Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it.

When Scott comes home, he finds his house filled with ghosts.

They appear as he swings the front door open, rising from the shadows like the sun rises above the eastern horizon every morning. Their colorless forms step forth and, knowing he's there by the creak of the door, look towards him. Their half-formed expressions wear all the same, inviting him to join them.

Scott doesn't move. Unsure of his eyes, he only watches.

As one, the group seems to shrug, then falls into step around each other without a second thought. Their footsteps make no sound as they dart between the rooms, and no scents tickle at Scott's nose. As they cross through patches of weak sunlight, the beams eat them up, just so the darkness can give them life again. Despite their confident steps, they cling to existence by a tentative thread, barely recognizable.

Even so, Scott knows each one of the half-baked phantoms on sight. The way they carry themselves betrays their identities better than any scent, and instinctively, he picks up on the spots they leave open where he would fit like a glove. A part of him wants to join the mirage, aches to dive into something familiar, but Scott can't find the strength to join them. All his will has drained through his feet and into the floor. He watches from the doorway as the ghosts follow in cold footpaths, every motion rehearsed and pulled straight from his memory bank.

In the kitchen, Derek grabs Aiden and Ethan and holds them back. The twins fight against him, lunging for the Oni grabbing the back of Scott's and Kira's heads. The blond-haired betas stretch their mouths open in a roar, their fangs gleaming, but no sound leaves their throats. Derek finally lets them go as the Oni release the couple, all three trying to catch Scott and Kira as they fall.

By the steps, Rafael points to the scar in the floor the alpha had never wondered about before. The agent's lips move, his eyes tear up, but Scott sees past it. Sees that Rafael is spineless when it comes to him and glares. He tells his absent father to leave and that he'll see him whenever Rafael finds the time to stop avoiding him, knowing it'll send him running. Yet, deep inside, he hopes he'll stay this time.

In the living room, Stiles lounges in the middle of the sagging couch, tied up and his mouth covered in black tape. Lydia, Melissa, Isaac, and Peter mill around him, bantering and talking with their hands. They avoid the stare of the boy on the couch. No one can help themselves forever, though; one by one, they glance at him – first Melissa, then Isaac, then Peter, and Lydia finishing off the list. Apart from the redheaded Banshee, they all flinch in return.

The scenes rise and fall, the ghosts transitioning from one to another with staggering ease, reminding Scott of every traumatic moment that had happened in his house over the last few weeks – from every pack meeting to every injury to every panicked frenzy. He feels every healed wound open and bleed. If it weren't for his eyes telling him he's fine, he would believe in the pain. He tells himself, It's over and done with. Let it go.

He can't. He doesn't know how. His body aches with a pain that doesn't exist, and scanning the sea of hazy faces, he searches for the one who could wash it all away with one of her pretty little smiles. After a few seconds, it becomes abundantly clear she's not here – not at Lydia's or Isaac's side, not trading theories with Stiles, not communicating with glances to Derek or Kira, not anywhere Scott can see.

But then, why hadn't the teen expected that to begin with? Ever since their breakup, she'd blacklisted his house, never stopping by unless the end of the world waited for them. He'd tried his best to make sure she hadn't felt awkward, to let her know his house is – was – still open to her, but it hadn't been enough. In life, she'd done her best to avoid him at all costs, and in death, she didn't come at all.

Tears well in Scott's eyes, blurring his vision into a mosaic of shapeless colors. He tries to make out the shape of her face in the abstract world, but the formation of it doesn't align to the memory in his head. A sob claws to escape from his throat, but he chokes it down, blinking the tears away, even as more rise to replace them.

The ghosts have stopped moving. From every corner of the house, they stare at him, accusing. Lydia fronts the group, standing in the hallway a few feet away. Even cloaked in shadows, her eyes glisten with diamond tears, her ruby red lips twitching at the corners. From behind her, the Nogitsune smirks. Using Stiles' body, he hugs her from behind and presses his head to hers, tangling his fingers in her blouse, eyes mocking.

Together, with the others, they wait.

Scott stands trembling, unable to give them what they – even he – want. There exists no time machine he can hop in and ride to a few days before. He can't save the friend they'd already lost, can't fill the void where her presence resided. He can't even tell her how fucking sorry he is, can't plead for her saving forgiveness, can't even tell her goodbye. That he'd loved her, hadn't ever stopped loving her.

Yet, the ghosts wait.

Tears drown their forms again. Scott welcomes it. With trembling shoulders and a heaving breath, he drags his feet through the threshold of his house. He shuts the door, trudges past the crying Lydia and smiling Nogitsune, and takes the staircase one slow step at a time. Their glares follow him all the way to his room, even though they themselves don't move.

