The morning of Chris Argent's memorial service, his daughter Allison arrives in West Virginia from NYC with an agenda to confront her stepsister Lydia with some hard truths. When the conversation takes unexpected turns, their diminishing familial bond splits further over toiletries and diagnosis.

Act 1, Scene 3 - Allison & Lydia

It's later the same day. Earlier on a little rain passed overhead, leaving the mood and sky lightly grey. Since it's minutes before noon it is still technically morning, there's promise of enough time for the day to turn around before her father's funeral service, Allison hopes.

There's a light breeze outside, inside their house remains toasty as she's sat peeking through the curtains at the bay window's bench overlooking the front lawn. Everything seems messy and the time she has to get things in order feels staggeringly brief. The abrupt end to clanging of pipes directly overhead announces Lydia's shower is over, well that's progress.

Moving over to the kitchen island, she unpacks the rest of the groceries she brought and displays them to look tempting. It shouldn't be that hard considering the bakery option she's gone with, an old family favorite. She's learned from shows like Million Dollar Listing that fresh bakery smells create a welcome vibe and she's intent on setting the scene, even if the grey skies refuse to let up. Although she's normally a patient person, it is really hard to take it easy when it's been several waking hours, and her scene partner still hasn't made an appearance. Time is ticking. Time is running out. Time runs out for everyone; it is best to make the most of it and urgently.

Several more minutes go by, and still Lydia hasn't emerged, Allison can't stop fine-tuning the kitchen counter, so she takes two hot mugs of coffee outside for a walk. Maybe it will help to cool off. She heads to the far end of the porch where an inviting bench swing hangs steady with large corduroy pillows and woolly throw, but something catches her eye across the lawn. There's yet another mess needing to be addressed and in full display of the neighbors no less. Leaving the coffee to rest on the banister she descends porch steps in her nice dress shoes, hobbles across the moist grass to the damp patio table, where there's an overturned chair, a discarded broom, and a mostly empty champagne bottle underneath. Although the lawn has started to dry up in the midday rays, the mud patch here is deeper, darker and smells sharply of alcohol. It's not the worst smell but it's a bit distressing, this isn't something she can force a cloudy sky to dry up faster. Snatching the bottle up, she churns it around to measure how much is left. It's a shame how wasteful and ruined this is and she makes a mental note to ask and not nag her sister about it. Heading back up, instead Allison texts Scott a late good morning. In the darkest nights he's her shining sun, except he isn't here to soothe her, and this place sucks.

The reply is instant. A picture looking down from his point of view towards their dogs sleeping at the foot of their bed. Curled up around his feet, the unfocused background perspective of their shared bedroom isn't the morning rays she'd perfectly envisioned.

The following reply: "the struggle is real. can't even get out of bed without u"

Sipping her coffee, she smiles and reflects that she's the highlight of his day, too. She shoots off a quick response: "can't hardly sleep without u. once i clean up here, i'll be on the first flight home"

"u know, home is where the heart is & your heart is there too. breathe, take all the time. love you the most."

That feels better. He's thousands of miles away but she can sense his warmth, and it washes over her. Inside the house she finally hears stomping around, evidence of life from her estranged sibling but their proximity pulls on dormant strings in her heart. It feels like cheating to hold two places like home, but that is the best way to describe what she feels. Tugged in two directions. But if Scott is giving her permission, then it's surely alright, right?

The front door squeaks open to the porch and Lydia peers over the horizon, readjusting to the outside. Allison watches, sipping her coffee, wondering what Lydia thinks of this greyness. Is it miserable? Is it uncommon? Is it ironic considering?

Blinkingly, her bright eyes refocus upon emerging, her hair hangs lightly wet from the shower water, as she steps barefoot onto the porch. She looks bedraggled in a set of pale flannel pajamas that wash the color from her face but at least they are clean. Allison frowns at the sight, the stepsisters are noticeably different by comparison because while she looks like something straight out of catalog and Lydia just looks tired.

"Better," Allison smiles, feeling genuinely relieved. There's more she'd like to address, but this is a great start. "Much better."

"Thanks," nodding, Lydia returns the smile gently.

