♡ 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 ♡
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 eighty-five.

my Atlantis.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

ANGER was a killer. It tasted like an aphrodisiac, burned like a spice, and tore through the insides like swallowed glass. Dallas couldn't get enough of it. To her, it was the finest dish on her messy palette.

She'd wash it down with a heavy glass of tears and a side of fresh insecurity, which had always been her greatest comfort meal. Then, when she was done, she'd driven herself too sick for anything else.

No wonder she was such a glutton.

Maybe she could take the tears first. Then the insecurity. Then space out the anger between crumbs of happiness that she could swipe from other people's plates. No matter which order she went in, though, she'd always be sick. She'd forever be sick. She'd forever have the stomach ache from swallowing down every emotion she'd ever had.

A heavy sigh escaped her nimble lips. Her hands wrapped herself like a blanket of flesh and bone. With nothing but the hard stairs supporting her weight, she'd have to sit and listen to the wood creak with each anxiety-induced tap of her boots.

Dallas never once considered herself an anxious person. However, now, she was flickering her eyes from the front door to the clock. Each eye swatted upwards, then downwards, then pin-balled around the room just enough to make her dizzy.

She had to shake her head a little. Just to make some room for better thoughts. Ones that didn't repeat every bad thing she didn't want to hear.

"This is very ominous."

Her eyes darted upwards as the door opened. Albeit, Marilyn was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Derek's face poked behind her father's frowning figure.

Dallas was the mind-reader of the family. That part was set in stone. However, with just one look, it was like he knew.

She stood up, the silk of her green dress rising above her buckling knees, and pressed her lips together in a line thin enough that he couldn't see it wobble.  "She left her key." Dallas swallowed. "On the mantle. I don't think she'll be needing it again."

"I'm finding it hard to believe she didn't say anything before she left." James peered, glancing at the key and back to his daughter. His eyes lingered on one for a little moment longer.

Dallas found herself avoiding his gaze. She didn't want to repeat the things she'd heard. If she did, she'd worry he'd agree with half of them. Instead of words, a snake slithered up her throat and spat them out for her.

"She said she'd send a postcard." she spat, climbing the stairs with haste.

Just as James parted his lips to speak, Derek pushed past him and followed. "I'll talk to her."

Dallas didn't want to talk. She'd rather sew her lips shut and breathe strictly through her nose for the rest of her life. What good did talking do? Her mother just did a ton and caused more than enough damage than Dallas knew how to fix. Talking was a double-edged sword that she was sick of cutting her hands on.

"Dallas, wait." Derek huffed, skipping a few steps with wide lunges. "Slow down, you're younger than me."

She tried to slam her door, however, found herself glaring at the large hand that had wedged between it and the door-frame. Dallas knew she could easily overpower him, yet, all her strength was strained from keeping her seams from falling apart.

"I'm not gonna ask to come in. I know that is guaranteed suicide. But.. I am willing to stand outside. One thing I'm not willing to do, though, is move this hand."

Dallas scowled.

"Then don't blame me when you lose it." The Siren hissed in a sharp tone all too familiar.

"I won't lose it. You're not as cruel as you pretend to be." His returning tone was gentle.

There was a moment of dull silence. It was comforting, though, as if a million words were spoken in just a few milliseconds. Derek was right. She wasn't as cruel. She wished she were more cruel. That way, a cluster of jagged words wouldn't hurt her as much as they had.

But as she opened the door, the sympathetic slant of his brows and the worried purse of his lips made her remember that she could never be that.

"I'm not flipping my switch, if that's why you're so worried."

"Can't I be worried for the sake of being worried?"

The hummed. It seemed like her mental health was only a serious matter when it turned her lethal. Any other time, it didn't mean much.

"I'm sure you'll be happy to know that the bedroom is empty. It's all yours for whenever you feel like moving in." She spat. Literally. The words were foul on her lips.

His shoulders slumped. Derek knew when Dallas was acting out. She'd clench her jaw and stiffen her eyebrows into a scowl, then aim her fire at whichever poor soul, before forcing a swallow as the words had cut her tongue in the process. Most days, she'd cause more damage to herself than those she intended to hurt just to have the last word.

Derek nodded. Hurt, perhaps. Determined? Definitely. He took a seat on the carpet outside her door and rested his hands on his knees as she stared down at him with a curious glare.

She managed to croak out something that sounded like a genuine question. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting," Derek mumbled, tapping his fingers on his knees. "For when you're done lashing out and want to talk."

He'd be waiting there awhile. Dust would collect in his hair and moss would string up his sides, but something told Dallas he'd stay regardless because he always did. Whether in her face questioning her decisions or from afar making sure each one was a safe one. Derek was only supposed to appear on paper, yet, took every liberty he could in making his presence worth more than ink.

"And what I never can?" Dallas muttered. "Finish lashing out, I mean."

Derek's eyes tore away from his hands and crawled up to hers. "Have any of us?