His bedroom door is closed as he approaches. Without thinking, Scott reaches for the knob and twists. Just as the door cracks open, he stops. Confused, Scott tries to force his shaking hand forward but can't. An invisible snare snaps around his wrist, holding it back and whispering, For your sake, don't.

Inside, Scott's bed sings a siren's song. It wills him to drift inside to his mattress, where he can lay down, shut his eyes, and fade from consciousness. It promises him sweet, blissful rest away from all the ghosts that wait for him downstairs.

Scott's not stupid. He knows no rest waits for him – not when he has reminders of her plastered across his room. She's the star in the photos lining his desk. Her favorite pillow bears her headprint, and an old shirt lies at the bottom of his dresser, permeated with her scent. Just the mere thought of the mementos threatens to collapse his chest, his heart withering under the building pressure. If he went in, he could forget breathing altogether.

So, despite his weary body telling him otherwise, Scott drops his hand. He backs away from the door and trudges back to the stairs. Beneath him, through the floor, he feels the ghosts waiting for him. Somehow, they don't seem as bad as the ticking time bomb behind.

Scott's lonely, empty steps follow him all the way back to and down the stairs. They bounce off the walls with a dead thump. Thump. Thump that beats in time with his aching heart. He tries not to think about them, tries not to think about anything specific at all, for all his thoughts lead back to her eventually – how her lighter footfalls used to trail behind him, how three of his classes will have an empty seat in them tomorrow, how the border collie sick at the clinic reminds him of the one she hit when she first arrived in town… how the pack formation can never be complete again.

Without meaning to, she'd touched every part of Scott's life. She'd become an integral piece in his ability to function at the most basic level. Now missing, Scott finds himself falling apart.

As he steps onto the hardwood of the first floor, Scott's body shakes with the intensity of an earthquake. An ocean of tears builds inside him like a rising tide trying to reach his eyes. Pressure builds with it, pushing at his insides, threatening to make Scott implode. He takes deep, gulping breaths to keep from drowning, but the oxygen only fuels the ocean's desperate climb. Under the watchful eyes of the ghosts, Scott chokes on his guilt, the pressure pushing the water into his eyes but not down his face. Not yet.

Not ever, he hopes. If one tear should fall, whatever willpower he'd generated to keep together would splinter. His despair would rip him apart and eat him whole.

So, the alpha stands there in the foyer, gasping as if in a panic attack, tears shining in his eyes but not falling, his body trembling with the effort to keep it together.

"Scott?"

His head whips towards the new voice, his hands balling into fists. Scott blinks, and his unfocused vision sharpens to assess the threat. In his head, he berates himself for missing the creak of the opening door and the sunlight soaking him from head to toe, but his anxiety fizzles out as he sees the intruder.

Haloed with brilliant sunbeams, Derek stands in the doorway, hesitant to enter. From his spot, his eyes flicker up and down Scott's shaking frame. His lips are twisted into the perpetual frown Scott should recognize but somehow doesn't. He asks in an abnormally gentle voice, "Scott, are you ok?"

No.

Scott nods, choking down the lump in his throat and opening his mouth to reply.

No words come out. They've all evaporated into the air, riding the breeze far away from here.

Scott's mind scrambles to coral all his thoughts, his words, back into their places, but it can't stay on track. It keeps running, running, running away from him, back to her, always her, no matter how he tries to steer himself away. The ocean of tears rises, rises, rises, the waterline clogging his lungs, his throat, his tear-ducts, and he can't help but drown in his grief. The only words coming back to him stumble from his mouth in his broken voice, "It just happened so fast."

So fast, so fast. Everything's happening so fast. An apology sits at the tip of Scott's tongue, wanting to be heard, wanting to beg forgiveness for not being able to keep up. Yet, the words slip again, sliding down his throat into a void of black. Scott can only repeat himself like a broken record, recalling the words Argent – who had kept his tears at bay with such trained professionalism – had told him to say whenever his head started spinning out of control. "It just happened so fast.

Derek's eyes dart up and down. His muscles tense up like Scott's have a thousand times before when preparing to fight or fly. He asks, "What happened so fast?"

Allison's death.

Again and again, Scott sees it in his head happening, everything flying back as if on fast forward but popping with color: the strength leaving her body, him catching her without realizing he's moved, her chest already beginning to slow in its fight against gravity. He feels her warm body slick against with sweat against his. He tries to suck her pain into him but finds a yawning, empty chasm instead. Her blood red lips smile as she tells him she loves him. He hears her heartbeat in his ears, the steady tha-THUMP, tha-THUMP, tha-THUMP slowing, slowing, slowing… gone. Gone like her words in her throat, the light in her eyes. Gone so fast, he'd been too dumbfounded – too stupid – to do anything to save her, to tell her anything but beg her to stay.

