This was just my quick attempt at writing the internal thoughts/emotions of Allison from the latest episode (3.05 entitled 'Frayed'). It's really just a oneshot drabble that I wrote because I felt like it. Also… for any of you who have read 'Blurring the Line' hopefully it will be updated within the week so I apologize for the fact that it's literally been almost a year since that story has been updated. I don't own Teen Wolf and all mistakes are entirely my own.

She thinks he's kidding at first. Stiles is known for messing with people when bored so when he tells them that Scott's still hurt, for a millisecond she expects him to start laughing and hang-up. Almost immediately she realizes that, while a jokester at heart, in no world would Stiles joke about his best friend. And he certainly wouldn't call her and Lydia just for a laugh.

She feels her heart speed up and wonders if Scott, even after so much separation, might still be able to pick it out above everyone else's. "What do you mean still? He's not healing?" She says it with the amount of confusion and concern appropriate for an ex-girlfriend but internally she is screaming and panicking as a current girlfriend would.

All she registers before her mind goes into overdrive is, "I think he's actually getting worse." She lets her Argent blood take over and perfects her calm façade. As far as Lydia and Stiles know she has complete control of her emotions and the situation at hand. She says, "dying," and while her voice never wavers she is overcome with a sickening feeling. Despite months of pushing him away she cannot even begin to contemplate losing him forever.

She's not sure how Stiles does it but minutes later she sees the school bus make a sharp left and speed towards the run-down rest stop. The students come piling out one after another and she can't help but smile as she hears the reason for the bus's sudden change of direction. Stiles really is a genius. Lydia mutters something similar aloud but before Allison can respond in agreement she spots the person in question doing everything he can to support the weight of his best friend.

She's heard stories of course, about all of the injuries Scott's sustained. He has a pretty terrible track record, having already survived multiple bullet wounds, arrows, and wolfsbane vapor (a newer discovery that still makes Allison cringe). Until now however she hadn't actually seen Scott at anything but his prime health. She thinks that's probably a good thing because the panic and fear she suddenly feels isn't something she thinks she could have handled a few months ago.

Stiles can barely manage to keep Scott upright as they make their way towards herself and Lydia. Each step the boys make causes Scott's jacket to shift enough to give Allison a perfect view of the sickening black stain that is spreading across his T-shirt. For the first time since receiving Stiles' call she lets her emotions show and she becomes completely paralyzed. She hears Lydia talking to her but her brain cannot register what she's staying. It isn't until she sees her friend leave her side that Allison snaps back and quickly rushes to Scott's other side.

He all but collapses on top of her and Allison doesn't need to see the look of terror in Lydia's eyes to understand that he's not doing well. That he truly is as bad as he looks. She and Stiles do their best to get Scott into the abandoned restroom as fast as possible and as they do, she can't help but notice that the weight grows heavier by the second. Whatever strength Scott had left had all but dissipated at this point and Allison and Stiles walk the last few feet practically dragging their friend behind them.

She does her best to prop Scott up against the wall as gently as possible and is alarmed to see that he has paled significantly in the short trip to the bathroom. Clearly whatever energy she and Stiles had exerted holding him up was nothing compared to what he had to do to stay up. Seeing him now, completely helpless, is terrifying enough to make her want to run. To get into her car, low-fuel be damned, and take it as far away as possible. She doesn't think she can handle it, seeing him like this. But with Stiles and Lydia behind her she pushes through the anxiety and lifts Scott's shirt.

She regrets it almost immediately.

She's not sure what she was expecting but the large gashes, spilling with a combination of black and crimson blood, was not something her mind would have conjured up. She'd seen the blow that had cause this injury, but never in a million years would she have expected it to turn so gruesome and deadly. Her mind is moving a mile a minute and she can't help but wonder why Scott had waited so long to tell them. She doesn't realize she asked the question aloud until she hears the feeble, "Sorry," leave Scott's mouth.

He doesn't sound worried or scared, merely exhausted, which is what pushes her over the edge. "Just give us a second okay?" Her voice breaks and she thinks that the tears she's been fighting since Stiles' phone call will finally begin to fall. She tears herself away from the boy, squeezing his hand in assurance, and reigns in every emotion threatening to break free. Clinical, she reminds herself. She's been trained for this and it's time to prove it.

It takes only seconds of theorizing for her, Stiles, and Lydia (mostly Lydia) to determine the cause of Scott's declining health and the next thing Allison can process is that she's holding a lighter and a needle. She concentrates on her task, refusing to look into the mirror. She doesn't want to see. She's successful in avoiding watching Stiles and Lydia strip Scott of his shirt but she can't help but flinch at the yelps of pain that leave her ex's mouth.

