Long Time Coming Home (gift for htbthomas) - part 1
Title: Long Time Coming Home
Author: argentum_ls
Recipient: htbthomas
Pairings: Allison/Scott, Danny/Isaac, [Spoiler (click to open)]Melissa/Coach (background)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 11,064
Warnings: None
Summary: Allison finds her efforts to reintegrate into BHHS challenged when Coach Finstock acts on an assumption he's made about her. Meanwhile, Scott is distracted with trying to figure out who his mother is secretly dating.
Author's Notes: Thanks to the bethskink for the hand-holding through this as the word count kept exploding. Happy TW Holidays, htbthomas! I hope you enjoy my attempt at writing a mystery.
With the last cardboard box folded flat and stacked against the wall outside her bedroom, Allison was finally, officially unpacked and moved into Beacon Hills.
Unpacking had only taken her a year.
The last item to deal with was a framed picture of her mother--a studio portrait taken before their last Christmas together. Allison hung it on the wall next to her bed, her fingers skimming over the face of the woman who had given Allison everything. Tears stung her eyes but didn’t fall. She was getting better at that. She was getting better at a lot of things. With each passing day, she felt... she wanted to say “more human,” but considering the people she knew and what had happened between them, that was not the best phrase.
She had been pushed and pulled, manipulated, lied to, and surprised. She had been uprooted and underestimated. After all that, she had lashed back so hard that the wounds could never fully heal. Then she’d cut herself off from even those who had loved her, both as a punishment and a sacrifice.
Finally, long months later, she had come out the other side. She smiled at her mother’s picture, an expression soft and sad, yet genuine, a smile that didn’t make her cheeks hurt or stomach turn. It was a good feeling. After all the ways in which others tried to mold her, she finally felt like she’d found a shape that would hold.
--
Her return to being a real person started in the place she had ended: in Scott’s bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed. He’d repainted the walls during the fall to a pale yellow--the color caught the sunlight streaming in through the windows--and updated his posters to advertise the new bands he’d discovered. In his worn jeans and raggedy red hoodie, he looked like she’d caught him on laundry day. He’d been letting his sideburns grow long and his hair flopped across his forehead in need of a cutting.
His eyes, though, when he saw her his brown eyes lit up the way a human’s did. The joy that appeared broke through a graveness that didn’t sit well on his features and he wrapped her in a hug powered with relief.
While she had seen him every day since school started and frequently throughout the summer when she and her father weren’t traveling, sitting here with him now had her off-balance again. She sensed that whatever transpired in the next few minutes was going to mean more than anything they’d said before.
“I feel like I’m finally starting to get my feet under me,” she told him, after they fell into a silence from exhausting the recap of that day. The small talk they usually exchanged came harder and left an artificial taste in her mouth; finally feeling safe enough to move beyond that was another sign that she was ready for this.
“I mean, I think I’ll always be a little angry...” She twisted her hands together in her lap. “And hurt. I’m still hurt.” Scott nodded as if he understood. In a way, he probably did. “But it’s better now.” He nodded again, his gaze never breaking from hers. He always gave his full attention to her without making it into a competition, accepted everything she said without judgment; she liked that about him. She crossed her feet at the ankles, feeling the metal zippers on her boots rub together.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he told her. “No one blames you.” He sounded like he meant it, though Allison couldn’t imagine how it could be true. “At least things have finally calmed down. The Alpha pack is gone. All the hunters have left--”
“Except me and dad,” she corrected. Odd how she didn’t correct him on the statement about the blame. If she were Isaac, Erica, or Boyd, she’d never forgive her. Scott wasn’t like that, though, which she also liked. That characteristic gave her even more reason to start her return to normalcy with him.
“All the bad hunters have left,” he told her. “Your dad’s not trying to kill me anymore and you never did.”
Allison ducked her head in chagrin. In her darkest moments, she’d considered killing Scott as easily as she’d considered killing Derek, as easily as she had tried to kill Erica and Boyd. She’d never told him that; it wasn’t the kind of thing that came up in conversation. She opened her mouth to make that confession now. If they were going to start over, they needed to start with a clean slate.
“Allison, it’s OK,” Scott assured her.
“Scott, I--” Just like that, the words that had been rehearsed and lined up, waiting for this moment, fled. She was left staring at him, at the mole on his chin and the tiny scar beneath his eye, and her mouth was dry, her heart hammering in her chest. The air around her and Scott felt like it was growing thicker, enclosing them, isolating them. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the blood sussurating in her ears.
Not knowing what else to do, she leaned into him and set her lips on his. It was more of a request for permission to kiss than a kiss, and for a second she thought he wasn’t going to accept. His lips were warm and dry and still. And then they were pressing against hers and moving.
She inched closer, falling into a kiss that was sweeter and stronger than any she could remember, like a spiced candy. She closed her eyes and let her mouth part. She suddenly craved more of his kiss, needed it in a way that she had never needed anything.
Then Allison felt Scott tense, felt his fingers curl into the bedspread and his back straighten like he was steeling himself to break away. She pulled away first, a worried frown creasing her forehead. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” She scooted back, opening a safer distance between them. “You don’t want to kiss?” She tried not to let the hurt from his rejection into her question--with little success.
“What? No! I mean, yes. Yes, I really want to kiss you,” Scott stammered. A blush crawled into his cheeks and he cast his eyes down as if now, after everything else, he needed to avoid her. “I’m just thinking.”
“About what?” She smoothed the quilt with her fingers for something to do. He did the same thing, probably for the same reason. The tips of their fingers brushed in passing and a jolt passed through her.
“My mom,” Scott replied, which only served to confuse Allison more. He was thinking about his mother while kissing her? “She’s … never mind.” He shook his head, dismissing whatever he was going to say next, then added, “She’s not what’s important right now. Do you want to try that kiss again?”
Allison did. She really did. The timing was wrong, though, and she didn’t want their makeup kiss to be anything less than wonderful. “Tell me what’s going on,” she said, instead. “Maybe I can help.”
Scott brightened, looking more like his old self than she’d seen him since … well, since she broke up with him. “Would you?” he asked.
She offered him the full glory of her dimples, and watched him melt a little. “Of course,” she replied. To herself, she vowed to help solve whatever problem Scott was having as fast as she could if that’s what it would take to finish what they’d started.
--
Allison was still mulling over what Scott had told her as she settled into the bleachers at the lacrosse game that night. She’d found a seat in the middle of the bleachers, taking advantage of the layers of people behind and above her to protect her from the bite of winter breeze that had picked up with sundown. She wore a woolen hat and scarf, and wished she had thought to put on gloves, too.
