Chapter Text
Allison Argent is a thunderstorm. It's cliche - gauche, maybe, something Stiles would rant at him for saying because the convention of comparing women to weather systems and natural disasters is historically and intrinsically misogynistic, Isaac - but things can be shitty and true at the same time. You might hear thunder as a warning and try to get to shelter, but the storm is still coming. The rain is a necessary part of life, beautiful to look at and no less dangerous for that beauty. Sometimes it doesn't seem so bad, the clouds don't look that dark, the lightning doesn't seem so close, but storms can change fast and cause floods, landslides, uprooting trees and threatening to destroy anything in their path.
The thing about thunderstorms is they can be gentle, too. Kids play outside in them, in coats and boots, and sometimes the clouds don't block out the sun and you get sun showers that make the whole town seem friendlier, brighter, more alive. The smell of the graveyard after a storm was always a comfort to Isaac, even during overnights, and the rain softened the ground for digging, although it called all those worms to the surface, which he could've lived without.
The storm Allison's thunder warned him about has already passed, as far as he knows, but the trees are still uprooted, the foundations under buildings still cracked and letting in rainwater, the people caught in the path still nursing their wounds.
Scott sees the rainbow after he rain. He revels in the smell of petrichor and understands some fundamental truth about the nature of the storm that Isaac is not privy to. What Isaac does understand is that Scott did not weather the storm unscathed.
Isaac's injuries were largely physical at the time - the shape and bite of her Chinese daggers are carved into his brain even if they left no scars on his chest and back - but her warpath against his pack is inextricable from the hollow, sucking wound that still bleeds and festers inside him from the loss of Erica. Allison wasn't herself, he knows that. He knows. He's turned it over and over in his head. He's tried to talk to Stiles about it, but any words about the night in the warehouse district turn to tar and ash in his mouth if they stray at all from what happened to Jackson and Lydia.
He knows that Stiles and Scott must've talked about it at some point - obvious now that he can observe them together again - but Stiles plays his cards so close to the chest and he's fooled all of them more than once by showing fabricated cards, curated versions of his real self. That ruse is harder to maintain when you live with someone. Stiles may have years of experience hiding, but so does Isaac. What Isaac has that Stiles doesn't account for is patience. There are tells, if you look long enough, and Stiles has Isaac's undivided attention more often than he'd probably be comfortable with. When Allison comes up, or Gerard, Stiles can suppress the flinch, but he can't quite mask the way his eyes go dark. Isaac can see the minute clench of Stiles' jaw because he recognizes the mirrored behavior in himself.
It is difficult to reconcile the way Allison exists to him with the way she does to Scott and Stiles. Isaac trusts Scott completely, both as a friend and a burgeoning leader, but he can't seem to take this leap of faith for him. It's an open secret that Allison has always been Scott's blind spot, if it's a secret at all. That's why Gerard's manipulation worked. The damage Scott took from Allison was arguably worse than anything that happened to Isaac. Isaac hasn't experienced that kind of betrayal - not from someone who cared about him so much beforehand - but it seems like it might be another kind of loss. Loss he does know. That Scott is able to bury the hatchet is another testament to his strength of character; that he still looks at her like she brings the sunrise is something else entirely. Madness, probably. Maybe Scott's cracked and they're all going to follow him to death regardless.
Right now, watching her fidget and clear her throat in the hallway, Isaac thinks she just looks like a nervous teenager. The sea of students is thinning out and Scott is on his way to the locker room, dismissed with an awkward wave from Allison and a non-committal quirk of Isaac's mouth. Distantly, Isaac wonders if this is how he looked when he pulled Lydia aside at lunch.
Allison squares her shoulders and locks her eyes on his, determined. Isaac tries to make himself look as nonthreatening as possible, suddenly uncomfortable at the notion that she might be afraid of him.
"I just, I wanted to say I'm sorry. I should've said it sooner and I was going to when we had detention, I meant to, but -"
"But I had a panic attack and hurt you."
"No! No. Well, yes, but that's not the point."
She purses her lips, annoyed, and Isaac shrugs, because that's what happened.
"We were interrupted, that's all. And then I guess I figured you wouldn't want to hear it, so I didn't try again."
Allison's curls bounce off of each other as she shakes her head.
"I thought maybe it had been too long, but then you apologized to Lydia today and I realized I was just making excuses. It's cowardly."
She clears her throat again. Isaac frowns at the wet shine of her eyes, totally out of his depth. He certainly doesn't think she's a coward, but like hell he's going to tell her that.
"I'm so sorry I hurt you, Isaac. I was so, so angry and Gerard, he... But that doesn't matter. You weren't my enemy and I don't want to make excuses for what I did. And you don't have to forgive me, really. I don't know how to prove I'm sorry, but I want to try to make amends."
Isaac looks away when she sniffs loudly and tries to collect herself. When he looks back, she's staring at him resolutely, like she's awaiting the gallows. It's incredibly uncomfortable.
"Um. Thanks."
Her laugh is wet, sharp, and he feels like a stupid jackass. He grasps for words, a more substantial response for someone laying themselves bare for his faltering judgement.