"But do you feel better?" Allison prods delicately, she pats on the swing beside her for Lydia to take a seat.

As if expecting a trap, Lydia glances around guardedly before inhaling deeply and situating herself next to Allison. "Yeah," she admits hesitantly.

"You look a million times better," Allison insists, then pushes a mug of coffee into Lydia's hands. "Here, have some coffee."

"Okay."

"It has rice milk; it's more environmentally conscious than soy milk or almond milk and does wonders for your gut health."

Lydia doesn't drink it, her expression chafes slightly as she hands it back. "No thanks, I take it black."

"Don't be difficult. Would you at least try it," she shoos the reply off with a gesture.

With a soft sigh, Lydia places it on a side table. "I'm not the one making it difficult right now, Am I?"

"You're right," Allison thinks of another way to help, "I brought freshly baked sourdough bagels. I'll toast you some."

"No thanks, I hate breakfast."

Sinking briefly back into her seat and checks the time on her phone, without opening it up she reflects on the texts from Scott. So chill. So effortlessly calming. Alright, maybe she's not trying to be difficult but she's not making this easy either.

"Well, have a banana at least. It's a good thing I brought some food; there's nothing in the house." Already on her feet Allison heads towards the kitchen not wanting to take 'no' for an answer.

"I meant to go grocery shopping. Things have been busy here as you can imagine." There's a tic of guardedness in Lydia's tone.

Allison stops mid-step, reconsiders her approach. Of course, Lydia's overwhelmed of late, she isn't trying to make a dig. "You look cold."

"I'm fine."

"You didn't put on what I brought for you," the worry in Allison's facial expression isn't equivalent with the hardness in her voice. It's not cruel, just uneven.

"I didn't feel like it."

"Why don't you want to try it on?" coyishly, she comes back to Lydia's side and pulls her damp hair back from her shoulders. It's like time-traveling this close, teleporting back to when they'd combed through each other's tangles, comforting each other. With a gentle shoulder squeeze, Allison insists "come on, just to see if it fits."

"Maybe later," Lydia's delicately pushes Allison's hands away and readjusts in her seat. From the uncomfortable way she tugs at the sleeves of her PJ's and pulls them over her hands like mittens, it's obvious these flashbacks don't hit the same for her. This doesn't look at all like the confident big sister Allison left behind.

"If you want to dry your hair, I have this top of the line travelling hair drying. It leaves your hair feeling silky soft."

"I'm good."

"Did you use the conditioner I brought you?"

"No," she makes a face, clearly annoyed with herself. "Shit I forgot."

"It's my favorite." Allison pulls back her hair again, worrying the combination of the breeze and wetness could give Lydia a cold. Maybe she has a hair tie somewhere in her pocket or purse. "You'll love it, Lyds."

"Don't," she bites back and moves out of reach.

"Right, of course. I just want you to try it."

"Maybe next time, Ally." When Lydia uses Chris' nicknames, it's the way someone hisses a venomous swear word.

"Alright, I get it." Allison raises her hands admitting her mistake, "Only my dad gets to abuse the nicknames."

"Right, only your dad gets to infantilize you but undermine me." A moment ago, Lydia was pensive and distant, now her words cut and her glare burns.

"That's not at all what I meant," she tucks her sleek long dark hair back behind her ears to keep clear sights but feels juvenile next to her sister. She can explain, she just needs to take a breath and start again, "Lydia, I'm not trying to start a fight."

"Then what are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to help you," she gestures through the filthy window towards the cluttered display of culinary goods she spent all goddamn morning collecting. "I brought groceries and toiletries."

"And I'm grateful."

"You didn't even use the conditioner," Allison keeps her hands to herself this time, but there's a moment they're both caught glancing at Lydia's split ends. She isn't trying to judge, she meant to encourage her, really. "You'll like it. It has jojoba."

"Is there a point to 'jojoba'?" she sighs, unimpressed with Allison's increasing efforts.

"It's just something they put in it to make your hair healthy."

"Hair is dead."

"What?"

"It's dead tissue. You can't make dead tissue 'healthy.'"

