely they bring you back to Beacon Hills. "They're together too."
"What?!" your father exclaims, looking appalled.
"I was dating Isaac first," you explain shortly, tightening your grip around your fork. "And we both liked Scott. He liked us back."
They stare.
"You don't have to understand," you say, rolling your eyes even as your legs shake uncontrollably under the table. "Just...it's not a big deal."
"No, it definitely is a big deal-" your father starts angrily, but your mother cuts him off.
"Have either of them ever hurt you?" she demands, looking very much afraid of the answer. "Or done anything you didn't want them to. I need you to answer me honestly. "
"No," you bite out. "They're not like that. They don't hurt people. "
Your mother frowns and your father continues to look on the verge of smashing something.
"And it is going to continue, because I want it to," you tell him, seeing no point in holding anything back. "I want them."
"Why are you doing this to us?" your mother asks despairingly, her eyes bright, while your father clenches his teeth in anger.
"My romantic choices don't actually have anything to do with you," you reply coldly. You take a drink of water, but eye the bottle of red wine between your parents across the table enviously. You suppose asking for a glass would just make things worse.
Silence falls over the table again and a gust of wind blows against the south side of the house, causing a pile of snow to fall off the roof with a soft thump. You turn to look at the wood-paneled wall to your left and wonder if it snowed in Beacon Hills, too.
"If we go," your father says through gritted teeth and you turn to look at him quickly, heart leaping in your chest. "You will stay with us. You won't try to run away."
"Yes," you say, entire body on edge, your heart pounding rapidly in your chest and you feel the sensation everywhere.
"Chris!" your mother hisses, turning to him sharply. "Don't just…" She trails off and then turns back to you, face twisting in irritation.
"How are we supposed to trust you again?" she asks you.
"I could say the same to you," you retort. "And really, did you ever trust me?"
Your mother's mouth thins, but her eyes look tired. You can see her defeat.
"We'll have to work on that then," you father says softly. It sounds strange, that tone of voice on him, almost gentle You have never particularly thought of him as a gentle person.
Is this really happening? you think, watching their resigned expressions with laser sharp focus. You bet everything on this, but part of you still can't believe they would go this far for you. It seems strange they would expend so much effort.
"You won't try to run away anymore?" your mother snaps. "Or any of this...this..." She waves her hand at your disheveled appearance.
"I'll stay," you say, feeling exhausted all of the sudden.
"Fine," she says shortly, picking up her wine glass again.
"We'll leave tomorrow," your father says when you don't say anything. "Now finish your dinner."
You stare and then force yourself to look back down at your plate, ears ringing. You pick up your silverware and clear your plate with shaking hands, willing yourself not to cry.
You're going home. You're going home.
"Can I have my phone?" you ask carefully after a moment, afraid of jinxing it, but very much aware everything could change on a whim.
"Why?" your mother asks suspiciously.
"So I can call them and tell them I'm coming back tomorrow."
Your parents exchange glance. "It's upstairs," your father says.
You eat faster.
After you've finished, your father goes up to the second floor to bring back your phone.
It's dead. Your charger is still at Scott's and your parents both have iPhones. You curse yourself for not memorizing any of your friends' numbers and try not to panic.
"We'll leave tomorrow morning," your father says quickly, seeming to sense the danger.
You nod shakily and tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear distractedly.
"I'm going to bed," you tell them as your mother puts the dishes into the metal sink in the kitchen, afraid you'll lose your composure if you stay down here any longer.
"Wait," you mother says suddenly as you make to leave the room.
You freeze in your tracks, fear jolting through you, and turn around to watch her dry her hands on the dish towel and approach you.
She puts her hand on your shoulder and leans in to kiss your cheek. You barely manage to not flinch away and clutch your dead phone in your right hand tightly.
"Good night, Allison," she says formally, pulling back with a soft expression on her face.
You flee up to your room in the attic before they can stop you and hide your face in your pillow to muffle your sobs.
You wake to the sounds of movement below you the next morning, and scramble out of bed and down the stairs so quickly you almost crash into the wall on the second floor.
They're in the kitchen making breakfast, and when you enter the room your father looks up at you in surprise.
"Allison," he says, looking up from the worn cutting board. "You're up early."
You cross your arms over your pajamas t-shirt. "When are we leaving?" you ask nervously.
"When you've eaten," your mother says, opening the fridge and taking out a half gallon of milk. "Your clothes are on top of the green suitcase in the living room. Get dressed and then we'll eat."
