Even with a woman like Kate Argent in her family, Allison was considered the ‘spitfire’. Unpredictable and barely tamable by their Hunter standard.
Issac was the type of guy that always fell through the cracks, too sweet that they were too docile for her. He would have fallen into the background if it hadn’t been for a few specific events and conversations. He may have pulled himself out of the cracks but she never came to see him on equal footing.
But Stiles? Stiles was consistent in being present and in his strength.
Allison knows how to draw Stiles back when he begins to lose himself in the supernatural. While his attention easily splinters in various directions like cracks spiraling out from the point of impact of a bullet on a window, Stiles has his own anchor.
Stiles will never admit aloud to anyone that sometimes he feels like he’s drowning. Gasping against the unforgiving waves of supernatural threats, of the pain his friends and now his father have been drawn into, of his own demons and his assumed responsibility in his role within the group. To love Stiles is to know that he’s a communicator, a constant buzz of language. Verbally he can talk marathons around her but it’s his body language and unconscious use of it that first made him appealing to her.
When his lips thin out until they look like they’re sinking into his mouth and his fingers tap sporadically, she knows it’s time to drag out the comic books that now collect dust within his closet.
She gets it, she does: that need to compensate for your very breakable humanity with the feeling of being useful. Allison accomplishes this through her own extensive training while Stiles succeeds with his intellect and heart.
Before they became a well-oiled partnership, Allison still saw Stiles for more than just his apparent goofy exterior or as Scott McCall’s best friend.
She remembers the first time Stiles pulled out his Spider-Man wallet, the one plastered with the vintage comic book covers and how he proudly showed it to her. She remembers the dedicated weekly game nights Scott always ran off to, a tradition between the boys since they were kids. She remembers driving through town and spotting Stiles’ buzzed head walking into the local comic book store. She remembers how Stiles went several months wearing a variety of Batman shirts after Erica had died; it had been Stiles’ way of mourning and remembering Erica.
“First McCall, then that Lahey boy, and now you? From what I see, you have one thing working for you so I’ll spare cleaning the silver bullets in front of you.”
He wants to quip how humans are still easily scared by bullets, silver or not, but not today. No, this conversation doesn’t have room for jokes.
The Argents are all levels of calculating, Stiles has noticed. Gerard Argent was a manipulator of psychotic proportions, clearly the love child of Hannibal Lecter and a praying mantis. Allison is strategic, always weighs the pros and cons of any and all things, a General in her own right.
But Chris Argent?
Chris calculates the best way to dismantle any situation or perceived threat, at any cost. And right now he has Stiles in his scope, just like any other guy who’s shown an interest in his beloved daughter.
Chris had agreed to a face to face with Stiles on the condition that not only would Allison not be in the room but that she would be away from the house completely. Chris cited that if he was to take their relationship seriously then she would need to be serious in giving them space to converse.
After what felt like hours of being assessed Chris finally speaks and oh yeah, did Stiles mention that Chris is a man of few words but when he speaks it’s like he commands the very air in the room too?
“Who is she to you?”
Stiles thinks it should scare him how easily they had fallen into step with each other, once they acknowledged their feelings. But if he thought that way he would be yet another catastrophe of social expectations and Stiles has been eating wronged expectations for breakfast circa birth, bitches.
Stiles is known for running his mouth and his continuous stream of word vomits but this is different. This time his words are heavy with purpose.
Okay, a slow-moving and needing to be prodded sort of purpose.
Chris’ expression doesn’t change but his displeasure reflects in his eyes.
“She’s…” Stiles takes another moment, wills himself to let out one of the biggest word vomits he’s given yet, “the Wonder Woman to my Batman. She gives me strength and solidarity when I feel at my wit’s end.”
Stiles remembers being horrified when Allison confused Wonder Woman to Supergirl, having the audacity to ask “aren’t they all just the same scantily clad and objectified characters?” Even after a long winded explanation that involved a legitimate flow chart of Wonder Woman, Supergirl and the mythos of DC characters Allison had still been at a loss of understanding. The next day at school Stiles silently approached Allison in study hall, struggling with a messenger bag that was bursting at the seams. The loud ‘thud’ of the bag and its contents making contact with the table had earned a cross “shh!” from the librarian, but Stiles had ignored her and unloaded the contents on top of Allison’s homework.
“She brings me curly fries just because. She convinced my dad to eat salads without my constant badgering and he listened to her. She doesn’t mind watching action or superhero movies, because she doesn’t always want the romance. She isn’t afraid of being strong, not just physically. She doesn’t need validation from me or anyone else because she’s confident in who she is. She doesn’t mind playing video games with me as long as she gets to be my partner. She watches my back and she trusts me to watch hers. She’s loyal and loyal to tradition, which is why I wanted to come to you about getting your blessing to date this incredible woman you’ve raised.”
Stiles lets his words fill the room, squashing the urge to fidget under Chris’ signature glare, and reminds himself to breathe like he practiced in front of his mirror.
Stiles has heard how unreceptive Chris has been to Allison’s previous suitors and how Chris has let bullets convey his disapproval. Which is why Stiles isn’t surprised when Chris reaches into his jacket and pulls out his trusty Desert Eagle handgun. Chris leans forward, resting his arm on his right thigh and the handgun gripped loosely in his hand.
Chris Argent is calculating and a man of few words.
Stiles lets out a cautious exhale as Chris unloads the clip, slides the chamber back on the handgun to release the remaining bullet.
Chris methodically places the gun, clip, and the lone bullet next to him. He leans back into his seat, his body language as relaxed as Chris Argent will ever be, and gives Stiles an approving nod.