Chapter Text
Derek walks into his kitchen on Thursday night to a sight that makes him both incredibly curious and deeply nervous.
Allison and Stiles are surrounded by what looks like dozens of failed diagrams as well as a number of empty wine bottles. They’re intently staring at the newest diagram as if it could reveal the secrets of the universe. Or the recipe to Mama McCall’s magic lasagna. Equally important things.
Derek drops a kiss onto Allison’s forehead before resting his chin on the top of Stiles’ head, looping his arms around Stiles’ chest.
“Do I even want to know what the diagrams are for?”
“Hey. There’s nothing illegal or even morally questionable happening here, thank you,” Allison snarks at Derek.
“We were cooking and drinking some wine I brought back on my last business trip to Paris and reminiscing which led to an argument–“
“Discussion of the FACTS,” Stiles interrupts, only to have Allison roll her eyes and continue as if he hadn’t said a thing.
“Over the history of our relationship… but we got confused with the timeline situation? So we tried to make a map.”
“Well, let’s start with you and Stiles, then. That happened the farthest away from home, and let’s be honest, chronologically organizing this is not going to help anyone figure it out.”
- - -
It's not like Stiles really thinks about it when he starts looking at study abroad programs. Then again, it's also not like anyone is around to remind him where they all ended up. Scott left for New York, following Kira after she had gotten in contact with an artist's commune just outside the city. He and Scott still skype weekly, meet up to play MMORPGs, but they're working on recovering their "we're best friends, definitely soul mates" dynamic. Skyping helps when Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night, feeling like the darkness is trying to drown him. It's not like he could talk to a random hook-up about that, but he also finds it's not the easiest thing to talk to Scott about, not anymore.
Part of them becoming friends again is telling the other person about what's going on in their lives, but it's more of an afterthought rather than an invitation to be involved in the planning process. Logically speaking, Stiles knows Allison is in Paris. He and Lydia still email each other regularly, becoming good friends while she's at MIT, terrifying her professors and somehow charming her classmates. She asks him if it's really a good idea. He ignores the email until he gets the confirmation that he’s been accepted. When he tells her, she sends a brief congratulations and tells him to have some fun French sex.
Neither of them mention her best friend who won't respond to her emails, and hasn't since she left the country.
He doesn't really talk to anyone else about it, except somehow Derek still finds out (Stiles is pretty sure his dad has been inviting the grumpy werewolf over for dinner a few nights a week, so he's the likely informant to blame), because a package shows up at the student mailroom with a few books– a French-English/English-French dictionary, along with some classic fairy tales by Charles Perrault and Countess d'Aulnoy, as well as a short note.
'stay safe. have fun.'
Stiles wants to throw out the note along with the books.
But his French could use some work.
Honestly, he doesn't think too much about Allison, or the Argents in general, until he winds up lost in the middle of Paris. It's not like he hasn't thought about the supernatural in general- he's not part of an official pack, but he's enough of a spark to catch the eye of most supernatural creatures, so he researches into the packs in the area and whatever else he can get out of the email contacts he has. It's not too much of a surprise that wolves don't live in Paris. The mountains of people are good for hiding some things, but the city is too dense for a wolf to be happy. To his surprise, there's not an established hunter family in the city, Argent or otherwise.
Stiles suspects some of what he's read about witches and sentient cities protecting what's theirs could have something to do with that, but he doesn't mention his theories to anyone. Even among the supernaturals he's met online to exchange info with barely believe him about the Nemeton and the darkness. He let it drop.
But again, he's stuck (lost) in the middle of Paris and his French, though substantially improved, is really more suited for ordering a drink, or a dirty and rough hookup at the bars he's been frequenting his first month before university classes start. He can't think but wonder how Allison is doing and how many times, if ever, she got lost in the city before settling in. He wonders if she's happier now.
The sound of the window of the apartment above him slamming shut snaps him out of his thoughts, followed by the sound some something shattering. He winces in sympathy, causing his eyes to catch the street sign nearly hidden behind some planters by the apartment across the way. He whoops in excitement, he wasn't as lost as he thought!