"I appreciate it, really. And it's okay, you know, I know Gerard wasn't your fault. And I don't think you need to prove it to me? You don't owe me anything, right? We weren't exactly friends before that."
A dark looks crosses her features.
"That doesn't make it okay. And then what Gerard did to -"
"Don't."
Allison's mouth snaps shut and her cheeks go red. Isaac sighs, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.
"Look, what's done is done, okay? You lost your mom, you went a little off the deep end. We've all been there, right? So it's fine. But please don't bring them up, not to me."
She nods tightly and he figures it's long since time to put them both out of their misery.
"I meant when I said it wasn't your fault, by the way, but I still don't, um, I don't think I can forgive you, not yet. But I'll try, okay? I know that's shitty."
"Yeah, no, of course. Thank you. I know I don't deserve -"
Isaac holds up a hand to stop her again.
"I don't think you want to get into a debate with me about what either of us deserves. It's not about what you deserve, Allison, it's about what I can deal with right now. Look, just, let me ask you something."
"Sure, anything."
"Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"Did you know what Gerard was doing to Erica and Boyd in the basement?"
Allison swallows, but keeps her voice steady despite the acrid smell of guilt building around her.
"Yes."
He'd known - there was no way she didn't, after being the one to capture them - but her confirmation still pulls at his gut. Isaac closes his eyes for a moment, willing the familiar anger back down, and nods.
"Did you know about Stiles?"
The guilt condenses, coating his nostrils, and he braces for it.
"No, Isaac, I promise, I didn't. He didn't want me down there after we brought them in and I swear I didn't know Stiles was there until my dad told me."
Okay. Okay. If she'd told him she'd known about Stiles as it happened, he's not sure what he would've done. Torturing werewolves is awful and cruel, but torturing a human like Stiles with no healing factor is worse.
The cold saltwater burn of Allison's guilt thickens to the rotten fruit sourness that Isaac is more accustomed to smelling on Stiles and it kicks his protective instincts on like he's that damn dog with the bell. No part of him wants to draw this out any longer, for either of them, and it doesn't make him feel any better to watch her squirm like this.
He thinks of Argent picking him up last night, feeding him, and listening to his angry, embarrassing story with minimal insulting interruptions. Last year, there's no fucking way he'd have willingly gotten in a car with Argent by himself without considerable weapons-based incentive. He tries to remember Allison before Gerard got his hooks into her, before her mom died. She and Isaac had limited interactions, frankly, and those were mostly threats from his pack and defensive maneuvers from hers. One of those times sticks in his head more clearly than the others.
“Alright, Allison, I believe you.”
He offers a hand to shake on it and she blinks at him, her own hands clenched tight at her sides. Isaac shakes his head.
“We're square. We're on the same side now, right?”
Allison's palm is rough with calluses when she slides it against his. As they shake hands, Isaac is surprised at the dampness of her skin; she'd been nervous, but he couldn't smell her sweat, even from this distance. Concentrating, he finds the smear of sticky heat running across the middle of her palm. Gently, Isaac unclasps their hands and twists her wrist to assess the damage. A sheepish look crosses her face and he frowns in sympathy.
“Bad habit. Be glad you don't have claws, although, from the looks of it, you might still want to cut your nails.”
Allison tries to pull away and Isaac loosens his grip, but doesn't fully let go.
“I'm not making fun of you. I can help.”
Isaac lifts their hands and raises his eyebrows in question. Her mouth pinches together, but she relaxes in his hold and nods. The pain is dull - the bulk of it already past by now - but it still stings enough to make his palm itch as he takes it from her.
He can't heal the cuts, but it seems to be enough. Allison pulls her hand back and he lets her go, watching as she inspects her palm. The blood is still there when she smiles up at him.
“Thanks.”
Isaac hikes his backpack strap higher and nods over her shoulder to the end of the hallway, where Stiles and Lydia are failing to hide around the corner.
“No problem. Come on, I have to go to practice and I think your ride is here.”
Allison quirks an eyebrow, glancing back in time to see Lydia dragging Stiles into the hall by his ear. Isaac's laugh escapes him at the same time hers does. Stiles is grumbling and rubbing his ear when they reach him, so Isaac slings an arm around his shoulders and tugs him into his chest, knocking a breath out of him.
“Lydia, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't injure my boyfriend. I just got him.”
Stiles makes a muffled noise of surprise into Isaac's shoulder, very slowly dropping his hand from his ear to wind his arms around his waist. Lydia rolls her eyes with a smile.
“I suppose I can try, although you might want to teach your boyfriend not to try to hide from werewolves.”
When she says it, Stiles hugs Isaac properly, tight and a little overenthusiastic like he normally does, grinning wide enough for Isaac to feel his teeth against his neck.
“It’s not his fault. I could smell you both from down the hall.”
Isaac feels a pinch of loss when Stiles unglues himself from his torso to look up at him. It’s bizarre to watch the spirit of Coach Stilinski materialize right in front of him.
“Really? From how far? How long?”
Isaac lets his arm drop from Stiles’ shoulders in favor of tangling their fingers together. Fuck it, if he’s going to play the boyfriend game, he’s playing to win. Stiles squeezes automatically, his assessing gaze softening just for a second, and Isaac’s still not ready for kissing at school, but he really, really wants to. He would, if they were home. He will.
