I don't remember anything. [She spits it out, angrily, but her breath catches for a second as his hands settle on her shoulders. It's a warm, oddly heavy weight she's compelled to turn her head and look at...
Those long fingers. Long, thin, awkward but so very sure...
The red of the flare leaves her blinking and shaking her head as it burns into her memory. This one hurts, this one's awful because she can smell the noxious gasoline vapors and the cool California air, the acrid smell of the flare burning itself out.
She's terrified, and so is he: she doesn't need to be a werewolf to smell it on the air, to see it in the puddle of gasoline at his feet that ripples as trembling feet take one step after another, closer to danger, closer to Scott. He's terrified, but he's where none of them can go...not even Allison, especially not Allison.
He's her savior, in that moment, because he's saving the person she can't live without...and he is what she yearns to be, truly strong and truly good to walk through raw terror with his head held so very high...
She blinks hard, and it's all gone...all but the flare. All but the blinding red light and the shaking voice, quietly accepting death rather than lose his brother.
Looking Stiles dead in the eye again, her eyes are full of angry tears, voice shaking and thick with revulsion.]
If you don't stop touching me right now, I'm gonna throw up all over you.
[She can't understand it. How he could throw away that kind of goodness, that kind of love and leave Scott behind, leave his best friend, his brother all alone...
She doesn't know why that stupid bat is on her foot. She wants to slice it off.
She's going to be sick. Actually, physically sick.]