Mrs. McCall was sitting down the bench, far enough away that she probably didn’t know Allison was there. It would make watching her easier, as long as Mrs. McCall didn’t realize she was being watched. True, both women had come to see the game, but Allison had a secondary objective. Scott had asked her to see whom his mother spoke to, and Allison wouldn’t be able to get an accurate read if Mrs. McCall thought she needed to be careful of what people saw.
“I think she’s dating someone,” Scott had told her earlier, with a cringe at the words. “She’s been going ‘out’ a lot more than she used to and-“ He bit his lip, as if afraid to disclose the next thing. “-I can tell that she’s keeping something from me.”
That struck Allison a little as ‘turn about is fair play,’ but she knew better than to say that. No one in Beacon Hills was innocent of keeping secrets; and everyone thought that their reasons were the most legitimate. “I thought you were okay with your mom dating again,” she asked, puzzling over why Mrs. McCall would keep her dating life secret when she never had before.
“I was,” Scott stated. “I am! I mean, if she brings Peter home again, I’ll kill him.” He shrugged like killing someone was the only logical course of action, which Allison supposed was true in this case. Peter was a murderer and a psychopath and any minute she had to spend with him was one minute too many. Scott’s feelings on him were even stronger. She doubted that he would ever be able to forgive the one who had bit him and cursed him with being a werewolf.
They both tried to pretend that the solution to the mystery wasn’t lying in front of them. Obviously, if Melissa was sneaking around with someone, it was because she knew Scott wouldn’t approve--which had to mean that she was seeing Peter again. What Scott’s mom saw in the man would forever remain a mystery to her.
Allison scanned the crowd at the game searching for any sign of Peter Hale. The attendance wasn’t huge, probably because it was the first game of the season and because it was unseasonably cold, even for Northern California. She spotted Stiles on the bench, banging his feet against the ground-probably to keep them from going numb. Scott was out on the field, doing warm-up drills with the other members of the first line. Jackson was conspicuously absent. His jersey had been left draped over the bench in memoriam for what should have been his final season, a consolation prize that no doubt would tick him off if he knew.
Back in the stands, she saw Ms. Morrell and Mr. Martin and a lot of kids she recognized from her classes. Her sweep returned to Melissa just as Sheriff Stilinski slid into the seat next to her. Allison’s eyes went wide and she caught herself leaning closer, craning to overhear their conversation. She’d never wished for werewolf hearing more than right now. Though she could see their lips moving, she couldn’t hear anything over the hum of conversation from the other attendees.
Sheriff Stilinski held a paper wrapped hot dog out to Mrs. McCall, which she accepted with one hand while brushing her curly black hair back with the other. Unlike many of the other game attendees, Mrs. McCall hadn’t worn a hat. Already, her ears looked red with cold.
“…show up to support the team,” someone spoke in her face.
Allison jumped, slamming her hand into the bench by accident. The shock of pain that ran up her arm brought a swear to her tongue. She managed to bite it back with the recognition that the person speaking to her was Coach Finstock. He was standing in front of her, close enough that she could smell the reek of mint gum on his breath. He climbed the last step up to her, positioning himself such that she could no longer clearly see what was going on with Scott’s mother.
“What? Oh. Yeah,” she asked. She tried to peer around him, but he suddenly seemed to take up more breadth of space than he should, and he didn’t seem like he planned to move on. Since he was clearly expecting an actual response, she smiled at him and said, “I’m here for the team.”
The wind was ruffling Finstock’s brown hair into a mess beyond his usual half-wild look. He wore a blue Beacon Hills sweatshirt and jeans, and she could only imagine that he must be freezing. “The team depends on the support of its fans,” he informed her, as if she didn’t know that. “Gotta keep the stands packed.”
Allison stared at him, willing him to go away. What the hell was the Coach talking to her for? Didn’t he have a team to worry about? From out on the field, she heard a whistle blow. A shout followed: one player trying to get another player’s attention, she figured, or maybe a player trying to get his coach’s attention. “OK,” she answered.
Coach ignored it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then thrust out a plastic grocery store bag at her. “Keep up the good work.”
The bag hung between them like an awkward confession and Allison tried in vain to remember if she’d left something in the locker room that afternoon that he’d be returning to her in person rather than depositing in the lost and found. Her purse was at home, she hadn’t needed any sanitary products, she hadn’t forgotten any clothing after changing in gym class… “What is it?” she asked. She accepted the bag tentatively. It was heavy and the plastic handles dug into her fingers.
“Got a couple things that I figured could help,” he answered. He shifted his weight again, caught himself and set his stance even wider so that Allison would have to look between his legs if she wanted to see anything on the other side, and she wasn’t willing to do that. “No need to thank me.”
“Um, okay,” she replied. She let the bag drop to the bench between her feet where she could keep it safe and keep it out of view. If Finstock really had brought her something personal, she didn’t need other people finding out. The last thing she needed at BHHS was more rumors. Between her aunt’s murder spree and her mother’s suicide, her reputation was in the gutter and would probably never recover. If it weren’t for Scott, she be begging her father to move (what remained of) the family so that she could start over.
With her thoughts momentarily elsewhere, she missed the next thing Finstock said. He had dropped his hands to his side and clenched them into fists like it was taking all his willpower to stand there even one more second.
The correct thing to do was ask him to repeat, especially since he had done something nice for her. Possibly. But she could smell hot dogs on the breeze and that reminded her of a bigger goal. “OK,” she said, one more time. She could be polite, but she didn’t want to be so polite that he’d feel the need to keep trying to chat with her. How awkward would it be if he sat down and tried to talk to her.
Besides, the team needed him. Another whistle blew, longer and louder, and from the bench she heard a clear summons.
Finally, finally, he left.
Sheriff Stilinski and Mrs. McCall had finished their hot dogs and had brought their attention to the field, which was currently empty. Mrs. McCall pointed at something and Sheriff Stilinski’s head tipped back in silent laughter.
“Scott,” Allison spoke, hoping that he was listening and would turn around.
He didn’t.
Coach had gathered the players together in a huddle and was talking to them. The waving of his hands grew ever more animated as he spoke, and Allison slumped down on the bench. Scott needed to see for himself what she saw. Sheriff Stilinski produced a blanket from somewhere and spread it over his and Mrs. McCall’s laps, and she scooted a little closer to him. They could just be trying to stay warm, Allison thought. She tucked her own reddened hands under her legs. The cold from her skin seeped right through both her black jeans and the stockings she had had the foresight to put on underneath them. At least she had worn her fake-fur-lined boots so that her feet weren’t cold, too.