"Whatever," Allison plops back down onto the porch swing, crossing her legs and arms as she settles and keeps her tone pointedly civil, like she's a guidance counselor, "it's something that's good for your hair."

"What, a chemical?" Lydia scoffs, crossing her legs to mirror Allison.

"No, it's organic."

"Well, it can be organic and still be chemical. Haven't you heard of organic chemistry?"

It's frustrating that Lydia's always right, or at least she sounds like she is. Rolling her eyes Allison explains, "well, it makes my hair feel, look, and smell good. That's the extent of it. And you might want to take advantage of that."

"Thanks, I'll try it," she concedes with an annoying smirk, like she's won a standoff when all that's happened is they've agreed to stand down.

"Good," Allison observes her large bright eyes are still unfocused, for as quick as her comebacks are she's sleepier than the airs she puts on. She just wants to help but they're not as in sync as they used to be, and it feels lonely to acknowledge that. "If the dress doesn't fit, we can go downtown and exchange it."

"Sure."

Maybe this is an opportunity, "on another day, I can take you to lunch instead?"

"Great," Lydia sighs, as if nothing else comes up she'll go along with it.

"Maybe Sunday before I fly back," Allison reassures her, knowing if it's the last thing on their agenda Lydia is less likely to cancel. "Do you need anything else?"

"Are you asking me to go clothes shopping?"

"Or anything while I'm here," everyone that's met her knows gift-giving is Allison's love language even if it stinks of ulterior motive.

"Nah, I'm good," she's quick to answer, like she's a psychic and ready for Allison before the offer.

Pondering for a moment, Allison tries to unravel the contradiction; how is Lydia so headstrong despite looking vulnerable? There was a time when they were always on the same page, but it feels like an alternative timeline, and for Allison it's against her nature to beat around the bush.

"I thought we'd have some people over tonight," it feels like a big ask. "If you're feeling okay."

"I'm feeling okay, Allison, stop asking that."

"So, you don't have any plans?"

"No."

"Great," Allison likes this suggestion a lot, just filling the house with more laughter and more noise than the clanking of pipes. "I'll order some food. Wine, beer."

"We are burying our dad this afternoon," Lydia reminds.

"I think it'll be all right," she says matter-of-factly, "I think he'd kind of like it actually. And anyone who's been to the funeral and wants to come over for something to eat can. And it'll be nice to see some of my school friends. Yeah, it'll be very nice. Sure, it's a funeral but we don't have to be grim about it. If that is okay with you."

After an awkward pause, Lydia concedes with a head shake, "sure, it's fine."

"I know managing the house has been stressful right now," she takes pity on her, but Lydia is stone faced, "I don't want to add to that. It would be nice to relax in a low-key type of way. Scott says hi by the way."

"Hi Scott," she smiles very briefly.

"He's really sorry he couldn't make it out," Allison isn't lying exactly. Although Scott hasn't said 'Hi' if she even brought Lydia's name up, she's certain he would. He's super friendly, that guy is the embodiment of a golden retriever energy.

"Yeah, he's going to miss all the fun," Lydia's reply drips with sarcasm.

"He sends his love. He really wanted to see you, but he'll see you soon enough," that's half true. "We're getting married." That's the whole truth.

"No shit," her eyes widen in gladness, she sits forward with interest.

"Yeah, we just decided," she's been holding onto that one for a while. It's not the sort of thing to text but Lydia rarely picks up the damn phone.

"Damn," she says with a rarer easy smile.

"I know," grinning, they share a laugh, and for a moment it feels normal, like a weights been lifted. "It's next month. I know that's soon but it's not like we're going to do anything big. We're going to City Hall, then a big dinner at our favorite restaurant with all of our friends. I mean, he only has his mom left and I have you. I'd like you there."

"Huh," Lydia looks discomforted at the timeliness, "of course. Of course, congratulations Allison."

"Thanks," she claps her hands together triumphantly, this is the best response she could have hoped for.

"This is a truly healthy response to dad's passing."

"Oh, great," Allison deflates midly. Leave it to Lydia's paranoia to poke a hole into her motives. it is perfectly logical whether she wants to admit it or not. "Well, thanks."