You do as you're told, pulling on a pair of old flare jeans and the dark brown sweater your mother bought you for your birthday in the small downstairs bathroom across from the stairs. When you come back into the kitchen there is a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk at the table for you, along with your antibiotic.
You're starving despite your nervousness, and wolf it down, wanting to get on the road as soon as possible.
Your mother looks aggrieved at your manners, but sighs and says, "Alright, let's go."
You spend the entire nine hour drive clutching your purse in your lap, watching for signs of them going off course. Your parents exchange words occasionally, but mostly you drive in silence. You stare out the window as the landscape changes from mountainous to foresty, the snow melting away, and wish and wish for this to work out. You feel them looking at you through the rearview mirror every once in a while, but they don't seem to know what to say to you, even when you stop in Eugene for lunch.
It's nearly eight by the time you reach Beacon Hills, and you're practically vibrating with excitement as you recognize the exit.
"Take me to Scott's house," you tell them.
"Absolutely not," your mother says sharply, twisting around in the passenger seat to give you a stern look.
"I need to see them," you say loudly, as firmly as possible. "That is not negotiable."
"This can't wait until tomorrow?" your father grits out without much hope, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"No."
You watch his shoulders slump for a split second and then he gets in the left lane to turn towards Scott's neighborhood in two miles.
You can't believe that worked, you think, dazed. Your mother turns back around in her seat, jaw clenched mutinously. They're listening to you.
You're trembling when you get out in front of Scott's driveway, because you can't believe this is happening, that you're actually getting to do this. You never dreamed in a thousand years they would accept this.
"I'm going to stay the night," you lean down to tell your mother as she rolls the window down, feeling reckless.
"No, you will not," your father says, at the same time your mother says, "Out of the question."
"Yes, I will," you say flatly. "I'm going to stay the night and I'll be home tomorrow morning."
They look furious, but you see the defeat in their eyes, and you know you've won.
"I'll text you wh-"
There's a loud bang behind you and you whirl around to see that Isaac has flung Scott's door open, staring at you with wild eyes.
You sprint up Scott's lawn and he meets you halfway, crushing you to his chest and lifting you up and pressing his face into your neck.
"Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God," he gasps, clutching at your sweater. "Allison, I thought-"
"I know," you sob. "I know, mmm, it's okay, it's okay, I'm okay, just, my ribs…"
He gasps and lets go of you immediately. "Sorry," he chokes, tears running down his face. He puts his hand on your face carefully and pulls you in close, forehead leaning against yours. "Allison, oh, my God, I thought you were gone-"
"I know, I know," you whisper, tears running down your cheeks, and your throat hurts from holding back sobs. "But it's okay, I'm here."
You wrap your arms around him and look over his shoulder to see Scott at the door as well, holding onto the frame as if it's the only thing that's keeping him upright. He doesn't seem to be able to speak, just gapes at you wordlessly, face pale as a sheet.
"Scott," you say helplessly. "Come here, please, I-"
He nearly trips over his feet getting you and you let go of Isaac to throw your arms around his shoulders.
"How...how did you," he chokes breathlessly. "Are you, are you okay? What happened, how-?"
"'M okay, I promise," you say into his hair. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying here."
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," he stammers, sounding more terrified than you've ever heard him. "It's all my fault, I was so stupid, I never should have let you go there alone-"
"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," you tell him, voice cracking. You lean back a bit and kiss him chastely on the mouth, cupping his face with your good hand. "I'm okay, I promise."
Scott looks off behind you in the direction of your parent and his eyes widen. "Come inside," he says quickly, enveloping you in his arms as if he's worried they might try to tear you away from him.
You let him pull you towards his front door without so much as a glance back, leaning your head against his shoulder. You will deal with them tomorrow morning.
"Boys, what have I told you about that do-" Melissa says from the top of the stairs when you come inside. "Allison?" she gasps.
"Hi," you say wetly, wiping tears off your cheeks. "Are you, are you okay? I'm so sorry, my parents, did they...did they hurt you?"
You almost start crying again at the thought of it. Melissa is one of the nicest people you've ever met in your life. She doesn't deserve your parents' wrath.
"Oh, no, sweetheart, I'm fine," she says, coming down the stairs and reaching out to hold you by your upper arms. "They, well, surprised me, but I'm fine. How are you, you look exhausted, come sit down, I'll make you some tea."