Dallas grunted as she took a seat on her side of the carpet. A thin band of metal stretched between them, as did the subtle change in fabric, and she couldn't help but notice how the distinctive wear and tear on her side as opposed to his pristine perfectness.

"Look, I knew she'd leave eventually. Don't think I'm surprised." she picked at the stitching of the floor, her hands busy and mind busier. "It's not like I owe her my looks or my life or everything that's wrong with me."

The last words came out too rushed. They had been bundled up too long in her throat and slipped past the pink gloss and peach blush that didn't hide much of her discomfort. "I'm worried she was right. That's all."

Derek didn't dare to ask what she said. In a way, he might've already known. He'd seen the mother and daughter tear each other apart once before. It was no surprise that one had to flee for the other to survive. He just wished it wasn't so primal between them.

"She left you. That's proof enough that she's never been right about anything," he murmured. "Especially not about you."

Melancholic strings pulled at the edges of her lips.

"Then what was she wrong about?"

"That you never actually enjoyed skating... That your favourite colour isn't actually pink, but a pale shade of blue. You always spend every Friday with Stiles, so there's no use calling you that day. You still sleep with teddy bears but stuff them under your bed whenever you have company. That you always preferred your dad. That he'd be one you couldn't live without."

Dallas blinked. He'd read her so easily as if her entire entity had been stripped and printed into heart-shaped post-it notes.

Noticing her stare, the werewolf simply shrugged. "I pay attention."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Am I such a bad daughter that I wasn't worth knowing?"

"To her, maybe. Maybe because you're not a mini-Marilyn. You're Dallas. And I think that's far better in comparison."

The words had an odd sting. They held her heart gently, which had grown jagged edges and spikes over the years, and somehow dulled a pain she'd forgotten she had. His fingers tapped against her elbow and brought her eyes to his.

And for that singular moment, Dallas wasn't thinking about her mother. She was thinking about that time in her adolescence she spent on her godfather's porch, drinking his whiskey and listening to the same reassurance. It felt like a million years ago, and yet, felt like no time had passed at all.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

James tapped his hand against the rim of his cup. The echoed melody calmed his senses. As did the smell of fresh coffee and his boyfriend's aftershave.

"Still in her room?"

"Snuck out the window." Derek leaned against the marble. His eyes lingered on the ringless finger beside him. He noticed how the scotch-stained lips were pulled underneath his tooth in a look of worry.

"She shouldn't have bothered coming at all." James grit his teeth hard enough to crack both sides of the enamel. "She knew better."

"Dallas was better off without her. I was.. I was better off."

James didn't often think of his wife. It wasn't a welcome thought. That part of his life was huddled underneath dust bunnies and christmas wrapping, like every other forgotten thing he'd buried away somewhere dark.

Derek was a kind of love he didn't expect. Partially because he was taught that kind of love never existed in the first place.

"When I met Marilyn, I was taking a gap year in law school. I.. I was a mess." James didn't bother looking up. While his suit and ties kept his image together, he was hiding all of his broken doll parts inside his briefcase instead. "So I went to Austin first. I had a knack for trouble, maybe. I went looking for it. I found it in a few jobs defending people I knew were bad."

"—that's the thing with Marilyn. She was so.. good compared to everything else. The way she came into the bar, hair tucked behind her ear and a pretty sundress donned, I knew I was done for."

Derek was glad James couldn't smell jealousy.

"-But when she'd change.. into a Siren. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. I remember staring at her, not even expecting to survive it. Not even caring if I did or not." James recalled it with such precision. He could still place each scale from memory.

"I gave her everything. A kid, a house, a stable job and a spot in a new town where we could have it all. If I could do it all again, I would."

Derek furrowed his brows. This man had compared Marilyn to the devil on more occasions than one. "Why?"

"Marilyn gave me my daughter. But she gave me so much more. She got me out of my rut, she helped me find myself. Do you know why we named her Dallas? Not because that's where we met. That's where I found myself. Marilyn did that. As much as I hate her, a siren's love is the strongest kind of painkiller out there.. and I'm always gonna miss it."

"What about the bond?" Derek was scared to ask the question.

"Sometimes time apart makes it stronger. Sometimes, it disappears completely." James ran his hand over Derek's. "I'm glad mine was the latter."

The werewolf felt his cheeks pink and grin widen as he nodded. "Me too, Garcia.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Scott paced around his living room. Back to front. Front to back. It was an endless cycle. Stiles had left to reel Dallas into the plan. At least, he said he would.

That didn't stop the anxieties from creeping in when Stiles wouldn't answer the phone.

"Stop pacing. It's giving me a headache." Malia grumbled as she lay her head against the dining table. "Quit your breathing, too."

He tried not to give her puppy-dog smile. Today was difficult enough without finding her more and more charming with each passing day.

Scott's hands tapped restlessly at his sides and echoed a panic tune as he tried his phone again. "What do you think is taking him so long?"

"To talk to Dallie?"

"To text me back."

She rolled her eyes. Scott found it so frustratingly sweet.