"I'm being sincere," Lydia leans sideways and hugs her, but Allison skepticism makes her freeze up because it feels a little like a trick. "I'm really happy for you both."

"Me too," grinning broadly, she sinks into the hug. Privately, there's a little guilt about how ideal life is back at her other home in New York. But she's worked so hard for this, they've worked so hard for this, why not be proud? "It just felt like it's time. His job is great. I just got promoted…"

"Alright," settling back, there's wariness in Lydia's voice.

"I don't like how that sounded," uptight and clipped, Allison insists. "You will definitely come."

"Yeah, it's not like I have to check my calendar or anything."

"That makes me incredibly happy," what a sigh of relief! Lydia looks at ease, maybe she shouldn't have been so nervous, and it's exactly the right time to share good news. Allison reaches across for the coffee again, and sips at the cooling beverage. See, it's not that bad, might as well keep at it. "How are you?"

"Okay," superficially, this appears to be true. Her hair has mostly dried in the fresh air, and she seems to have relaxed during their chat.

"How are you feeling about everything?"

"About 'everything'?"

"About dad."

"What about him?"

"How are you feeling about his death? Are you alright?"

"Yes, I am."

"Honestly," it's obvious she can't be fine. Even if she were, how's that fair?

"Yes."

"If we're being honest, I think we're kind of lucky it even lasted this long," and Allison does believe it but by the way Lydia shifts and glares at the damp porch beneath her bare feet it's obvious she's got some burning opinions too. "Some years were just blurs of holding my breath, praying he'd come home safe. When he finally did, he just looked rough. Each time rougher than the last. I thought retiring would give all of us a chance to spend time together peacefully, finally."

"I believe that you certainly believe that" subtle hostility stirs in Lydia's reply.

"You know what I mean."

"Clarify it for me."

"I just thought if he stopped jumping in front of bullets for diplomats, he'd be happy to staying safe with us at home. I forgot how a military life like that can strain even the mightiest of hearts. Maybe I got it backwards. I can't help but wonder if he never retired, would have tried harder than…"

"If you ever visited home," she corrects sharply, "you would have seen what retirement was really like for him. He wasn't unhappy but it wasn't easy either. And you know that's not what killed him, it wasn't damage from service trauma or PTSD either. Dad's heart broke."

"I guess you would know best," biting her lip, Allison acknowledges sincerely.

"I always do."

At this point in life, it's almost hurtful for Lydia to be right over and over again.

Right, their dad didn't die a long, long time ago. It just feels that way for Allison because after she moved out for college and never came back, that's when she'd cut them off, that's when their relationships died. They never went back to living under the same roof or tried to mend fences like Chris and Lydia had. Their father-daughter relationship suffered a slow death of decades. But Chris Argent the man only stopped living last week, it's still very strange, supernatural almost, a failure in keeping the timeline together.

Clearing her mind, yet thinking on family, Allison asks on nagging impulse, "Do you know what you're going to do now?"

"No."

"Do you want to stay here?" Her concern shifts from past to present. "Do you want to go back to school?"

"I haven't thought about it."

"Well, there's a lot to think about. How do you feel?"

The question rises a brow, like Lydia's humored it plenty. "Physically? Great. Except my hair seems kind of unhealthy, I wish there were something I could do about that."

"Come on, Lydia." Allison scoots closer, invading Lydia's personal space.

"What is the point of all these questions?"

"Lyds," Allison starts softly but after the dirty look Lydia shoots her, she course-corrects, "Lydia some police officers came by while you were in the shower."

"Yeah?"

"They said they were 'checking up' on things here. Seeing how everything was this morning."

"That's sure nice of them," she coils the ends of her hair around her finger, like this is all meaningless.

"They told me they responded to a call last night and came to the house."

"Oh, yeah?"

"So, did you call the police last night?"

"Yeah," she shrugs indifferently.

"Why?" Unexpectedly Allison's voice rises, Lydia is getting on her nerves. She's not lying but she's not forthcoming either.

"I thought the house was being robbed but then I changed my mind."