- - -
Allison is in her customary post-run slump with a steaming cup of tea in the window of her apartment, enjoying the sunny Parisian day when she notices a figure walking in the street below. He's not remarkable, and he looks lost, so she's about to learn out the window to see if she could yell directions down to him (she figures she needs all the good karma she could get from the universe) when she realizes the man is familiar. With his hair grown out, and tank top revealing muscular arms covered in geometric blank ink, she almost didn't recognize Stiles Stilinski. She doesn't know why it startles her so much, but she falls off her window seat as the wind slams her window shut, causing her to drop her mug, which splashes hot tea on her arm as it shatters. She curses, wishing she kept something stronger in her kitchen than the table wine that was waiting for her dinner.
"Fuck this, I'm going out tonight", she thinks to herself as she grabs her phone to scroll through her contacts. It's not like she doesn't have friends in the city, but it's hard to find people who are willing to go out for a night of fun who don't want a ton of explanations for some of the more gruesome scars she gained from her time in Beacon Hills. Then there are the marks that aren't visible from the Nemeton. Fuck, she just wants to get drunk and have a night like a regular college student for once.
- - -
Allison drains the last of the wine from her glass.
“I thought so much about karma in those days without trying to talk to anyone about what I was going through. It was so strange though, that I saw Stiles in the street and then of course that night when I was trying to forget him, I run into him at the fucking club.”
Derek makes a noise of assent to encourage her to continue, with Stiles jumping in for little details.
- - -
Stiles ends up going to the wrong club. The lack of clothes and copious amounts of body paint are the last cue he needs to realize that this is not the jazz club that the lovely woman at the café recommended to him. When an incredibly attractive Moroccan couple invite him to help paint each other, he decides he doesn’t mind too much. They ask him back to their apartment later in the night after body shots in accented French, and he almost regrets turning them down except there’s a brunette across the room with a killer body covered in shimmering green and pink body paint.
After saying goodnight to the Moroccan couple, he tries to track her down on the dance floor, but other than her body paint, she’s wearing nondescript clothes and has a pixie cut close to her face.
He gives up when he feels arms wind around his neck and a sleek body grind against him from behind. He’s an equal opportunity dancer, after all.
It seems like hours later when they turn and face each other, fitting together like puzzle pieces. They’re about to kiss when the lights reflect off the bar and illuminate both of their faces.
They’re inches across from each other when Stiles Stilinski realizes he’s about to kiss Allison Argent.
They’re inches across from each other when Allison Argent realizes she’s about to kiss Stiles Stilinski.
“I won’t make it weird if you don’t,” Allison whisper-yells she watches Stiles lick his lips.
“It’s study abroad, this isn’t the worst decision I could make,” Stiles says right before he dives for Allison’s lips.
It’s probably the angriest hook-up Allison has ever experienced. And she loves it. They bite and scratch each other, leaving marks she know she’ll feel the next day. The glory she feels in not having to pause to explain her scars is perfection— she recognizes most of his scars as well. They’re at it till nearly dawn and only fall asleep until neither of them can even think about more sex.
When Stiles leaves in the morning, Allison pretends to be asleep. She finds the note he put under a magnet on her fridge two days later:
“I’m glad you’re alive.”
A Parisian cell number is beneath, signed with just an S.
- - -
Stiles smiles as Allison finishes telling Derek about the note he had left, “I was so nervous when you didn’t call or text the next day. I wasn’t looking for anything, but. It seemed so important to me that… I don’t even know, something happened.”
“But you guys never dated while in Paris, right?” Derek asks, “Neither of you really talk about those days.”
Allison looks sad for a moment, “I think we were just both so angry and feeling empty, at least I was. It wasn’t about being friends, it was about having a shared history and not knowing where to go any more.”
Stiles hums in agreement, “It was easier after I came back to the States, you know. We actually started talking instead of just getting all of our feelings out via sex.”
Allison smiles, “We got it all to work out eventually.”