Mrs. McCall smiled, her teeth flashing white. She looked genuinely happy in that moment, which made Allison realize how rarely she saw the older woman without worry lines etching her face. Sheriff Stilinski was the one responsible for that moment of abandon. Both the parents had been single for a while and they spent a lot of time together. Them getting together would make a lot of sense.
Allison couldn’t get in the way of that. She, of all people, knew how important it was to carve out happiness where one could find it. No matter how uncomfortable it made her.
Then again, what she thought didn’t matter. Mrs. McCall and Sheriff Stilinski weren’t her parents. She idly poked at the idea of her father dating again, at there being a new woman in her life to fill the holes left gaping from her mother’s death. Her thoughts recoiled; the idea was too alien. Her stomach roiled in protest and she had to swallow against a rise of bitterness in the back of her throat.
To distract herself, she reached for the plastic bag and spread the handles wide. Whatever was in there had to be better than imagining her father with a woman who wasn’t her mother.
Nothing jumped out at her. Nothing could have.
The bag was filled with candles: little votive candles in red, blue, yellow, white. On top of the pile was a brand new box of blackboard chalk. She removed the box and turned it over in her hands, trying to puzzle out its significance. The school had finally renovated the last of its blackboard classrooms and replaced them with whiteboards over the summer, so the demand for chalk had dropped to nothing. Perhaps this was just Finstock’s attempt to unload stockpiled school supplies on her. Though, what he thought she’d do with blackboard chalk was beyond her.
“What’s that?” Lydia asked, sliding into the seat next to her as casually as if the last few months had never happened, as if her presence at Allison’s side was a given rather than the complete surprise it was. Lydia had a tagboard sign in one hand that she slid up against the bench in front of them, the number eleven drawn in black marker with thick strokes. The sign would sit there until it was time to deploy it. In Lydia’s other hand she carried a small bag of popcorn. She didn’t offer the popcorn to Allison. As soon as the sign was out of the way, she withdrew a piece and stuck it in her mouth. She sucked on it a moment, then swallowed.
“Chalk,” Allison answered, happy for one that she didn’t like the popcorn served at the lacrosse games. Otherwise, Lydia would know that she’d gotten to her. Allison glanced into the bag again to confirm its contents. They hadn’t changed. The plastic crinkled loud enough that Allison didn’t know how everyone wasn’t turning around to stare at her. “And candles?”
“Chalk and candles?” Lydia asked, the disbelief evident in her voice. She rifled through the bag for a moment, but found-as Allison had known she would-nothing besides the two named items.
“Chalk and candles,” Allison repeated. She chewed her lip for a second, debating whether to tell Lydia the rest of the story, then decided that for her sake, she needed to. Lydia would demand to know eventually, and lying to her only created a lot more problems. She’d learned that lesson the hard way. They all had. She had set herself on a new path now and repeating the mistakes she had made before was not part of it.
Taking a fortifying breath, she explained the brief conversation with Finstock.
Lydia made her walk through it twice more, picking apart each word and questioning whether Allison had heard everything right. “So, you’re supposed to do what with these?” Lydia asked. She turned a blue candle over in her hand. The wick was still white and waxy, the candle having never been used.
“Root for the team, I think,” Allison replied. If Finstock’s words had contained any other desire, she had missed it.
Lydia rolled her eyes and huffed, “Because that’s all girls are good for, right? To cheer on the boys?”
“That is kinda what we’re here for,” Allison pointed out, gesturing to the bleachers and the attendees, including Mrs. McCall and Sheriff Stilinski, who had come to root on the boys’ team. For all its success, the lacrosse team didn’t rate actual cheerleaders. Lydia’s sign flapped against the metal riser, awaiting its turn to be put to use. “I don’t think he meant cheerleading.”
Lydia’s gaze narrowed and Allison could see her working through and discarding hypotheses about other possibilities. Her blue eyes were hard, like a shell covering the more delicate thoughts flittering behind them. Like Allison, she wore a hat and scarf to ward against the chill of the winter evening. Unlike Allison, she didn’t look even the least bit cold. Her brown dress jacket with the fur-lined collar was buttoned up tight, but her hands were bare-the better to eat her popcorn with-and she sat on the metal bench without any indication of hunching or shivering. Another piece of popcorn went into her mouth and she chewed carefully. “Are you supposed to root for the team?” she asked, at last, “Or enchant the team?”
Allison’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”
“Chalk and candles?” Lydia said. “They’re two of the most basic components for casting spells.” Off Allison’s disbelieving expression, she clarified, “If you believe in magic. Which I don’t.” She huffed after the last, fooling no one. With Peter Hale walking around--somewhere other than the lacrosse field, as a quick glance verified--as living proof, not one of those who knew about him could claim to no longer believe in magic.
“He wants me to cast a spell on them?” Allison asked. She turned to look at Coach Finstock who was stomping along the players’ bench, haranguing those who were not playing the game. From out on the field, Scott waved at her before settling into his defensive stance. She wondered if he’d heard or if he was just getting in the zone.
Lydia shrugged. “Either that, or he’s preparing you in case the power goes out again. Did he give you a lighter?” She pulled the bag closer to her and shuffled through its contents before answering her own question with a sigh of resignation. “No lighter. I guess you’re supposed to light these by staring at them really hard.”
“I can’t do magic,” Allison protested.
“Tell him that.” As if to punctuate her point, Lydia flipped her hair. With the hat holding her hair in place, the flip lost all but symbolic power.
Allison chewed on her lip as she watched the game. Beacon Hills scored its first point within seconds, which sent Coach Finstock to his feet with loud cheer and fist pump. Before the noise had settled down, he turned around, searching the stands like he had forgotten where she was sitting. He looked awfully dour for someone whose team had just scored, his expression souring more as he scanned the crowd. When he spotted her, he held one thumb up in a “good job” gesture. She smiled wanly back, though he turned away so fast that she doubted he saw it.
“What world does he live in?” Allison asked. “Have I ever done anything that would make someone think I was a witch?”
“If by ‘witch’ you actually mean a different word with most of the same letters, then I’d be the first to say yes. As your best friend, of course.”
“Of course,” Allison echoed sarcastically. Lydia’s forthrightness didn’t bother her, mostly because she knew it was true. If Lydia thought a little backbiting was her due, then Allison would let her have it. Better to let her get it out of her system.
“Since that’s not what you meant, then I’m just going to have to remind the audience that Finstock is not exactly known for his solid mental connection to the real world.”
“I only had the one class with him,” Allison commented, and one class had been enough to see Finstock lose his temper over the strangest of things, such as Scott not doing the reading that one day. Another day, he’d had a tantrum when Greenberg scored a perfect grade on a pop quiz. Yet another had come when someone had tried to derail a class by asking for the story about Finstock’s missing testicle.