Drawing a deep breath, Allison rubs her temple and tries another angle. "You called 911 with an emergency and then hung up—"

"I changed my mind. I didn't want them to come." A flat statement, it's as simple as that.

"Then why did you even call?" Allison is trying to piece together the scenario, but the picture isn't clear.

"I was trying to get this guy out of my house," she deflects completely.

"Who?"

"A guy."

"Like a date," that doesn't seem unlikely considering the evidence, considering Lydia's history.

"Like a guy," she rolls her eyes and readjusts her posture, going back on the defensive. "One of my mom's students."

"Mom didn't teach on the east coast," Allison pokes holes in the story.

"So?" Her bell sharp tone warns Allison there's no reason to doubt her, so stop it.

"Why would someone from Beacon Hills fly all the way out here for dad's funeral?" she presses further.

"He was one of dad's underlings."

"But you said he was one of mom's students."

After a brief pause for consideration, she clarifies, "he seemed like both."

"That seems exceptionally unlikely," Allison scoffs.

Scoffing in kind, Lydia's frustration harshens the rasp to her voice. "Well, he hasn't been mom's student for many years, but he works in law enforcement now."

"Alright, but why was he in the house in the first place?"

"Well, this guy," she punctuates the noun with blame and annoyance, and gets to her feet to pace. Feeling smothered, and a little hungry doesn't give her room to get her story straight. "He just came to look through our parents' stuff for a commemoration. Or a memorial or something."

"But in the middle of the night?" that seems unsafe, improbable, unlikely, un-Lydia-like.

"I was waiting for him to leave. It got late or early depending on your perspective," Lydia says, and gestures towards the attic overhead like she can point Allison towards it and be better understood. Looking briefly uneasy, like the memory isn't somewhere she wants to linger. But before Allison can read something into it, she adds, "And I thought he might have been stealing one of mom's notebooks."

That's not a direction Allison was expecting this to go, "So, was he?"

"Yes," Lydia nods emphatically, she's going to protect their home of course! "So, I told him to go, and I called the police—"

"What was his name?" This time Allison is quick the phone to take notes, "Did you file a report, maybe we can follow it up?"

"Mieczyslaw Stilinski," she says matter-o-factly and leans against the banister behind her. After the awkward pause that followed, she snorts a laugh at Allison's stunned expression.

Allison's eyes narrow in focus. "That doesn't sound like a real name."

"Do you think I made up the name or that I made up the man?"

"I didn't say that you made up this Misha—Mischief— Stazinski person."

"You can just call him Stiles," she sighs chuckling, locks her feet at the ankles and feels at ease lounging in Allison's neutered distress.

"Come on, Lydia," Allison outright scoffs. "That definitely sounds fake."

"It's just a name," Lydia teases in singsong. Then adds more straightforwardly, "You can just call him Deputy Sheriff if you like."

"Not Agent?" Allison takes a mental note instead of tracking evidence on her phone. This story is obtuse, and Lydia sounds unstable, "He didn't train sheriffs and deputies. This doesn't add up."

"Allison, why would I make this up?"

"The officers said you were alone when they arrived." Just stick to the facts, Allison mentally reminds.

"So? He left before they arrived." glancing around like she's checking for traps, Lydia stops lounging and stands upright.

"With mom's notebooks?"

"God no, Allison, that's insane." Shaking her head, she wipes at her brow where stress is piling up. Allison is still at the edge of her seat, literally, waiting for her to expand on a reply. "Mom left behind literally hundreds. He just tried to take one, but he was only trying to steal it so that he could give it back to me. So, I let him go so he could meet with his band across town."

"His band?"

"He was running late." Normally, overexplaining is a defensive sign of guilt, but then again Lydia is her stepsister, Allison reasons. Oversharing was once their pillow talk. "He wanted me to go with him but it's not exactly something I'd do, you know. Not now anyway."

"Why not?" when there's no immediate reply, Allison nails her with a trademarked dimpled smirk, "is Stiles Stilinski your boyfriend?"

"No!"

"Are you just sleeping with him?" Allison's tone is suggestive and teasing.

"What! Ew, no," her reply is harsh but her express seems almost embarrassed, "he's nerd and a yes man."

