FOREST / FIRE

WHEN & WHERE ― after leaving deucalion, argent house

The past few weeks felt like a fever dream. Allison coming back, werewolves dying, an alpha pack, the motel, people being taken by an evil druid, and now this whole true alpha thing. It was a lot to process. He’d gone with Deucalion for answers. His mom was missing and Noah Stilinski, not only his best friend's dad but in many ways he'd been the only father figure Scott ever had. That meant there was someone else that still needed to be taken and he had a pretty solid idea of who that someone could be. Chris Argent was likely going to be the hardest to take, to be fair. Regardless, Scott wanted to check in with Allison— both to see how she was doing and ask her about her dad. If anyone had a plan on how to defeat Darach, it was likely to be the Argents. 

Of course, what he didn't take into account is the fact that Allison would probably be on edge. He realized he should've texted or called her first when he was on the ground and a silver edged blade was pressed against his throat. ❝ Whoa, whoa, Allison it's me! ❞ Scott held both hands up, eyes wide hoping she would stop before she went any further. Is it bad he finds this hot? He shook the thought off and forced a smile. ❝ Lesson learned, I’ll call next time. ❞

Her blood runs cold, tensing as she slowly crosses the room. The carpet makes her footsteps silent as she moves, grabbing the knife from her bedside table. With her free hand and all the energy she can muster, she grabs the shirt of the dark figure in her window, throwing them to the ground before a knee presses against their chest and the knife to their throat in one swift move. Admittedly, Allison half expected to run into Isaac, or one of the twins going rogue -- Instead, she's met with Scott, all wide eyes and hands held up in surrender as he announces himself. "-- Scott?" Her confusion is evident, though she can't help the relief that fills her at the sight of him. Removing her knee from his chest, she sets her knife to the side and sits back on her knees next to him. "What are you --" She shakes her head, everything she's wanted to say to him attempting to come out all at once. Rather than word vomit, she grabs him by the shoulders to pull him in for a hug, grateful to know he's not in pieces somewhere in the Preserve. "What's going on? What are you doing here?" She begins her stream of questions as she holds him in a bone crushing hug, reluctantly letting go and pulling away to quickly examine him.

Once she can see that he's unharmed, her hand comes up to smack him in the chest. Hard. "What the hell is wrong with you, Scott?" She whisper-yells at him, not wanting her father to hear them. The last thing they need is for her father to walk in on the two of them alone together. "Where have you been? I --" She pauses for a moment, before letting herself admit what she'd been thinking. "I was worried you were hurt. Or worse."

It being a calling card was a far fetched idea, but well. At this point, you couldn’t really discount far fetched ideas. “Alright,” He said, pocketing his phone after making a note about it. “I told Scott’s dad I had no idea what that was about. Told him I was trapped inside the elevator so I obviously couldn’t do all that…I don’t think he knows that you guys were there yet. So we’ve got some time.” Stiles was trying to get into work mode. When he was trying to untangle a case, he could keep everything else out of his mind, and usually he could lock the bad away when he needed to, he kept tiptoeing back to the moment his father just disappeared in the middle of the classroom. So gathering his thoughts was almost impossible. 

“The problem is,” Stiles said abruptly, “The alphas were…busy, right? So I think we’re looking more at…Jennifer…being the one that did it.” Opening his backpack, Stiles pulled out a crumpled form. Completely empty except for one line that was circled so many times in a sharpie, the ink still hadn’t dried an hour later. “And I think I know what the last category is.” Pushing the form toward Allison, he knew she’d catch on. Parent or Guardian. 

Guardian.

His dad, Melissa Mccall. Chris Argent. 

It would complete the circle. But he didn’t want to just throw that at her with no sort of solution. “I think we should talk about getting your dad a police detail. Which...I think we both know he'll hate." Stiles admitted with an arched eyebrow.

It’s reassuring to know the FBI won’t be knocking on her door asking about the incident at the hospital, it gives them time to work on finding Melissa and the Sheriff without Scott’s father barging in. Taking a deep breath, Allison forces herself to follow Stiles' lead — Work on solving the problem. Her mother’s voice finds her, adding: Clinically, and unemotionally. She can cry later. Right now they need to figure this out. Something. Anything. She follows Stiles train of thought, still finding it strange the helpless, confused Jennifer Blake was the Darach — But then again, Gerard had been skilled at manipulation too. Brows furrow as he pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his bag, naively hoping for a brief moment that maybe it’s a note from Scott, though the thought passes quickly.

She stares at it for a moment, reading the words over and over. Parent or Guardian. Guardian. Just like it said on her father’s desk. The gravity of that reality begins to sink in, threatening to pull her under. Argent being on elevator doors scared her, but this only confirmed what they already knew was coming. Her father would be the last sacrifice. Alongside Melissa Mccall, and Sheriff Stilinski. The thought makes her sick, the realization that they would all most likely end up burying their parents. Allison’s eyes don’t leave the paper as Stiles speaks, suggesting a police detail for her father. It takes everything in her not to laugh at the idea, knowing the police won’t exactly do much in this situation.