So fast, so fast, but he hadn't been fast enough. He could've been faster. He should've been faster.

Why hadn't he been faster?

The question pushes the ocean up and out.

Tears rain down Scott's face in a torrential downpour, soaking his frozen skin with warm, salty water. Scott's shoulders bow inward as he falls apart. His head falls into his palms, muffling his sobs of, "It just happened so fast" – his sorry ass excuse. His knees wobble and buckle, caving in, the start of his crashing into the floor.

But before he can fall, Derek's arm intercept him, scooping him up much the same way Scott had grabbed Allison. Derek shoulders his weight with ease and lifts him back up, gathering Scott to his chest with surprising care. He tells him, "Hey now, not yet. Come on. Don't fall down yet. Come with me."

Scott hears without understanding, but as Derek turns them towards the kitchen, his feet fall in staggering line. They walk to the kitchen table one awkward step at a time. As they approach, Derek pulls out a chair with one hand and dumps the teen in it, taking the seat beside him. Now no longer in danger, Scott expects Derek to pull away. Instead, the older beta surprises him for the second time that day: Derek hugs Scott close and rests his chin on top of the teen's head.

Scott can't help it – he cries harder, latching himself to Derek with a white-knuckled grip that couldn't be broken, even if Derek tried. Scott buries his head in the beta's shoulder, his sobs muffling against Derek's shirt as he rambles, "It just happened so fast. It just happened so fast."

Again and again, the words tumble out. Though Scott knows he needs to shut his mouth and save some face, he can't reel in his tongue. There's a need in him to say it, a need to be heard, as if it'll somehow excuse his sin of letting Allison die. Even as his guilt consumes him, he wants the world to see him as innocent. "It just happened so fast."

"I know," Derek whispers. For a moment, Scott can almost hear a waver in his voice, but it's gone as soon as it's come. "but there was nothing else you could've done. It wasn't your fault."

The ghosts mill around, their invisible presence saying otherwise.

Scott's fingers twist into Derek's shirt sleeve and create a tangle of fabric around his white-knuckled fist. He clings so tight any movement might rip the shirt to shreds. The truth hides under his tongue, wanting to come out but kept in the dark by the pathetic excuse he keeps uttering like a child – the one he can't keep hiding behind anymore.

"It is, though," Scott chokes through a strangled throat. His tears soak through Derek's shirt, saturating it until it can't absorb anymore. "I should've done something. I should've been faster, better. I should've looked out for her more. I should've –"

"Scott, shut up and look at me."

The words clog in Scott's throat, catching like a fish catches its lip on a hook, sharp and painful.

It takes all of two seconds for Derek to switch places with Scott. He shoves the teen off him and clamps his hands down on his shoulders, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Scott's shirt. His shoulders rack with trembles, mirroring the teen to a tee except for one thing: his eyes have narrowed into an angry glare.

Scott shrinks under it without realizing it, his usual alpha confidence drowning in a melting pot of conflicting emotions.

Derek's voice is a whisper. "Listen very closely, Scott: her death was not your fault. I won't tolerate you trying to convince yourself of it. You can't go blaming yourself for something you couldn't have controlled. Every one of you knew going into that fight you might not make it out. It was Allison's decision." Derek draws a circle into Scott's shoulder, willing his words to seep through the teen's flesh and into his soul. "Don't take that away from her."

The ocean in Scott's stomach rolls in protest. Scott shakes his head. "But she –"

"Stop." Derek's fingernails elongate into claws, punctuating his point.

Scott flinches and shuts his mouth, not daring to look Derek in the eye any longer.

For a moment, the beta doesn't move or speak. He breathes deeply, inhaling and exhaling with meticulous timing until the shaking in his hands stops and the tension eases. Then, he uses one hand to push Scott's chin back up, despite the resistance that meets him.

With misty eyes, Derek says, "Scott, you're not me. You understand?"

For a moment, Scott doesn't. He gapes at the older werewolf, trying to figure him out, when the truth comes back to him like the static on a TV clearing up to show the originally scheduled program.

Paige. The first girl Derek ever loved – and the one he ended up killing to spare her the pain of his impulsive decisions.

She's the reason he's here now. Derek knew from experience the kind of hell Scott would go through, and he'd come to make sure the younger beta wouldn't suffer in solitude like he had for a long time after her death, the solitude he still suffered from to this day. He'd come to let Scott know he'd been through the same, all-consuming pain before, just with different circumstances surrounding him.