"So, he's in a band? Like a rock band?" Allison continues, sounding calmer but more curious.

"No, a rubber band," Lydia rolls her eyes, "Yes, a rock band!"

"How would I know? What's the name of Stiles Stilinski's rock band?"

"I didn't ask," Lydia proceeds unpleasantly, "and would you stop saying Stiles Stilinski like it's a diagnosis."

"is this... person…" so many questions cloud her mind, but one question looms over the rest. Allison is afraid of how to approach it, hell she's not even sure how they got this far in the conversation, and she doesn't to jinx it.

Silently, Lydia drops to sit on the side table and stares challengingly into Allison's face, "Stiles is real."

"I believe you," she concedes with a sigh of... relief? That answers the question.

"Then why do you sound like you don't?" Lydia's eyes look intense, her chapped lips are scowling but there's more than that. Allison notices gentle crow's feet at the corners of her cold eyes and precious few laugh lines. There's a clear bitterness permeating her determination.

"I don't know what you mean," Allison blinks and looks away, mildly intimidated but drawn in all the same. She believes in Lydia but can't shake a feeling of uncertainty.

With a sigh of exasperation, she adds on, "he's from the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department. If you don't believe me, call them, call Quantico, call our old high school for fuck's sake."

"Don't get upset," she doesn't mean to come across as undermining, and both woman sigh disappointedly. "I'm just trying to understand. If you found some creep rummaging in the study upstairs trying to take things without consent, it makes sense why you'd call the police. But if you were staying up late drinking with your boyfriend, I'll understand that, too. But those are two different stories."

That got a rise out of her, looking stunned, Lydia sat back blinking. "Yes, those are different stories because one is a fiction you created about a boyfriend. I was here alone."

"So, there wasn't a Stiles?" her brow rises in suspicion.

"No, he- yes, he was. But we- I wasn't partying." It's very unlike Lydia to sputter.

"You weren't drinking with him?" this gnawing worry feels justified because her sister Lydia is honestly just a goddamn mess.

"No!"

Allison holds up a mostly empty extremely expensive champagne bottle as evidence, "I found this over there. It's a lot to drink alone and unlike you to be wasteful. So, who were you drinking with?"

Sounding unsure, Lydia answers "With no one."

"Really?" Allison hears it, a reluctance that sounds regretful. Her analytical mind clamors to know.

After distant pause, "Yes."

"The police said you were hostile," Allison surmises, stringing events together so Lydia can understand where she's coming from. "After screaming them off, they said you're lucky they respected dad as much as they did, it's the only reason they didn't haul you in."

"Those cops were jerks, Allison." She sulks, the fire of her argument burning out. "They refused to leave unless I filed a report."

"Were you hostile?"

"This one cop got in my face so close," thinking back, she presses her face into her hands and mumbles. "He spit all over me. It was disgusting, bordering on abusive."

"Did you flip them off and call them jackass paid actors?" Allison fails to hide a smirk at that one.

"Oh, I don't remember," actively trying not to remember, she presses the heels of her palm against her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh.

"Did you tell one officer to bend the other one over?"

"Not with that phrasing I didn't," Lydia scoffs, the ghost of a smirk flashes towards Allison.

"Did you try and hit them with a broom?" This one was crucial. When Lydia doesn't answer right away, Allison clicks her tongue in dissatisfaction.

"I was just sweeping the porch," Lydia says airily, "it's not my fault they were on it when I didn't give them consent to be on my property."

"Oh my god," this problem is more deep-set than she's signed up for.

"I might have suggested a direction for one of them with a bit of a push. But it barely made contact," her sass is so on-point Lydia almost sounds like a teenager again. But she's not, she's thirty and should know better.

"They said you seemed either disturbed or drunk. Maybe both," Allison's hands clench in her lap, eager to smother these problems away.

"They wanted to force their way in to search the house for no real reason."

Sisterhood is not in their favor; they're clearly not working together.

"They wanted to because you called them!" Allison's reminds harshly. This isn't a game.