“One class is all you need, dear,” Lydia replied. “Trust me on this, the next time you take an Econ class, get a teacher who understands how differential equations work.”
Allison’s eyebrows went up at the sudden vehemence in Lydia’s voice. “I need to go talk to him tomorrow and tell him that he’s wrong,” Allison said.
“He’s so very wrong,” Lydia added, with an exaggerated eye roll. “Math does not work that way.”
“I meant about the whole magic thing.” Allison waved her hand at the bag as if needing to emphasize her point. “I need to tell him that I can’t do magic.”
“Why?” Lydia placed another piece of popcorn in her mouth, setting it gently on her tongue like it was a snowflake. She let it sit there a second, softening, before chewing it. “It’s his mistake. Imagine what you can get him to do if he thinks you’ll turn him into a toad if he doesn’t cooperate.” Her eyes took on a shine; clearly she was imagining turning him into a toad.
“Because I can’t do magic,” Allison pointed out. It seemed like an important fact to her, one that shouldn’t need as much repeating as it did. Beacon Hills had enough strange things going on in it without witches being factored in. “What if he keeps giving me things or--” She shuddered, the chill running the full length of her body. “Or what if he wants to help? God, how do I tell him? He’s clearly already made up his mind.”
“Hmm. I can see that being a problem.” Lydia tapped her chin with one finger. “Let me think about it. I’m sure I can come up with something.”
Allison tied the bag shut with its handles and tried to force the whole thing out of her mind. Nothing good was going to come of going with Lydia’s plan, whatever it turned out to be. Ever since moving to Beacon Hills, Allison had been caught in one person’s plan or another’s, careening from one crisis to another. She had finally succeeded in carving out some sense of what she wanted and here it was being threatened all over again.
On the field, Scott caught the ball from one of the other players, then took off toward the opposing goal. Each step he took kicked tiny puffs of dust into the air that he was oblivious to, even with his advanced senses. He was focused only on scoring the team its next goal.
In the stands, his mother leaned forward, urging him to go faster. Her hands were clasped in front of her in silent prayer. Sheriff Stilinski’s voice calling Scott’s name rose over the chanting of the crowd.
Lydia rose to her feet, Scott’s name joining the chorus from the other fans. She cupped her hands around her mouth to yell louder, the half-eaten bag of popcorn forgotten on the bench.
Grabbing the sign, Allison shook it in the air, adding her voice to the mix. Inwardly, all she could think was how lucky Mrs. McCall was to find happiness and how much Allison wished that her turn would come around. She wanted to be more than the puffs kicked up as others raced through life doing the exciting things, more than the ball in the crosse that they used to play their game. It seemed to her that going along with Lydia’s plan or tacitly accepting Coach Finstock’s role for her was only buying back into what she’d fought so hard to escape from, and she couldn’t do that to anyone-much less herself-again.
--
“I figured it out,” Allison told Scott when she caught up with him after the game. She had pulled him into a side hallway off the main corridor that lead to the locker room, hoping that a little privacy would help soften the blow. She hadn’t invited Stiles, nor had Stiles insisted on inviting himself. On this issue, she could only deal with them one at a time.
Scott looked momentarily blank, his thoughts still on the game and the surprise comeback from the other team that had almost led to them winning had it not been for Danny’s save in the last seconds. Scott’s hair was still damp from his shower, his skin still flushed from the heat of the water and the excitement of the game. He smelled like rain.
She told him what she’d seen, trying to keep her tone neutral so that he could form his own opinion on the subject.
“My mom and Stiles’s dad?” Scott asked after she finished. He shook his head. Tiny drops of water flew from his wet hair and speckled Allison’s face. “They can’t be. They’re just friends.” He’d already changed into his jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt which showed off the breadth of his chest more than was right.
“It’s what I saw,” Allison reminded him. She wiped a drop of water off her cheek with her thumb, which reminded her of Scott wiping her eyelash off her cheek once upon a time. The memory made her choke up. She had to blink back an urge to tear up before she could add, “I’m happy for them.”
“I would be, too,” Scott said, “Except there’s no way. Stiles and I tried to get them together a couple years ago.”
“What happened?”
Scott ducked his head and kicked at the ground with the toe of one sneakered foot. “We were grounded and told to let them make their own dating decisions.”
Allison ran a comforting hand down Scott’s arm. His muscles twitched beneath her touch. “Maybe they have,” she suggested. Someday, she vowed to herself, she’d get the whole story out of him. Whatever he and Stiles had done to get their parents together had to be worth hearing.
Again, Scott shook his head. “I don’t-“ He glanced around quickly, as if checking for potential eavesdroppers. The hall remained empty. Its lights were dimmed to emergency settings which made Allison feel rebellious just by her presence in a place she wasn’t supposed to be. If anyone was listening in on the conversation, it wasn’t with human hearing. “I don’t smell him on her,” he confessed. “Not any more than usual, anyway.”
“Okaaay,” Allison replied. Adjusting to Scott casually being a werewolf around her was still slow going. While she’d known what he was for months, sometimes she forgot that he really was a werewolf. Then he’d say things like what he’d just said and the point was driven home all over again. “So go with that. Who do you smell on her?”
Scott cringed at her question. Sometimes he still had trouble with casually being a werewolf, too. “That’s the problem. She works with people all day and sometimes she showers at work. I can’t get-“ He cut himself off in frustration, once more kicking at the floor. “All I know is she’s not seeing the Sheriff.”
“OK. Back to square one.” Allison debated for a moment telling Scott about what Coach Finstock had done and what Lydia had said, then thought better of it.
Scott must have picked up some of her strife anyway. He captured her hands in his and pulled her close enough that she thought about trying to kiss him again. The warmth of his skin soaked into her still cold fingers. “Are you doing OK?” he asked her.
The answer was harder to come up with than she’d expected. She’d been telling people “fine” for so long that the word reflexively came to her tongue, but Scott would know that she didn’t mean it. “Every day is one more day,” she finally said.
“Yeah,” he replied, as if he knew exactly what she was talking about. His brown eyes held such sincerity, his lips were so soft looking.
She felt bad for pulling her hands away and stepping back. Her boot heels clicked against the hard floor. “I have to get home. My dad worries.”
“OK,” Scott said, though it obviously pained him to agree so easily. “See you in school tomorrow.”
“OK,” Allison replied. Now that her father wasn’t trying to kill Scott, maybe he wouldn’t get in the way of them dating, either. She didn’t want to make any promises that she’d have to go back on, so she bit her lip, gave Scott a quick hug, and hurried away before her own reluctance to leave could turn into excuses to stay.