Except Scott didn't find them so different.

With a voice like broken glass, Scott asks him, "Are we, though?"

The look in Derek's eyes is pleading. Despite his gentle whisper, the words that come from Derek's mouth had never been so sure before. "Scott, I promise. Under the red, your eyes aren't blue."

For a moment, Scott can almost believe him.

The teen's tears, which had subsided at Derek's sudden speech, return, flooding down his cheeks all over again. However, Scott doesn't sob like he had before. He reaches up to wipe them away, but Derek stops him. With one suggestive tug, Scott falls back into Derek's arms, allowing himself to cry as freely as wanted.

This time, Scott feels a little less lonely and a little less desperate doing so. He lets his grief overcome him, casting his guilt to the side for just a moment.

Scott stays wrapped in Derek's arms for a long time. The older beta whispers to him, but the teen can't make out the words, only the steady, soothing quality of Derek's voice. Scott clings to it like he clings to the arm around his chest, Derek gripping his forearm with one hand and drawing circles into Scott's shoulder. Every little gesture soothes some part of the raging ocean in Scott's stomach, pushing it down until his tears dry up and his breaths come easier. As he settles, Scott starts hearing the voice in his ear.

"It's ok. You can cry. You can hurt. You can miss her. It's ok. It's ok. You can cry. You can hurt. You can miss her. It's ok."

Derek repeats the same simple lines like a broken record, but the conviction with which he says them could convince Scott to walk off a cliff into a pit of poisonous snakes. They can't dispel Scott's grief, but the companionship and relief they offer is more than enough for him.

The remainder of Scott's tears taper off with another few minutes. His muscles unwind and relax, his form sagging against Derek's broader form. His eyelids droop, feeling like a thousand pounds, and his chest is lighter, his breaths relieving instead of strangling. Without meaning to, he starts drifting off.

Derek's mantra tapers off. He nudges Scott, making sure he's awake, before saying, "Come on. Let's get you on up to bed."

Scott nods and doesn't mind when Derek helps him up from the table. He leans against the beta as Derek guides him towards the stairs, the halls and rooms they pass through empty of ghosts. They climb the steps, slow but steady, and their footsteps mingle in amiable company all the way to Scott's room. Scott almost doesn't notice the photos and smell and reminders of her as they enter the room.

Derek leads Scott to his bed and lets him lie down under the comforter before kneeling beside him. Grabbing the teen's shoulder, Derek gives it a squeeze, saying, "Sleep well, and call me if you need anything – anything at all – ok?"

Scott nods, his eyes drooping. "Thank you, Derek."

A small smile twitches at the corners of the beta's lips. He pats Scott's shoulder one more time, says, "Anytime," then gets up and leaves without another word, the bedroom clicking shut behind him.

Scott lays awake for a long time after the sounds of Derek fade away. Without meaning to, his watery, bloodshot eyes fall to the framed photo sitting on his nightstand. Two happy faces smile back at him, happy and oblivious while they laugh and collapse on each other. He remembers what it felt like when she used to do that – lean onto him, knowing he'd be there to support her. A void exists on either one of sides, where he waits for her body to press against his again. He aches knowing she'll never fill those spots again, but the pain doesn't try to suck his whole heart in anymore. It doesn't feel like the end of the world.

Still, Scott picks up the frame and kisses her face one last time. In the quiet of the early morning, he tells her smiling picture, "I'm sorry. I should've been better. You deserved better." A lump clogs his throat, and he swallows it down. "I love you, Allison. I always did and always will."

It's not the same as telling her flesh and blood self, but for now, it'll do.

Scott sets the picture down and rolls over. As he closes his eyes, for a split second, he thinks he feels the pressure of another person pressed against his side, the brush of a kiss on his forehead. He's asleep faster than he can wonder if she's a hallucination or a ghost.

Alright, I'm officially done with this piece of crap. I wash my hands of it. I can't keep rewriting it until oblivion. XD So, here you go, guys! Hope it doesn't disappoint too much! I did my best.

But yeah, wow. I know I'm not the only one who was kind of disappointed by the lack of mourning of Allison's death, especially from Scott, who - y'know - borderline worshiped the ground she walked on (even while with Kira). And I always thought it was a missed opportunity that he didn't bond with Derek over it since, as stated above, they went through the same thing and in Peter's words, they were very similar as teens. I just... Ugh, this show, sometimes. XD

Anyway, hope this turned out alright. Lemme know if you think so!

(Also, if anyone has any Derek and Scott bonding fics, please send them to me. I feel like I've found them all, and I'm kind of depressed since I thought their brotherly/comradely bond was under-explored in the show. So much they could've done, but so little time. UGH.)