"Yes, but I didn't want them to come." Lydia patronizes. "They acted like they owned the place the moment they turned up, pushing me around, calling me 'little lady,' laughing at me: they were walking clichés."

"They seemed perfectly nice to me." It feels like they've clearly reached an impasse. "They went out of their way to come back when they were off duty to check on you. That seems awfully nice to me."

"Your standard for niceness is real low sister," Lydia rises from the small table with a huff. This tugs on wounds long scarred over.

"Lyds, would you like to come to New York?" She doesn't notice she misspoke, she's just too worried.

Downright disappointed, Lydia turns away, "I already said yes, in June."

"You could come sooner," it makes sense to Allison, New York is lovely. With central heating, no busted pipes, a beautiful view, personal chef, private entrance and two dogs. She's trying to be reasonable. If only Lydia could see the reason. New York is such a reasonable place, most of the time. "Scott and I got a bigger place last fall, there's spare room. We'd love to have you. You can stay with us; it'd be so much fun to catch up." Doesn't that sound reasonable?

"Your standards of fun are even lower," she sniffs irritably, no longer humoring her. "Allison, I don't want to go to New York. Not even for you."

"Why not?" Picking beneath her fingernails she maintains control of her nerves; it isn't fair for Lydia to criticize something she doesn't know. Although that's never stopped her before. "Scott is turning out to be an amazing cook. His mom has been teaching him family recipes, so now he's bought all these gadgets to enhance them. Every night there's some new elaborate feast. They're so mouthwatering, I feel spoiled. The other night we had Mexican fusion with paella and tapas. There are leftovers for days, I feel too spoiled, and you can help me finish them."

"What the fuck are you going on about?" Her incredulity is sincere, she looks at Allison like she's trying to read a foreign language through a kaleidoscope.

"Stay with us a while," Allison's excitement melts a little and distress takes it's place, in her smile, her tone, her wavering gestures. "I miss you. Scott misses you too."

"Thanks, but I'm okay," she withdraws further.

She calmly rises to her feet, sounding equally insistent and sincere, "Clarksburg is an out-of-date town. There's nothing for you here. New York is so much more fun and full of life, you wouldn't believe it."

Rolling her eyes, she mouths the word 'wow' and laughs silently to herself before letting Allison in on the punchline, "The 'fun' thing isn't really where I want to focus my life right now."

"Well, I think the 'fun' thing would be a good and…" Allison closes the gap between them so she can mention without being overheard by the wind, "a safe place for you."

There's a brief glint anxiety in her gaze as she looks over Allison's shoulder towards nothing and no one, immediately replaced with a frigid stare. "I don't need a safe place" there's resentfulness as she rasps the words, "and I don't need fun! I'm perfectly fine here!"

"You just look so tired. I think you could use a change. A little downtime."

"Downtime?"

"Lyds, please."

"Lydia!" she swerves out of Allison's path, crosses her arms tightly like straps of a harness and she paces the porch.

"Right," nodding slowly, Allison is regretful she keeps saying the wrong things. But follows in Lydia's wake and gestures mildly towards their home, then towards the lawn, then at Lydia's appearance. "I know you've had such a hard time."

"What the hell do you know about it?"

"I think you're upset and exhausted," gently, she hooks a hand through her elbow she guides them both towards the bench swing once more.

"Well, Aly… son," she says with deliberate snark before shaking off her sister's hold. "I was having a perfectly fun time until you got here."

"Okay, sure but-"

Interrupting their unyielding sibling squabble, "Lydia?" comes calling from across the lawn, faintly but still loud enough for both to freeze.

Quickly they turn to face their interloper.

"Who's is that?" Allison asks, gliding to Lydia's side but she isn't moved. Lydia's gaze across the lawn towards the figure is a cold remote fashion, eyes narrow in discrimination.

Possibly due to the earlier rainfall or from tiredness due to the lateness of the night before, Stiles appears mildly tousled in a dark suit not wholly done up, his hair a crown of thorns, with muddied sneakers, but looking fresh-faced, nonetheless.

"Hey, I…" he bounds excitably across the stone path over the lawn, straight towards Lydia but stops short at the porch steps due to the sight of their double act, "oh, Ms. Argent?"