--
On to part 2
Author: argentum_ls
Recipient: htbthomas
Pairings: Allison/Scott, Danny/Isaac, [Spoiler (click to open)]Melissa/Coach (background)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 11,064
Warnings: None
Summary: Allison finds her efforts to reintegrate into BHHS challenged when Coach Finstock acts on an assumption he's made about her. Meanwhile, Scott is distracted with trying to figure out who his mother is secretly dating.
Author's Notes: Thanks to the bethskink for the hand-holding through this as the word count kept exploding. Happy TW Holidays, htbthomas! I hope you enjoy my attempt at writing a mystery.
With the last cardboard box folded flat and stacked against the wall outside her bedroom, Allison was finally, officially unpacked and moved into Beacon Hills.
Unpacking had only taken her a year.
The last item to deal with was a framed picture of her mother--a studio portrait taken before their last Christmas together. Allison hung it on the wall next to her bed, her fingers skimming over the face of the woman who had given Allison everything. Tears stung her eyes but didn’t fall. She was getting better at that. She was getting better at a lot of things. With each passing day, she felt... she wanted to say “more human,” but considering the people she knew and what had happened between them, that was not the best phrase.
She had been pushed and pulled, manipulated, lied to, and surprised. She had been uprooted and underestimated. After all that, she had lashed back so hard that the wounds could never fully heal. Then she’d cut herself off from even those who had loved her, both as a punishment and a sacrifice.
Finally, long months later, she had come out the other side. She smiled at her mother’s picture, an expression soft and sad, yet genuine, a smile that didn’t make her cheeks hurt or stomach turn. It was a good feeling. After all the ways in which others tried to mold her, she finally felt like she’d found a shape that would hold.
--
Her return to being a real person started in the place she had ended: in Scott’s bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed. He’d repainted the walls during the fall to a pale yellow--the color caught the sunlight streaming in through the windows--and updated his posters to advertise the new bands he’d discovered. In his worn jeans and raggedy red hoodie, he looked like she’d caught him on laundry day. He’d been letting his sideburns grow long and his hair flopped across his forehead in need of a cutting.
His eyes, though, when he saw her his brown eyes lit up the way a human’s did. The joy that appeared broke through a graveness that didn’t sit well on his features and he wrapped her in a hug powered with relief.
While she had seen him every day since school started and frequently throughout the summer when she and her father weren’t traveling, sitting here with him now had her off-balance again. She sensed that whatever transpired in the next few minutes was going to mean more than anything they’d said before.
“I feel like I’m finally starting to get my feet under me,” she told him, after they fell into a silence from exhausting the recap of that day. The small talk they usually exchanged came harder and left an artificial taste in her mouth; finally feeling safe enough to move beyond that was another sign that she was ready for this.
“I mean, I think I’ll always be a little angry...” She twisted her hands together in her lap. “And hurt. I’m still hurt.” Scott nodded as if he understood. In a way, he probably did. “But it’s better now.” He nodded again, his gaze never breaking from hers. He always gave his full attention to her without making it into a competition, accepted everything she said without judgment; she liked that about him. She crossed her feet at the ankles, feeling the metal zippers on her boots rub together.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he told her. “No one blames you.” He sounded like he meant it, though Allison couldn’t imagine how it could be true. “At least things have finally calmed down. The Alpha pack is gone. All the hunters have left--”
“Except me and dad,” she corrected. Odd how she didn’t correct him on the statement about the blame. If she were Isaac, Erica, or Boyd, she’d never forgive her. Scott wasn’t like that, though, which she also liked. That characteristic gave her even more reason to start her return to normalcy with him.
“All the bad hunters have left,” he told her. “Your dad’s not trying to kill me anymore and you never did.”
Allison ducked her head in chagrin. In her darkest moments, she’d considered killing Scott as easily as she’d considered killing Derek, as easily as she had tried to kill Erica and Boyd. She’d never told him that; it wasn’t the kind of thing that came up in conversation. She opened her mouth to make that confession now. If they were going to start over, they needed to start with a clean slate.
“Allison, it’s OK,” Scott assured her.
“Scott, I--” Just like that, the words that had been rehearsed and lined up, waiting for this moment, fled. She was left staring at him, at the mole on his chin and the tiny scar beneath his eye, and her mouth was dry, her heart hammering in her chest. The air around her and Scott felt like it was growing thicker, enclosing them, isolating them. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the blood sussurating in her ears.
Not knowing what else to do, she leaned into him and set her lips on his. It was more of a request for permission to kiss than a kiss, and for a second she thought he wasn’t going to accept. His lips were warm and dry and still. And then they were pressing against hers and moving.
She inched closer, falling into a kiss that was sweeter and stronger than any she could remember, like a spiced candy. She closed her eyes and let her mouth part. She suddenly craved more of his kiss, needed it in a way that she had never needed anything.
Then Allison felt Scott tense, felt his fingers curl into the bedspread and his back straighten like he was steeling himself to break away. She pulled away first, a worried frown creasing her forehead. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” She scooted back, opening a safer distance between them. “You don’t want to kiss?” She tried not to let the hurt from his rejection into her question--with little success.
“What? No! I mean, yes. Yes, I really want to kiss you,” Scott stammered. A blush crawled into his cheeks and he cast his eyes down as if now, after everything else, he needed to avoid her. “I’m just thinking.”
“About what?” She smoothed the quilt with her fingers for something to do. He did the same thing, probably for the same reason. The tips of their fingers brushed in passing and a jolt passed through her.
“My mom,” Scott replied, which only served to confuse Allison more. He was thinking about his mother while kissing her? “She’s … never mind.” He shook his head, dismissing whatever he was going to say next, then added, “She’s not what’s important right now. Do you want to try that kiss again?”
Allison did. She really did. The timing was wrong, though, and she didn’t want their makeup kiss to be anything less than wonderful. “Tell me what’s going on,” she said, instead. “Maybe I can help.”
Scott brightened, looking more like his old self than she’d seen him since … well, since she broke up with him. “Would you?” he asked.
She offered him the full glory of her dimples, and watched him melt a little. “Of course,” she replied. To herself, she vowed to help solve whatever problem Scott was having as fast as she could if that’s what it would take to finish what they’d started.
--
Allison was still mulling over what Scott had told her as she settled into the bleachers at the lacrosse game that night. She’d found a seat in the middle of the bleachers, taking advantage of the layers of people behind and above her to protect her from the bite of winter breeze that had picked up with sundown. She wore a woolen hat and scarf, and wished she had thought to put on gloves, too.