Five minutes later you're sitting at Scott's kitchen table, sipping on a mug of earl grey tea, Isaac wrapped around you like a second skin. He can't seem to stop crying, and is kind of embarrassed about it, so he just presses his face into your shoulder and shakes silently while you stroke his hair. Scott sits across from you next to his mother looking like he'd rather join Isaac, but is restraining himself, shifting around in his seat with nervous energy and tapping his fingers on the seat of his chair distractedly.
"I'm really okay," you reassure them, because both Scott and Melissa look almost sick with worry. "I mean, the kidnapping part sucked, but then we talked and...they know now, that I, they know they can't change my mind. So I got them to come back, and they won't hurt anyone anymore. I made them agree."
You can't help say that last part in giddy disbelief. You never thought they'd change. But they said they would, for you, and you don't even know how to describe how that makes you feel. Like you could walk on water, float up into the sky, hit every bullseye at the shooting range.
Scott and Melissa exchange a glance uneasily.
"Okay," Scott says, apparently deciding not to press the issue. It's okay though, you understand why they're still uncertain. But they don't know your parents. They would never let you come back here unless they'd resigned themselves to being unable to control you, not even as a trap. And once your parents make a decision, they stick to it. That's just the type of people they are.
"Have you eaten?" Melissa asks, as Isaac pulls away from your neck a bit, keeping his head ducked as he scrubs his eyes furiously. "Do you want me to make you something?"
"No, I'm fine," you say, curling your toes inside your shoes.
You could eat, but right now you're so impatient to get Isaac and Scott alone you can barely focus on anything else.
"I think I'd like to go upstairs," you tell them, aware you're being incredibly obvious and kind of rude, but you don't really care.
"Oh, okay," Melissa says, and her eyes dart to Scott for a quick second, before she looks away and swallows. "I'll see you tomorrow then."
"Thanks," you say and get up, Isaac copying you immediately, but Scott looks nervously at his mother for a second before getting to his feet as well.
You're silent as you go upstairs, but the second Scott's bedroom door shuts behind you, he hauls you close, shaking in your arms.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, lips trembling next to your cheek. "I should have done more..."
"No, it's okay," you reply, shaking your head and wrapping your arms around his waist. "I'm sorry about your mom, I didn't think they'd do that. I really thought they wouldn't want me anymore."
But they did. They do. It shouldn't make you so happy given what they're capable of.
"You don't have to go back with them!" Scott says fiercely, drawing back to look at you seriously. "You can stay here, or with Lydia. We'll figure something out."
"No, it's okay," you tell him, smiling gently. "I have to...I have to try, you know. See if they can change. Maybe it won't work out, but..." You shudder a little at the thought. "...I don't want to think about that right now."
Scott still looks worried, but you're done talking, so you draw him over to the bed.
"C'mon," you say insistently, a thread of desperation in your voice.
His face goes soft and he lets you pull him down on the bed, careful not to put any weight on your ribs. You feel the bed shift slightly as Isaac sits down next to you, and close your eyes as Scott kisses your neck with a sudden burst of passion. He runs his hand through your hair roughly and you groan, slipping your hands under his shirt. You tug each other's clothes off, while Isaac presses himself to your side, kissing your ear and nuzzling in his usual manner.
"I need," you gasp, trying to kick your jeans off all the way, Scott's fingers in you only serving to make you more impatient. You grip his shoulders, and then the back of his head, buckling your hips up needily. "Scott, please, can you-"
"Yeah," Scott says, sounding even more out of breath than you, even though he's only grinding up against your hip. He kisses your forehead, your right cheek, eyes at half-mast, hand shaking as he palms your boobs and grabs your left hip. "Just lemme get-"
"Got it," Isaac says, getting up and walking around the bed to get the condoms. Instead of handing one to Scott, he opens it himself and squeezes next to you, leaning against Scott's back. He reaches around Scott to roll it on him, and wow, that should not be as hot as it is.
"Oh, God," Scott hisses, hips jerking. He grits his teeth arms shaking unsteadily over you.
"C'mon," you say impatiently, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him down to lie on top of you.
"Right," Scott gasps unsteadily, and pulls at your hip to open your legs wider so he can push into you.
You moan quietly at the burn and clench around him automatically, because God, that's good.
"A-Allison," he practically yelps. "Oh, shit, I-"
"Move," you say squirming around in frustration. "Scott, c'mon, I need you."