Instead, she forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat, and takes a deep breath as she hands the paper back to him. Clinically, and unemotionally. If they want any sort of chance to save their parents, she can’t let herself succumb to her fear. “We both know that’s not going to do much.” Allison points out, more defeated than anything. It’d be so much easier if this could be handled by a few deputy’s standing by the door. “Besides, there’s more of an arsenal in my parents garage than the police station. I don’t know that a police detail would do much more than put more people in danger.”

Her eyes roll at Allison's comment. I have a responsibility. The whole thing with the honour code and the moral responsibility is dramatic as far as the redhead is concerned. "You're twenty-five, Allison. The only thing you have a responsibility to is a night time skincare routine. And to stop biting your lip so much — that's how you get jowls." Lydia has had a ten step skincare routine since she was thirteen, her mother putting the fear of aging into her far earlier than she needed to. But she figures when she's forty and still looks thirty, she can send Natalie a thank you card. "Right, but that was last year," Lydia reminds her with an arch of an eyebrow. "A lot has happened since then." It goes without saying, she means the death of Victoria and the betrayal of Gerard. She can't imagine that after all of that, Chris is still stubborn (not to mention stupid) enough to walk that same extreme line he had back then. "I know you love Scott and he loves you too, but you can't dangle it in front of him like this. You guys either have to find a way to make it work or you have to let each other go until it's a real possibility." She's not trying to be harsh, but it's the truth. "You know I want to see you happy — but I don't know how this back and forth does that."

She wrinkles her nose as Lydia speaks, knowing there's truth to her best friends advice -- Allison is young, her problems should involve school, dating, and when her next girl's night is. Not whether it's her responsibility if someone lives or dies, if she's living by some centuries old ideal. Trying to meet somewhere in the middle was proving more difficult than she'd like to admit, fully staying out of it was only making it worse. "I don't bite my lip that much." She rolls her eyes, knowing she's essentially been chewing on her bottom lip for the last twenty four hours straight. She's not certain where her father is about the code these days -- They haven't spoken about it, aside from her insisting she's not getting involved, since they were in France. He'd been secretive, still navigating their new circumstances. "I don't know how I'd even bring it up." Allison adds, having a feeling that the conversation will end up happening regardless of how ready she feels. A nod follows Lydia's blunt words, knowing she can't keep this up. Allison doesn't want to lead him on, or live in this terrible limbo -- It's cruel, complicating things even more. With a sigh, she glances over at Lydia. "Do you ever get sick of being right?" She tries to bring a bit of levity to the conversation to alleviate the tightness in her chest. "Once I know he's not dying..." A pause comes with that sentence, her jaw tightening at the thought. "Then I'll deal. Promise."

He’s not dead. An echo of a phrase that, while varying from person to person, was said to him a lot in between moments of violence the past few days. A we’ll find him, from Derek, a don’t give up now from Chris,  and a you’re not alone from Melissa. Stiles knew they meant well, he did. And he appreciated the effort. But he felt absolutely hopeless. And standing here, looking at Allison Argent in his living room, a physical reminder that his best friend had in fact left with the enemy, it all crashed down on him. “Not really,” He said, collapsing most of his weight onto his elbows on the counter, staring at the dripping faucet. “Deucalion didn’t really give him a chance to chat, y’know? But he said he would find my dad.”

It’s not Allison’s fault. None of this is Allison’s fault. But he was spiraling, and her reaction just snapped something in him. Yanking his phone out of his pocket he pulled up the photo Rafael let him take for his own evidence and slid it across the counter at her. “I mean,” He said, squeezing the counter to remind himself to breathe, “Someone put your name on the elevator. The feds found it while they were questioning me, had to happen after all the shit went down. Didn’t know if there were hunter calling cards or some shit”

Approaching him slowly, she wrinkles her nose at the mention that there was no other updates on Scott. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Allison nods slowly, setting the sweatshirt in her hands on the counter. She'd rip the piece of fabric in half if she kept twisting it in her hands. But he said he find my dad. "Good," She starts, trying to hold onto the hope that Scott has some kind of plan. "That's good." Allison repeats the word, trying to get herself to believe it. The moment lasts seconds before he's sliding his phone to her, brows furrowing as she looks at the photo. There it is, clear as day. Argent. Her blood runs cold, heart beginning to race at the thought of what it could mean. Is her father the next sacrifice? Is he somehow helping Jennifer?

A million questions begin to run through her mind, but she knows better than to fire them off right now. Allison tries to remind herself that she'd been on the phone with her father barely twenty minutes ago -- He's alive, and well, and accounted for. For now. "I had nothing to do with this." She clarifies what feels obvious, before adding: "It's not a calling card. And my father was with me all night, there's no way he did that." A sudden wave of defensiveness starts to settle in, feeling like she's about to have to start twisting the truth to make her family not seem like bad guys. It reminds her of a Kate, which doesn't help the knots in her stomach. "I -- I don't know what this means."