“I don’t know. Not long. A few seconds?”
“Hey, that’s awesome!”
Lydia snorts.
“I know they say everything’s exciting in the honeymoon phase, but I think you might be overdoing it, Stiles.”
Isaac tightens his grip to cut off a response he’s sure would be more awkward than helpful and directs the group to head in the direction of the locker rooms and parking lot.
“Actually, I’ve been having some trouble recently. We’re working on it.”
Lydia’s purse whips into Allison’s hip with the force of her turn.
“What kind of trouble?”
Isaac sniffs lightly and listens for nearby movement. The coast seems clear enough, but they do need to keep moving or Coach is going to kill them. Besides, someone in this ragtag pack needs to be the one who remembers how often the bad guys show up in this godforsaken school. He waves the girls forward again and feels a tug on his sleeve. Stiles bounces an eyebrow at him, shooting a glance at Lydia and Allison’s backs. Isaac shrugs, mouth tugging sideways. They deserve to know, if they’re going to be taking on the Darach together. They should know because the alpha pack knows. They need to know he’s weaker. Stiles’ brows furrow in irritation, but his thumb still sweeps across the back of Isaac’s hand and he doesn’t stop them from walking, so Isaac will count that as a win.
“I’ll explain, but not here. Can you come to our place after practice? Stiles and I are kind of grounded.”
“You got grounded? Seriously?”
It strikes Isaac that maybe Lydia is a thunderstorm, too. Stiles would definitely call him out for saying it now, with two girls under his belt, even if her accusing finger is currently directed at him.
“Does this have anything to do with what you told your dad last night?”
Stiles falters in his step for a moment, then shrugs, wincing a little.
“It might have a bit to do with that, maybe.”
Allison leans around Lydia to look at him.
“What did you tell him that got you grounded?”
Stiles grunts and scratches at his cheek.
“Nothing big, you know, just, um, the truth?”
“What?”
“We, uh, we told him the truth.”
“Oh, about you and Isaac?”
“In a way, yes! But, also, no, the other truth. He sort of figured out the first thing on his own and then told us, while Isaac was trying to tell him the other truth, in a totally horrifying and mentally scarring way, which was totally separate and somehow no less horrifying than how we told him the other truth again, once the first thing got cleared up.”
Lydia looks painfully unimpressed. Allison just looks pained.
“Oh. Well, that’s good, though, right? I think? If he knows the truth, then he can help us.”
“Yeah, or protect himself, or stay the hell away from supernatural crime scenes. Anyway, nobody died, so, overall, grounded? Not so bad. Could’ve been worse.”
Isaac is pretty sure what happened was quite a bit worse, but he’s not going to take the bait.
“Is he going to be okay with us coming over if you’re grounded?”
“He’s going to have to be. He knows what we’re dealing with now and if we can’t leave, you guys will have to come to us. Somehow, I can’t imagine Isaac here sneaking out of the house.”
He has to be doing this on purpose. Turns out Isaac’s going to take the bait a little after all.
“And risk pissing off your dad? No, thanks.”
Allison wraps her fingers around Lydia’s wrist as they near the doors to the parking lot.
“Alright, then we’ll be there. I’ll tell my dad we’re working on an English project or something.”
Isaac uses his existing grip on Stiles to elbow him in the stomach as soon as he sees his stupid, handsome face shift to speak.
“Okay, great. Sounds good. Bye.”
He waves over their combined shoulders as he steers Stiles down the hall. Stiles waits just long enough to turn the corner before he opens his mouth.
“What was that for?!”
“You can’t tell her I saw her dad and we both know that’s what you were going to say.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Isaac pulls a smirk and stops short outside the locker room doors to give him a once-over.
“No? My mistake. What were you going to say, then?”
“Something else.”
“Sure, Stiles.”
Stiles huffs and turns toward the door, but it slams open before he can touch it.
“Lahey! Stilinski! You’re late! Quit holding hands in the hallway and get dressed!”
They spring apart, twin flames of embarrassment blazing in their cheeks.
“Yes, Coach!”
Coach grins, pointing the business end of his whistle at both of them in turn.
“Now, that’s more like it. Lahey, try not to pass out on us this time. I need my best runner on the track.”
“I’ll try, Coach.”
“Good. Stilinski, since you’re still standing here, I’ve decided it’s your responsibility to stay on top of him out there. If he starts flagging, you ride his ass until he finishes, you get that?”
“Uhh…”
“Yes or yes, Stilinski?”
“Yes, yep, definitely. You got it, Coach.”
“Damn right. Now quit screwing around and get changed or so help me I will send McCall out there to ride both of you.”
Stiles has ceased to function, leaving Isaac to push them both through the doorway and into the locker room. He’s proud of himself for making it past Coach with a straight face, but his resolve crumbles immediately once they clear the first set of lockers to find Scott sitting on the bench, frozen halfway through putting his sneakers on, and at least half a dozen of their teammates staring at them. Stiles changes and runs outside so fast that Coach yells at the rest of them for lacking his enthusiasm.