He starts to thrust, breath coming short and sharp in your ear, and your ribs ache, but you don't care because he feels so good in you, on top of you, his shoulders under your hands, thumb on your clit.
He moans your name softly under his breath, looking down at you adoringly, and you don't want to think about how close you came to losing this, just want to feel this.
He comes suddenly, a shocked grunt slipping out between his gritted teeth, and he barely manages to keep from collapsing onto you as he pulls off and rolls to the side.
"Sorry," he says shakily as you curl in close to him, stroking down his chest.
"It's okay," you murmur, resting your chin lightly on his left pec and smiling. You press your mouth to it gently in a quick kiss, and reach up to stroke his sweat-damp hair with your left hand. His eyelashes flutter in response.
Behind you Isaac shifts, and you turn over to see him watching you longingly, like he wants to touch you but isn't quite sure how to go about it.
"Isaac," you whisper, breathless at the desire on his face, and splay your legs out wider, reaching for him.
He swallows, hesitant still, but crawls forward between your legs, grabbing another condom and running his fingertips reverently over your bruised abdomen. You breathe shakily as he leans down to kiss your stomach, fisting his hair and closing your eyes as he slides lower.
Later you're comfortably nested between the two of them, Scott lying with his head between your boobs in a well-fucked stupor, and Isaac curled around you protectively, idly playing with your hair. Your ribs kind of ache, as does between your legs, but there's a sense of calmness and contentment in you that you haven't felt since this whole thing began.
You think everything is going to be okay. There's still a lot of work to be done; you have to figure out how to live with your parents now that everything is out in the open, how to show them a different way to protect this town, a better way. You'll have to eventually talk to Melissa about what's going on between the three of you, make her be okay with it. You have to ready yourself for new threats, whether they be other hunters, Malia's parents, or some other supernatural menace that will inevitably come to Beacon Hills.
Scott shifts against you and opens his eyes halfway.
"Hey," he murmurs, stroking the pads of his fingers gently on your forearm.
"Hey," Isaac whispers back, ducking his head to press his nose into your shoulder, glancing down at Scott and smiling against your skin.
Scott reaches over to hold Isaac's hand over your hip, smiling up at you gently. You feel their fingers entwining and it sends goosebumps up your spine.
"Hey," you breathe, and Isaac presses his lips further against your shoulder in a kiss.
Tomorrow, you'll walk back into your parents' house with your head held high, to see if maybe you can be a family again and defend your convictions. You know it won't be easy, but there's still a chance you can do it, and you know you have to try.
But for now, you have this.
A/N: So here ends my 174k+ second-person fic. Yeah. I really don't know why people don't write second-person stories more often, it was a lot of fun!
A big part of why I wrote this story was to examine the relationship Allison had with her parents. I think the writers glossed over it after S2 because her mother died and her father "became good", when it's actually a lot more complicated than that. I wanted to write a story that examined the effect Allison's parents' worldview and treatment of her in canon had on her upbringing, in ways she was conscious of and in way she was not. I wanted to write Chris and Victoria being terrible, emotionally abusive parents, which is definitely canon, and a side of them not often explored in fic, but also acknowledge that they love their daughter and do care for her well-being. Reconciliation at the end was always the plan, but I was surprised at how hard it was to write it in a way that I thought was satisfying. I really wanted it to be clear that Allison had agency in her decision to try and work things out with her parents, though I know this is controversial and some of you probably won't be happy with this ending. Whether she will ultimately be able to have an honest and healthy relationship with them is left open ended, but I hope I left things at least somewhat hopeful for the future, because even if it doesn't work out she has people to support her in Beacon Hills.
Otherwise, I enjoyed writing Allison as the teenageriest teenager to ever teenager, Isaac as the ridiculous human disaster he is, and Scott as the earnest, hardworking hero who just wants to get his homework done (is that too much to ask?) I'm used to writing stories with multiple POVs, so it was sometimes difficult to focus on characterization other than Allison's, but it was definitely fun writing an unreliable narrator.
For those of you who read On the Side of Caution as well and are now wondering where my epic Scott-centric Scallisaac fic is: do not fear. It is coming, and it will blow your mind. (¬‿¬)Ψ
Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on this very weird story. Also, many thanks to my awesome beta resonance_and_d for suffering through my long rants about characterization and annoying reminders to beta the next chapter. It was super fun to write, and I hope you all had fun reading it. Don't hesitate to ask if you have any questions about characterization or other writing choices; I will happily rant about my writing anytime. Please review!