She stares resolutely at the needle in her hand and briefly thinks about the damage that the Argent family has caused with fire. As she pushes the needle further into the flame she can't help hoping that this time it'll do some good. "He's going to need another shirt, where's his bag." Allison knows that Stiles has been waiting for any excuse to leave and avoid witnessing what is about to take place so she happily gives him one. She is aware that, despite the bravado he attempts to show, his inevitable panic would only be a distraction to her. It will be hard enough doing what she has to do and she's not sure she'll manage with the prying eyes of Stiles.

Go with him. Please go with him. In this single moment Allison prays that whatever Lydia's connection to the supernatural is, it includes mind reading.

Apparently it does.

The two leave to stall Coach and Allison is left alone to face the one person she'd been avoiding for months. Kneeling down, and seeing for the first time every detail is enough to completely transform her from an Argent to Allison. No longer needed to taper the emotions of Stiles and Lydia, no longer required to be any stronger than necessary, Allison lets herself break.

"Stay with me." She's not demanding, she's begging. Begging for him to last a little longer, long enough for her to save him. It becomes a mantra and as she pleads with him she lets the tears fall. She had done a good job at hiding her emotions since her return to Beacon Hills but at the end of the day, at the end of every day, she let herself miss him. But missing someone you see everyday is far different than missing someone who has been ripped from your life. It's easier to miss someone from afar, to see them and desperately wishing to speak to them, knowing that you could if you wanted to.

She's survived, but she knows that cutting someone out of your life is bearable. Having someone, having Scott, taken away forever would destroy her.

The thought is crushing and as she watches his eyes flutter closed she begins to lose focus. She can no longer associate this moment with her previous training because at no point in training was she kneeling in front of the boy she loves watching him die. "Just look at me okay? Just keep looking at me." Because I can't looking at you.

The tears skew her vision and she knows that the next few minutes will be the most important of her life. She tries to focus, to put the thread in the needle like she's done so many times before, but all she can really see is Scott's head lolling to the side. Please. Come on. Please.

A sudden wave of anger hits her. After all of the times the boy in front of her has saved her, she can't even get it together long enough to thread a needle. She's failing him and that thought alone causes the anguish to skyrocket. She needs to be an Argent now more than ever but all of her memories of training are replaced with moments of laughter and comfort shared with Scott. Her mind is a cruel place though and suddenly all she sees is a fresh grave and a tombstone.

She knows what her mother would say to her. Knows that to a bloodline of hunters and warriors she would be a disappointment. I'm trying. But trying isn't good enough. She has to do. She has to put her feelings aside and approach this with an air of confidence. She knows this but it's not enough to get her hands to stop shaking. Breathe. Deep breaths.

Deep breaths don't help. They merely bring that much more pressure. The gravity of the situation is heightened with each deep breath and Allison can only scream in frustration. A million times. You've done this a million times before. The scream is swallowed up by a sob. Time is ticking and as much as she wants to, she can't make it slow down.

Clinically. Unemotionally.

She focuses on those two words and lets herself be consumed by the fear and desperation. She takes a moment to acknowledge it and then forces it to fuel her. To drive her to be the person her mother had always wanted to be.

The string, the flimsy piece of string whose importance has become unequivocal, slides through the needle and Allison lets the relief wash through her. The hard part is done and now she is robotic in her movements. Pinch, insert needle, pull. Stay with me. She watches her hands, no longer shaking, work thoroughly and efficiently to close the wound and when the final stitch is in place she feels her body collapse.

She's done.

And then she gets a good look at him, the sweet, innocent, genuinely good boy in front of her, and she realizes that while methodically stitching his wounds she had failed to notice he stopped moving. No. "Scott?" Please no. She moves closer and realizes that the warm breath that had cause such distress nights earlier is gone. No. "Scott?"

He doesn't move. Not in the slightest. For the second time today she hopes this is a joke. Hopes that Stiles will pop out and say, "Psych!" while Scott bounds up with ease and gives her one of his easy smiles. For the second time today she acknowledges the reality of the situation. "Scott?"

Please. Please no.

She's begging anyone and everyone who will listen. Please not him.

All she can do to remain sane is chant his name. No one syllable has ever had such a profound effect on her. "Scott!" Once. She's panicking now. Imagining Stiles walking in to find her sitting next to his dead best friend. "Scott!" Twice. Seeing Mrs. McCall answering a call from her son's cellphone, only to discover that it's not her son but her son's friend telling her of his death. "SCOTT!" Three times. Sitting alone in a cemetery, mourning the boy who had been everything.

His eyes fly open and she jumps.

The relief is all consuming. She has to touch him to make sure he's real. He mumbles something but she can't hear it. "Scott, look at me."

And he does.