Both dumbstruck at being directly addressed, Lydia cuts in with a bark of laughter, looks to Allison but points triumphantly at him. "Stiles!"

"Hi?" Briefly confused, he thrusts his hand out for Allison to shake.

It's all too convenient, Allison assumes but doesn't say, and drags her eyes towards Lydia for an explanation. But Lydia knows her too well and that hesitation is an unspoken accusation, rather than a simple question from her little sister.

"Okay, I really don't need this," Lydia throws her hands up, heads indoors and almost gives up. Except a gnawing twists her inside, and she turns back at the screen door. "You know Allison, I'm fine, totally fine and then you swoop in here to interrogate me, with your 'are you Okay?' and your too soothing tone 'Oh, the poor police returned to the scene'-"

"Whoa, the police showed up?" the interloper interferes again, the soft concern in his voice unexpectedly intrusive.

For the second time that Allison's ever witnessed, she sees Lydia visible sputter to get back on track "-I damn well think the police can handle themselves! And your bagels, bananas, and jojoba and 'come to New York' and Mexican fusion meals. It's just unbelievably obnoxious, it's like you're determined to piss me off so just save it." Breathing heavily, hovers, waiting for her to concede. But Allison doesn't want to give up on this and from the growing furrow in Stiles' brow, it seems like they're on a similar-ish page.

After quick consideration, Allison redirects, after everything that's happened this morning, which is mostly arguing about everything that's happened last night, she proceeds, "Stiles, is it? You can just call me Allison."

She's got questions, although his sincerity seems as genuine as the smolder in his eyes, she's still unsure about this likely thief, ex-student, ex-agent, very unassumingly looking 'nice guy' that's just materialized on the front porch. After scrutinizing the uneasy looks between last night's culprits, Allison reaches out to shake his hand. Because he does look a little familiar and because she is her father's daughter, she makes sure to squeeze his hand hard to intimidate him a little.

"Uhm, right, it's nice to formally meet you," he doesn't flinch at the crushing handshake, but he does have flex his fingers for a while afterwards, "I… I hope this isn't too early for me to come over. I just wanted to get some researching in before the… service, if that's uh, okay."

"Yeah, sure. Go on," Lydia steps back, holding the door open so that he can pass through. He gives her a nod of thanks and she smiles briefly as he goes, the calmest interaction throughout this stormy morning. And both sisters watch him go until he's disappeared up the steps.

"So," Allison purrs teasingly, "that's Deputy Sheriff Stilinski."

"Yes," Lydia glances at Allison whose stepped too close.

"He's kind of cute."

"eugh," groaning disgustedly, she lets the door slid closed to not be overheard.

"I mean for an Op," Allison only half-jests.

"You're ridiculous," she laughs quietly, then adds, "hey, aren't you engaged?"

"Happily, but I'm not blind." She shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her sweater, rolls back onto her heels and grins cheekily, amused by Lydia's discomfort. "I think he looks kind of familiar, don't you?"

"Yes, he should." Lydia haughtily rises her chin because she's right again. "He's worked with mom and dad. I told you this. I think you owe me an apology, Allison."

"You're right," closing her eyes, she sighs in resignation, and acknowledges incorrectly, "I shouldn't have started this conversation so early in the day. We didn't even have coffee yet, but we do need to make decisions. …I really didn't want to pick an argument."

"You never do."

Peaking over Lydia's shoulder through the screen door, Allison takes in the dimly lit kitchen where her ignored breakfast buffet rests. Onto better and brighter ideas, she elbows Lydia gently in the rib and hints, "don't you think Stiles might like a bagel?"

Missing the hint in its entirety, Lydia shrugs, heads inside to go back to bed for a little while longer. Alright, she concedes. Of all the things to argue over, Allison refuses for guys to be one of them, so she rolls her eyes, avoids the topic by staying on the porch to finish her cold coffee and reread texts. Inside such a noisy, empty house doesn't feel like a place to get calm and ready for the day ahead, and she can't help but wonder how anyone can live here, never mind grow up insider those walls without going crazy. Thank God, she going back home ASAP.