Mrs. McCall was sitting down the bench, far enough away that she probably didn’t know Allison was there. It would make watching her easier, as long as Mrs. McCall didn’t realize she was being watched. True, both women had come to see the game, but Allison had a secondary objective. Scott had asked her to see whom his mother spoke to, and Allison wouldn’t be able to get an accurate read if Mrs. McCall thought she needed to be careful of what people saw.
“I think she’s dating someone,” Scott had told her earlier, with a cringe at the words. “She’s been going ‘out’ a lot more than she used to and-“ He bit his lip, as if afraid to disclose the next thing. “-I can tell that she’s keeping something from me.”
That struck Allison a little as ‘turn about is fair play,’ but she knew better than to say that. No one in Beacon Hills was innocent of keeping secrets; and everyone thought that their reasons were the most legitimate. “I thought you were okay with your mom dating again,” she asked, puzzling over why Mrs. McCall would keep her dating life secret when she never had before.
“I was,” Scott stated. “I am! I mean, if she brings Peter home again, I’ll kill him.” He shrugged like killing someone was the only logical course of action, which Allison supposed was true in this case. Peter was a murderer and a psychopath and any minute she had to spend with him was one minute too many. Scott’s feelings on him were even stronger. She doubted that he would ever be able to forgive the one who had bit him and cursed him with being a werewolf.
They both tried to pretend that the solution to the mystery wasn’t lying in front of them. Obviously, if Melissa was sneaking around with someone, it was because she knew Scott wouldn’t approve--which had to mean that she was seeing Peter again. What Scott’s mom saw in the man would forever remain a mystery to her.
Allison scanned the crowd at the game searching for any sign of Peter Hale. The attendance wasn’t huge, probably because it was the first game of the season and because it was unseasonably cold, even for Northern California. She spotted Stiles on the bench, banging his feet against the ground-probably to keep them from going numb. Scott was out on the field, doing warm-up drills with the other members of the first line. Jackson was conspicuously absent. His jersey had been left draped over the bench in memoriam for what should have been his final season, a consolation prize that no doubt would tick him off if he knew.
Back in the stands, she saw Ms. Morrell and Mr. Martin and a lot of kids she recognized from her classes. Her sweep returned to Melissa just as Sheriff Stilinski slid into the seat next to her. Allison’s eyes went wide and she caught herself leaning closer, craning to overhear their conversation. She’d never wished for werewolf hearing more than right now. Though she could see their lips moving, she couldn’t hear anything over the hum of conversation from the other attendees.
Sheriff Stilinski held a paper wrapped hot dog out to Mrs. McCall, which she accepted with one hand while brushing her curly black hair back with the other. Unlike many of the other game attendees, Mrs. McCall hadn’t worn a hat. Already, her ears looked red with cold.
“…show up to support the team,” someone spoke in her face.
Allison jumped, slamming her hand into the bench by accident. The shock of pain that ran up her arm brought a swear to her tongue. She managed to bite it back with the recognition that the person speaking to her was Coach Finstock. He was standing in front of her, close enough that she could smell the reek of mint gum on his breath. He climbed the last step up to her, positioning himself such that she could no longer clearly see what was going on with Scott’s mother.
“What? Oh. Yeah,” she asked. She tried to peer around him, but he suddenly seemed to take up more breadth of space than he should, and he didn’t seem like he planned to move on. Since he was clearly expecting an actual response, she smiled at him and said, “I’m here for the team.”
The wind was ruffling Finstock’s brown hair into a mess beyond his usual half-wild look. He wore a blue Beacon Hills sweatshirt and jeans, and she could only imagine that he must be freezing. “The team depends on the support of its fans,” he informed her, as if she didn’t know that. “Gotta keep the stands packed.”
Allison stared at him, willing him to go away. What the hell was the Coach talking to her for? Didn’t he have a team to worry about? From out on the field, she heard a whistle blow. A shout followed: one player trying to get another player’s attention, she figured, or maybe a player trying to get his coach’s attention. “OK,” she answered.
Coach ignored it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then thrust out a plastic grocery store bag at her. “Keep up the good work.”
The bag hung between them like an awkward confession and Allison tried in vain to remember if she’d left something in the locker room that afternoon that he’d be returning to her in person rather than depositing in the lost and found. Her purse was at home, she hadn’t needed any sanitary products, she hadn’t forgotten any clothing after changing in gym class… “What is it?” she asked. She accepted the bag tentatively. It was heavy and the plastic handles dug into her fingers.
“Got a couple things that I figured could help,” he answered. He shifted his weight again, caught himself and set his stance even wider so that Allison would have to look between his legs if she wanted to see anything on the other side, and she wasn’t willing to do that. “No need to thank me.”
“Um, okay,” she replied. She let the bag drop to the bench between her feet where she could keep it safe and keep it out of view. If Finstock really had brought her something personal, she didn’t need other people finding out. The last thing she needed at BHHS was more rumors. Between her aunt’s murder spree and her mother’s suicide, her reputation was in the gutter and would probably never recover. If it weren’t for Scott, she be begging her father to move (what remained of) the family so that she could start over.
With her thoughts momentarily elsewhere, she missed the next thing Finstock said. He had dropped his hands to his side and clenched them into fists like it was taking all his willpower to stand there even one more second.
The correct thing to do was ask him to repeat, especially since he had done something nice for her. Possibly. But she could smell hot dogs on the breeze and that reminded her of a bigger goal. “OK,” she said, one more time. She could be polite, but she didn’t want to be so polite that he’d feel the need to keep trying to chat with her. How awkward would it be if he sat down and tried to talk to her.
Besides, the team needed him. Another whistle blew, longer and louder, and from the bench she heard a clear summons.
Finally, finally, he left.
Sheriff Stilinski and Mrs. McCall had finished their hot dogs and had brought their attention to the field, which was currently empty. Mrs. McCall pointed at something and Sheriff Stilinski’s head tipped back in silent laughter.
“Scott,” Allison spoke, hoping that he was listening and would turn around.
He didn’t.
Coach had gathered the players together in a huddle and was talking to them. The waving of his hands grew ever more animated as he spoke, and Allison slumped down on the bench. Scott needed to see for himself what she saw. Sheriff Stilinski produced a blanket from somewhere and spread it over his and Mrs. McCall’s laps, and she scooted a little closer to him. They could just be trying to stay warm, Allison thought. She tucked her own reddened hands under her legs. The cold from her skin seeped right through both her black jeans and the stockings she had had the foresight to put on underneath them. At least she had worn her fake-fur-lined boots so that her feet weren’t cold, too.
