Clairvoyant || Stilinski [1]

Seventy-Three || You & Me

"Dad," Stiles countered, "Scott and Kira have been kidnapped and taken to Mexico, okay? I think that's a pretty good reason for a trip to Mexico."

Stilinski paced his office, inhaling sharply. "Okay," he leaned on his desk, "even if Deaton is right about this -"

"Yeah," he interrupted.

"The best way to do this is to go through the proper channels."

"Dad-"

Stilinski, however, was firm, "That means calling the right law enforcement agencies, border patrol, putting out an all-point."

"Dad, I can't just wait around for the wheels of bureaucracy to start spinning in five different government offices, okay?" He needed to get through. He needed Scott. "Someone needs to go down there right now, find them and rescue them. I'm going."

Stilinski held and unreadable expression, straightening up. "I can keep you from going."

Stiles lightly lifted his shoulders, "I'd find a way."

Stilinski's jaw clenched, "I can throw you in a cell."

"I'd find a way," Stiles replied.

The sheriff sighed, "Stiles, please. Look, just give me a little more time to verify something slight more concrete than a psychic vision by some guy with a third eye!" He saw the expression on his son's face, "Look, I will call every law enforcement agency all the way down to South America if I have to. If nothing turns up, then I'll book two flights to Mexico. We'll both go, okay?"

Stiles nodded, "Okay, okay great. Do I get a gun?"

Stilinski hesitated before making a face, "No."

Stiles groaned, "Worth a shot."

"As long as you're not taking any."

||

"Dad, come on. Sit down, I'm serious."

The Argent apartments had doubled in its occupancy and its aura was brighter than the months before.

Chris, although healing, was still doing just that. He, even while bleeding through his gauze, didn't want to take it easy.

Allison poked her head out from the bathroom, curling her hair. "I'm serious, sit down!"

Chris groaned from the kitchen, waving her off as he made coffee next to the seven gun cases open on the counter. "I'm fine."

Allison let go of a new curl, feeling the warmth of it before rolling another into the barrel iron. "You just had a rusty sewer pipe through you and had surgery in a kitchen. You need to take it easy."

"Since when are you the parent?" questioned Chris as he hit a few buttons on the keurig. He shifted a little sorely, his top sitting oddly over the bandaging around his torso.

"Since you stopped rationalizing like one," Allison defended with a grin as she let go of her last curl. She set down the curler, scrunching her hair with a soft smile of feeling.

feeling

Everything felt so comforting and real. Everything in her was so alive.

She was alive.

Allison went into the kitchen, wearing a flowy white top and jet black jeans that fit like a glove. She could finally wear something other than what she died in. She walked up up her father and put a hand on his shoulder before turning him towards the breakfast counter. "Sit."