Chapter Text
Allison didn’t know how long she stayed like that.
It could have been just seconds since he took his last breath, or it could have been hours. She wouldn’t know. She didn’t care. She just held him as tight as she could, for as long as she could, keeping his hand warm in hers.
It could have been just seconds or it could have been hours, either way, it still would have been too quick and too long all at once and at the same time.
“Allison."
She didn’t know when it had stopped being just them her. She’s vaguely aware that blue-and-red lights dance in front and around her, there was even soft radio chatter that floated every once and then, and of course the sympathetic faces as if the tragedy was theirs, as if they knew what had happened, as if they knew how empty she felt inside.
Soft footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her and a gentle hand placed itself on her shoulder and it was warm. So warm that she had forgotten how cold November night winds were, even in California.
So warm that she forgot the hand she held was actually already cold—
“Allison, you have to let go."
She held Scott tighter. If she could, she’d bodily recoil at the suggestion, but then she’d jostle him around and the thought of disturbing him when he looked peaceful felt like a slap across the face. Instead, she gripped his hand tighter in hers and kept her eyes trained on him, watched him as though he was just sleeping, the way she always did when they were still together.
On his face, on his skin, the little mole on the side of his face, the small scar on his cheek, his long eyelashes, his lips, the streak of red that ghosted on his jaw—
Red. Blood.
His blood, from the wound.
Allison inhaled sharply, she held him closer and tighter. She tried to wipe it clean, but it spread out more, a much more pale crimson smudged on the side of his face.
Her throat hitched. Though, at least, it wasn't red. Not anymore.
“Allison, that isn’t Scott anymore. He’s gone." Her dad spoke with a heartbreaking familiarity with the situation, like it was something he knew all too well, like it was second nature for him.
Her father crouched beside her, slowly trying to get her to shift the weight on top of her to the ground. But she wouldn’t budge, she wouldn’t move, not even a single inch.
“I don’t want to let him go."
Because across her lap, he looked peaceful. If she squinted, he looked like he was just sleeping. Across her lap, he didn’t look like he was responsible for carrying the world or for keeping it safe. Across her lap, he wasn’t responsible for keeping it from falling apart. Across her lap, he wasn't an alpha, he wasn't a protector, and he wasn't a werewolf.
Across her lap, he looked like he was seventeen.
Between her grandfather manipulating and pulling everyone’s strings like a puppeteer, or the Alpha Pack and the Darach, and the Nogitsune, she had forgotten that they were just teenagers. He was just a teenager.
He had just turned seventeen. He was only seventeen.
He will only be seventeen—
Seventeen and in love, cutting school and having the time of their lives. She was seventeen and she was in love with the first boy she knows she’ll always love.
And she hoped, against all hope, that across her lap, maybe he could be more than seventeen.
Her body was wracked with the silent sobs she couldn’t hold together.
“I can’t let him go."
Because if she let go, the coldness will set in and the warm hand she kept close will fall lifeless to the ground and the illusion will shatter because he wasn’t peaceful, he wasn't sleeping, he was gone.
He was gone and she wasn't and it's not fair.
“Yes you can. Let go and hold on to me."