Mrs. McCall smiled, her teeth flashing white. She looked genuinely happy in that moment, which made Allison realize how rarely she saw the older woman without worry lines etching her face. Sheriff Stilinski was the one responsible for that moment of abandon. Both the parents had been single for a while and they spent a lot of time together. Them getting together would make a lot of sense.
Allison couldn’t get in the way of that. She, of all people, knew how important it was to carve out happiness where one could find it. No matter how uncomfortable it made her.
Then again, what she thought didn’t matter. Mrs. McCall and Sheriff Stilinski weren’t her parents. She idly poked at the idea of her father dating again, at there being a new woman in her life to fill the holes left gaping from her mother’s death. Her thoughts recoiled; the idea was too alien. Her stomach roiled in protest and she had to swallow against a rise of bitterness in the back of her throat.
To distract herself, she reached for the plastic bag and spread the handles wide. Whatever was in there had to be better than imagining her father with a woman who wasn’t her mother.
Nothing jumped out at her. Nothing could have.
The bag was filled with candles: little votive candles in red, blue, yellow, white. On top of the pile was a brand new box of blackboard chalk. She removed the box and turned it over in her hands, trying to puzzle out its significance. The school had finally renovated the last of its blackboard classrooms and replaced them with whiteboards over the summer, so the demand for chalk had dropped to nothing. Perhaps this was just Finstock’s attempt to unload stockpiled school supplies on her. Though, what he thought she’d do with blackboard chalk was beyond her.
“What’s that?” Lydia asked, sliding into the seat next to her as casually as if the last few months had never happened, as if her presence at Allison’s side was a given rather than the complete surprise it was. Lydia had a tagboard sign in one hand that she slid up against the bench in front of them, the number eleven drawn in black marker with thick strokes. The sign would sit there until it was time to deploy it. In Lydia’s other hand she carried a small bag of popcorn. She didn’t offer the popcorn to Allison. As soon as the sign was out of the way, she withdrew a piece and stuck it in her mouth. She sucked on it a moment, then swallowed.
“Chalk,” Allison answered, happy for one that she didn’t like the popcorn served at the lacrosse games. Otherwise, Lydia would know that she’d gotten to her. Allison glanced into the bag again to confirm its contents. They hadn’t changed. The plastic crinkled loud enough that Allison didn’t know how everyone wasn’t turning around to stare at her. “And candles?”
“Chalk and candles?” Lydia asked, the disbelief evident in her voice. She rifled through the bag for a moment, but found-as Allison had known she would-nothing besides the two named items.
“Chalk and candles,” Allison repeated. She chewed her lip for a second, debating whether to tell Lydia the rest of the story, then decided that for her sake, she needed to. Lydia would demand to know eventually, and lying to her only created a lot more problems. She’d learned that lesson the hard way. They all had. She had set herself on a new path now and repeating the mistakes she had made before was not part of it.
Taking a fortifying breath, she explained the brief conversation with Finstock.
Lydia made her walk through it twice more, picking apart each word and questioning whether Allison had heard everything right. “So, you’re supposed to do what with these?” Lydia asked. She turned a blue candle over in her hand. The wick was still white and waxy, the candle having never been used.
“Root for the team, I think,” Allison replied. If Finstock’s words had contained any other desire, she had missed it.
Lydia rolled her eyes and huffed, “Because that’s all girls are good for, right? To cheer on the boys?”
“That is kinda what we’re here for,” Allison pointed out, gesturing to the bleachers and the attendees, including Mrs. McCall and Sheriff Stilinski, who had come to root on the boys’ team. For all its success, the lacrosse team didn’t rate actual cheerleaders. Lydia’s sign flapped against the metal riser, awaiting its turn to be put to use. “I don’t think he meant cheerleading.”
Lydia’s gaze narrowed and Allison could see her working through and discarding hypotheses about other possibilities. Her blue eyes were hard, like a shell covering the more delicate thoughts flittering behind them. Like Allison, she wore a hat and scarf to ward against the chill of the winter evening. Unlike Allison, she didn’t look even the least bit cold. Her brown dress jacket with the fur-lined collar was buttoned up tight, but her hands were bare-the better to eat her popcorn with-and she sat on the metal bench without any indication of hunching or shivering. Another piece of popcorn went into her mouth and she chewed carefully. “Are you supposed to root for the team?” she asked, at last, “Or enchant the team?”
Allison’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”
“Chalk and candles?” Lydia said. “They’re two of the most basic components for casting spells.” Off Allison’s disbelieving expression, she clarified, “If you believe in magic. Which I don’t.” She huffed after the last, fooling no one. With Peter Hale walking around--somewhere other than the lacrosse field, as a quick glance verified--as living proof, not one of those who knew about him could claim to no longer believe in magic.
“He wants me to cast a spell on them?” Allison asked. She turned to look at Coach Finstock who was stomping along the players’ bench, haranguing those who were not playing the game. From out on the field, Scott waved at her before settling into his defensive stance. She wondered if he’d heard or if he was just getting in the zone.
Lydia shrugged. “Either that, or he’s preparing you in case the power goes out again. Did he give you a lighter?” She pulled the bag closer to her and shuffled through its contents before answering her own question with a sigh of resignation. “No lighter. I guess you’re supposed to light these by staring at them really hard.”
“I can’t do magic,” Allison protested.
“Tell him that.” As if to punctuate her point, Lydia flipped her hair. With the hat holding her hair in place, the flip lost all but symbolic power.
Allison chewed on her lip as she watched the game. Beacon Hills scored its first point within seconds, which sent Coach Finstock to his feet with loud cheer and fist pump. Before the noise had settled down, he turned around, searching the stands like he had forgotten where she was sitting. He looked awfully dour for someone whose team had just scored, his expression souring more as he scanned the crowd. When he spotted her, he held one thumb up in a “good job” gesture. She smiled wanly back, though he turned away so fast that she doubted he saw it.
“What world does he live in?” Allison asked. “Have I ever done anything that would make someone think I was a witch?”
“If by ‘witch’ you actually mean a different word with most of the same letters, then I’d be the first to say yes. As your best friend, of course.”
“Of course,” Allison echoed sarcastically. Lydia’s forthrightness didn’t bother her, mostly because she knew it was true. If Lydia thought a little backbiting was her due, then Allison would let her have it. Better to let her get it out of her system.
“Since that’s not what you meant, then I’m just going to have to remind the audience that Finstock is not exactly known for his solid mental connection to the real world.”
“I only had the one class with him,” Allison commented, and one class had been enough to see Finstock lose his temper over the strangest of things, such as Scott not doing the reading that one day. Another day, he’d had a tantrum when Greenberg scored a perfect grade on a pop quiz. Yet another had come when someone had tried to derail a class by asking for the story about Finstock’s missing testicle.
