❝ ― ALLISON ARGENT !

the fact she didn’t flinch when her eyes glowed an unnatural hue of blue said a lot about allison. about her life, about past, about her experiences. it didn’t say she was reckless or fearless; an icy fog settled in the pit of her stomach. blue meant killer. blue meant murderer. blue did not mean self-defense. allison swallowed, searching for some response. should she run? should she stand her grand? it didn’t actually seem like the werewolf meant to hurt her. she said i’m worried and she sounded worried. still… she was an argent. hunting was her blood, her upbringing, her instincts. “i—who did you kill?” she asked. “i’m not trusting you until i know.” she shook her head. “i can’t. i’m sorry, i can’t.”

allison blinked once, managing to stop herself from doing it again. she glanced down at her drink, a wrinkle forming before her brows, before looking back up at the other. her shoulders rose in a half-hearted shrug. “it tasted real to me,” she said, “but i’m not some sort of coffee expert or snob.” she’d honestly debated getting a cup of hot cocoa instead but opted for a mocha as a caffeinated middle ground. “maybe they messed up your order?” she offered, feeling a little strange about the turn of this conversation. she supposed she should be grateful. the other didn’t recognize her. this was just a normal chat about coffee. right? maybe the other was socially anxious and trying to get better by forcing herself into conversation. maybe she was just that friendly. some people were. she’d experienced it when she first moved to beacon hills, though high school was a little different. there was always the possibility the other did recognize her and was trying to make sure but for her own sake, allison was pretending that couldn’t be the case.

What was she sorry for? She wasn’t a habitual apologizer, yet the words had slipped out before anything else could. Not that there was a script for this. A society acceptable set of lines to run through like when you called someone on the phone. A cold laugh fell from her lips. “I—I don’t know.” Just as Stiles met her eyes, Allison was overcome by the need to avert hers. It was a need to strong to resist. “For surprising you, I guess. For not knowing what to say. For being so flustered.” Oh how she hated being flustered and awkward and at a loss for explanations. Allison pulled her head up, eyes darting around the surrounding coffee shop. No one was looking yet the idea that they were settled heavily on her shoulders. “Can we sit? Please?”

Somehow, she had spoken to Stiles without recognize. Somehow, for the briefest second, she had forgotten the face of a close friend. But just as the last sound left her lips, things clicked. Allison recognized. And oh God. What sort of greeting was that? Her throat constricted. There was a pang in her gut. “Stiles, I’m-- I’m sorry.” Her chatted clattered as she quickly rose to her feet. “I didn’t mean--I tried to contact you, but--” She began to reach out with trembling fingers, from nerves instead of the cold in that moment, but stopped just short of touching. “I don’t know what to say.”

i recognize you. oh, the way the words sunk in like a stone in a river bed. it would be entirely unsurprising to allison if she looked like a deer caught in the headlights as the stranger spoke to her. because she was a stranger. allison didn’t recognize her in return. “i’m--” what? what? “i don’t recognize you,” she said, shaking her head. a strand of her dark hair slipped free from where she’d tucked it behind her ear. “what-- what doesn’t go away?” and who are you? but that seemed rude to ask.

try as she might, it seemed like allison wasn’t fooling this stranger. maybe she couldn’t. maybe she knew. she hadn’t pushed the point of knowing allison, but maybe she did. or maybe she could hear her heartrate, smell her anxiety. did she smell of decay and death? it was a valid question in this supernatural beacon they called a town. “look--” she paused, sucking in a deep breath as she searched for the words. “i don’t know you. even if i’m not okay, i’m not going to put that on a stranger.” it was the truth, at least.

beacon hills wasn’t that cold. not when allison had survived winters in philadelphia and upstate new york. she was pretty sure the residents of beacon hills wouldn’t know their heads from their rears if it started snowing around here. but despite repeating that over and over in her head, it wasn’t sinking in. she was cold. couldn’t wrap her thick cardigan tight enough cold. knee high socks weren’t good enough cold. hot caffe mocha couldn’t warm her up cold. at least, it hadn’t yet; allison brought her drink to her lips again, hoping it would finally do the trick. as the rich liquid hit her tongue, she noticed the figure lurking over her. she swallowed as her stomach did a somersault. was it someone who recognized her? they were looking expectantly. “sorry, i think i spaced out. did you say something?” she asked.

allison could feel her heart sinking as a confused and disgusted expression took shape on the stranger’s face. “i-- i don’t think so,” she said, even it felt like a lie in her mouth. a lie that tasted like dirt and flower blossoms. no, this person was a stranger to her, but allison probably wasn’t to them. would the local news have run the story with one of her old school pictures? what was the title of the story in the local paper? what excuse had her friends, her father, and the sheriff come up? high school senior dies in mugging gone wrong? no one had told her at the sheriff’s station. but though she knew her heartrate had sped up as all those thoughts crashed down on her, she refused to show them on her face. “sorry, i don’t recognize you at all.”

she could measure the time since she’d opened her eyes in hours not days. she had called her father, but been unable to get ahold of him. she had tried the mccall’s, but no one was home. so she had tried the sheriff’s station. that had gone marginally better at least, though the officers had looked at helplessly. what do you do with a dead girl walking? file a report, get her a change of clothes -- sweatpants and a baggy white shirt traded for a black, dirt-covered funeral dress -- and hand her thirty dollars to get herself something to eat while they figured things out. even though her hands had been shaking as they spoke to her in gentle tones, it wasn’t from hunger. or she didn’t feel hungry, at least. just shakey. just cold. just confused. another she didn’t feel, apparently -- the money falling out of her pocket. allison startled and turned to face who’d spoken. don’t look spooked, she told herself, though she wryly suspected she looked like a dear in the headlights. her gaze flicked between the woman’s face as the bills in her hand. “uh, yes.” allison offered her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and reached for the bills. “can’t believe i almost lost that. thanks.”