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@youcalledmefirst-blog
“I know.”
He’s not enough of an asshole to point that out. Or the fact that Allison was the first Argent to show some spine in the moral department.
“Believe it or not, my point was that love is fleeting. There and gone.” He snaps his fingers to make his point. “So take advantage of it.”
Okay, wow, not pulling any punches today, Holy Jesus.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fall back on the old ‘most of your family’s code would make a therapist win tenure for a traumatic child-rearing study’ argument there.”
“We don’t follow that code anymore.”
We. As if he wasn’t the only one left. Gerard couldn’t be trusted, the rest of his family...gone. In the ground.
“So we should share our experience nursing broken hearts? Okay, you start.”
Shit head.
“Would you like me to start with the fact that my wife committed suicide in my arms, rather than face a lifetime with the bite?”
@cruentusreus
“It’s a statement, Stiles, not a gypsy curse.”
@cruentusrxus
He thinks about it. More often than he’d like to admit. Steel smooth and skin warm, finger curled in a way that feels more natural than a flat palm. It wouldn’t take much of a squeeze at all.
Stiles doesn’t have those instincts, those skills to protect himself. Chris could push the muzzle right against the back of his skull before Stiles ever even knew he was there.
Easy.
It would be a mercy, that’s what the vicious, oil slick voice in the back of his mind whispers. Saving Stiles from a life of misery and grief, being a vessel at the mercy of displacement.
He’d never be whole again, the Nogitsune saw to that.
But he never pulls the trigger.
Mercy as Allison’s strength, not his.
“You need to learn how to defend yourself, Stiles.”
“Oh, well. I grew wings and flew away.”
Peter waggles his fingers, then drops his hand.
“Last I heard, you were out of the game. For good.”
“Things change.”
Grief softens hard edged resolve. More and more he can remember his little girl without remembering the way she was ripped from him. And in remembering her, he remembers her desire to help people.
Her code.
“Ah, yes. And give my regards to your father, I hear he’s feeling much better these days.”
Dry leaves sound enough like breaking, brittle bones to set Peter’s teeth on edge. An unarmed Argent is still dangerous.
There is no such thing as an unarmed Argent. As much as the bile churns in his gut at the simple thought of Gerard, the man did right by teaching him how to survive at all costs.
“Last I heard, you were still locked up in Eichen.”
@youcalledmefirst
“… Would it be too much to ask that we put our differences aside, for the sake of the children?”
Most likely, but Peter doesn’t relish the idea of being electrocuted. And Argents do love their cattle prods.
“My child is dead. Yours is trying to kill you on a regular basis.”
His tone is as dry as the leaves crunching underfoot. But his gun isn’t raised and the safety is still in place.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to bring c l a w s to a gun fight?”
The genuine husk of his affection fills his tone, and Scott can’t help but smile in the face of it. They’re both drawn, older, both still caught in the thrushes of grief, but there’s things to do, people to protect.
Scott didn’t understand Chris’ drive back then, but he does now, much more intimately.
“You didn’t answer my question.” He’s got a bit of a grin, because he’s played this game before, too. Because he had, in fact, noticed him on the outskirts, smelled just a hint of him, a scent he doubts he’ll be able to forget for years to come, because his scent means protection and faith, and it’s still associated with feelings of undying love.
His gut clenches at the thought of Allison, a familiar ache, but it’s manageable.
She lives in all of them, and while it will never be enough to dampen the edges of his grief, it warms him to know that his little girl lives on in the hearts of her friends. She was not a soul easily forgotten.
“I’m not here for work.”
It’s a little closer to an answer. He’s not here on a hunt.
Pleasure, not business.
Chris steps backward, adjusting the gun in his waistband before he slips his hands into his pockets. Scott looks good, stronger. But there’s a heaviness around his eyes, a weight that he is far too young to carry.
“How are you?”
Scott finds him at a gas station, looking tired and worn. It’s still happiness that he feels when he sees Chris Argent, though, because he’s here. He came to help.
He remembers staring down the barrel of that gun, thinking one day he’s going to shoot me. He’s going to see what happens when a bullet hits a willing werewolf between the eyes point blank. See how he heals, if he does heal, if there’s lasting damage, if it keeps him away or tastes like a challenge.
That moment never comes.
Now, neither of them would dream of seeing that come to fruition, and it’s enough to let Scott take in a deep breath unhindered. It smells like gas and layered through it is a world-weariness that Argent wears like a cloak, but he’s used to that by now.
“You been doing okay?” It comes out a little rough but earnest, and he clears his throat a bit, hands tucked into his pockets as he lets his bike lean next to his SUV.
“Hello, Scott.”
It’s warm with washed out affection, tired but no less honest. Chris allows himself a moment to move forward, to curl a hand around Scott’s bicep and give him a squeeze.
He’s not young enough, or naive enough for his heart to skip a beat, but there’s still enough left inside of him for his chest to squeeze with a pleasant kind of pain at getting to be face to face.
He’s been watching, of course. And he’d bet that Scott knows that.
Stiles’ hands twitch. An abortive impulse to raise his hands despite the lack of a gun in sight (even if he knows it’s there). There will never be a time when he can look at Chris and not feel his insides twist with guilt.
The mention of his father only makes it more difficult to meet those icy eyes. And there’s a biting voice in the back of his head that makes him clench his jaw, and kill the words:
Bet you wish it was me.
“Yeah.” There’s been no change — Melissa would have called—, so he doesn’t ask. “Scott tell you everything?”
There is always a gun.
That isn’t a slight at Stiles, but a way of life. He sleeps with a gun beneath his pillow, and has since he was old enough to carry one with respect. He was married to the gun as much as he was married to Victoria, and she had always respected that fact.
His heart aches with the memory of her.
“Unless you think there’s more I need to know.”
“About me? Don’t be.
I thought you were staying in France for a while longer.”
“It was time to come home.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were accusing me.”
“I’m worried. Or have you forgotten what that sounds like?”
@cruentusrxus
There is a part of him that can’t help but look at the boy in suspicion. The hunter in his bones is too accustomed to lies and deception to accept that it is just Stiles, not without being certain.
Another young soul, twisted and tainted by the lives they lead.
“I saw your father, earlier.” He wouldn’t approach any of them without information. Seeing the Sheriff in the hospital proved just how dire their straits were.
@thegraveheart
“You’ve been busy.”
The tone is carefully neutral, just like the placement of his hands. The distance feels like oceans between them.