“One class is all you need, dear,” Lydia replied. “Trust me on this, the next time you take an Econ class, get a teacher who understands how differential equations work.”
Allison’s eyebrows went up at the sudden vehemence in Lydia’s voice. “I need to go talk to him tomorrow and tell him that he’s wrong,” Allison said.
“He’s so very wrong,” Lydia added, with an exaggerated eye roll. “Math does not work that way.”
“I meant about the whole magic thing.” Allison waved her hand at the bag as if needing to emphasize her point. “I need to tell him that I can’t do magic.”
“Why?” Lydia placed another piece of popcorn in her mouth, setting it gently on her tongue like it was a snowflake. She let it sit there a second, softening, before chewing it. “It’s his mistake. Imagine what you can get him to do if he thinks you’ll turn him into a toad if he doesn’t cooperate.” Her eyes took on a shine; clearly she was imagining turning him into a toad.
“Because I can’t do magic,” Allison pointed out. It seemed like an important fact to her, one that shouldn’t need as much repeating as it did. Beacon Hills had enough strange things going on in it without witches being factored in. “What if he keeps giving me things or--” She shuddered, the chill running the full length of her body. “Or what if he wants to help? God, how do I tell him? He’s clearly already made up his mind.”
“Hmm. I can see that being a problem.” Lydia tapped her chin with one finger. “Let me think about it. I’m sure I can come up with something.”
Allison tied the bag shut with its handles and tried to force the whole thing out of her mind. Nothing good was going to come of going with Lydia’s plan, whatever it turned out to be. Ever since moving to Beacon Hills, Allison had been caught in one person’s plan or another’s, careening from one crisis to another. She had finally succeeded in carving out some sense of what she wanted and here it was being threatened all over again.
On the field, Scott caught the ball from one of the other players, then took off toward the opposing goal. Each step he took kicked tiny puffs of dust into the air that he was oblivious to, even with his advanced senses. He was focused only on scoring the team its next goal.
In the stands, his mother leaned forward, urging him to go faster. Her hands were clasped in front of her in silent prayer. Sheriff Stilinski’s voice calling Scott’s name rose over the chanting of the crowd.
Lydia rose to her feet, Scott’s name joining the chorus from the other fans. She cupped her hands around her mouth to yell louder, the half-eaten bag of popcorn forgotten on the bench.
Grabbing the sign, Allison shook it in the air, adding her voice to the mix. Inwardly, all she could think was how lucky Mrs. McCall was to find happiness and how much Allison wished that her turn would come around. She wanted to be more than the puffs kicked up as others raced through life doing the exciting things, more than the ball in the crosse that they used to play their game. It seemed to her that going along with Lydia’s plan or tacitly accepting Coach Finstock’s role for her was only buying back into what she’d fought so hard to escape from, and she couldn’t do that to anyone-much less herself-again.
--
“I figured it out,” Allison told Scott when she caught up with him after the game. She had pulled him into a side hallway off the main corridor that lead to the locker room, hoping that a little privacy would help soften the blow. She hadn’t invited Stiles, nor had Stiles insisted on inviting himself. On this issue, she could only deal with them one at a time.
Scott looked momentarily blank, his thoughts still on the game and the surprise comeback from the other team that had almost led to them winning had it not been for Danny’s save in the last seconds. Scott’s hair was still damp from his shower, his skin still flushed from the heat of the water and the excitement of the game. He smelled like rain.
She told him what she’d seen, trying to keep her tone neutral so that he could form his own opinion on the subject.
“My mom and Stiles’s dad?” Scott asked after she finished. He shook his head. Tiny drops of water flew from his wet hair and speckled Allison’s face. “They can’t be. They’re just friends.” He’d already changed into his jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt which showed off the breadth of his chest more than was right.
“It’s what I saw,” Allison reminded him. She wiped a drop of water off her cheek with her thumb, which reminded her of Scott wiping her eyelash off her cheek once upon a time. The memory made her choke up. She had to blink back an urge to tear up before she could add, “I’m happy for them.”
“I would be, too,” Scott said, “Except there’s no way. Stiles and I tried to get them together a couple years ago.”
“What happened?”
Scott ducked his head and kicked at the ground with the toe of one sneakered foot. “We were grounded and told to let them make their own dating decisions.”
Allison ran a comforting hand down Scott’s arm. His muscles twitched beneath her touch. “Maybe they have,” she suggested. Someday, she vowed to herself, she’d get the whole story out of him. Whatever he and Stiles had done to get their parents together had to be worth hearing.
Again, Scott shook his head. “I don’t-“ He glanced around quickly, as if checking for potential eavesdroppers. The hall remained empty. Its lights were dimmed to emergency settings which made Allison feel rebellious just by her presence in a place she wasn’t supposed to be. If anyone was listening in on the conversation, it wasn’t with human hearing. “I don’t smell him on her,” he confessed. “Not any more than usual, anyway.”
“Okaaay,” Allison replied. Adjusting to Scott casually being a werewolf around her was still slow going. While she’d known what he was for months, sometimes she forgot that he really was a werewolf. Then he’d say things like what he’d just said and the point was driven home all over again. “So go with that. Who do you smell on her?”
Scott cringed at her question. Sometimes he still had trouble with casually being a werewolf, too. “That’s the problem. She works with people all day and sometimes she showers at work. I can’t get-“ He cut himself off in frustration, once more kicking at the floor. “All I know is she’s not seeing the Sheriff.”
“OK. Back to square one.” Allison debated for a moment telling Scott about what Coach Finstock had done and what Lydia had said, then thought better of it.
Scott must have picked up some of her strife anyway. He captured her hands in his and pulled her close enough that she thought about trying to kiss him again. The warmth of his skin soaked into her still cold fingers. “Are you doing OK?” he asked her.
The answer was harder to come up with than she’d expected. She’d been telling people “fine” for so long that the word reflexively came to her tongue, but Scott would know that she didn’t mean it. “Every day is one more day,” she finally said.
“Yeah,” he replied, as if he knew exactly what she was talking about. His brown eyes held such sincerity, his lips were so soft looking.
She felt bad for pulling her hands away and stepping back. Her boot heels clicked against the hard floor. “I have to get home. My dad worries.”
“OK,” Scott said, though it obviously pained him to agree so easily. “See you in school tomorrow.”
“OK,” Allison replied. Now that her father wasn’t trying to kill Scott, maybe he wouldn’t get in the way of them dating, either. She didn’t want to make any promises that she’d have to go back on, so she bit her lip, gave Scott a quick hug, and hurried away before her own reluctance to leave could turn into excuses to stay.
--
On to part 2