"They're probably doing gross couple stuff." Malia shrugged. Scott didn't mind shooing the thought away with the shake of his head. "Or she ate him. I bet twenty bucks on the latter."

Scott sighed. Malia really was no help when it came to the Siren. The two had become close enough that the only thing keeping them apart was blood relation. Everything else was practically borrowed and shared.

"If we're gonna make this plan work, we all need to be on board, okay? Which means Dallas is our backup generator. In case anything goes wrong, she kicks in."

"He's not gonna tell her." Malia suddenly spoke, fiddling with her partially split ends. Her arms were bunched up on the table and her hair was plucked out of the collar of her jacket. Scott was visibly stressed — and she seemed to enjoy every second.

Scott blinked enough times to give himself a headache.

"He's too protective. Worse than her dad. And I've met that guy.. and his twin." The Coyote chuckled to herself, seemingly the only one to get her own joke. "He'd rather stick his head in the sand and get seashells in his hair."

Scott decided he'd pick apart that later and took a seat beside her.

"You think we should visit?" He leaned forward, the same tapping itching at Malia's ears.

Malia groaned, tossing her hair over her shoulder. If Scott could stop his pacing, she'd go anywhere with him.

"If they're doing gross couple stuff, you owe me twenty bucks."

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

With an ache in his shoulder, dried gel in his hair and a minty sigh on his lips, Stiles lifted another box. It was his fifth already and the beads of sweat pattering down his forehead exposed him more than any quick panted breath.

His phone had buzzed a considerable amount of times. And a considerable amount of times went ignored. Just as he went to check, his eyes trailed upwards to his girlfriend. What was he doing again?

Dallas crossed her arms, eyes narrowing at the empty living room infront of her. It was partially hidden underneath a transparent blue tarp and paint-splattered sheets. Her coffin-shaped chartreuse nails traced the couches until her voice finally managed to speak.

"Why the sudden urge to help?" She turned to Stiles, who gave her a wide grin sweet enough to rot the teeth that made it.

"Can't I be a gentleman to my girl?"

He noticed how her hair had fallen over her shoulder in a curtain of brown and golden ivy, her whitish iris glimmering underneath her brown eyes like a summer eclipse, and how both ends of her pinkish lips tugged into a knowing frown.

"Alright, alright, Scott and Malia are busy with 'pack stuff'.. which I'm guessing is the supernatural equivalent of putting a sock on the door."

Stiles swallowed down the part about the plan. About saving Lydia. About the entire thing surrounding Beacon. To her, they weren't doing it yet.. maybe barely doing it at all. It was better that way.

Instead, he dived right into helping her aunts pack up all her mother's leftover belongings. Call it chivalry. Call it guilt. Stiles preferred not thinking about either.

Especially since he knew how much she needed it. How odd packing an old loved one's things was to Dallas. Once what was full of life was now a mould of what it once was.

Memories stained glass much better than colour could. Each interwoven blanket had dates, times and voices strung through its wool. Dallas was unsure if she'd ever look at her aunt's home and not see the motherly shape she never had.

"I bet she's in Iceland by now. Perhaps even Alaska." Sybil muttered as she placed down another box, her painted nails chipping around the edges from each tug. "Let's hope she flees somewhere cold enough to freeze."

The swift smell of cardboard and salted perfume managed to tear Dallie from her thoughts. It was a good thing, though. It had grown too easy to get lost there. Still, her brave face prevailed, as did the hands that helped carry the moving boxes.

"I can't believe you're following her."

"Seline is following." Dallas felt her aunt's hand pinch her shoulder gently. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless I'm banned from the state.. Which is entirely possible if I'm the one who finds her."

Dallas would comply, swear to secrecy, if her boyfriend didn't set down a heavy box with a particularly exaggerated huff next to her. His flannel was clearly in the way, yet, he refused to budge on taking it off. One, 'not to give her aunts a free show' and secondly, 'he was a taken man.'

Dallas bet he just didn't want her to see how much he strained with each lift.

"Whew." Stiles breathed out. "Is this thing full of rocks? Or uh.. Men?"

"Those are the cushions."

Dallas bit back a smile and chuckled softly at the redness tinting his cheeks. "Don't let the goose feathers get the best of you, Stilinski."

"Hey, I'm doing my best here!" Stiles let his lips part into a grin.

Sybil watched him grab another box and shove it into the trunk before ducking away from the window. "I bet you he quits after the next one. That's the shoes."

Dallas didn't respond, simply leaning on her hand as she watched. It was purely innocent. The way her head tilted to the side, her eyes batting back and forth, and her lips pursing into a smile.

At least, until clicking burdened her lovely view.

"Hm? What?"

Sybil gave her a deadpan look. "You are hopeless." She then tore a look at him too. "You both are. I would've thought the siring thing would've caused a rift."

Dallas knitted her eyebrows together with a weft of curiosity. "Siring?"

"You know, letting him see you as.. you. The Siren. Fully transformed. If he didn't love you then, that sure did the job."

She blinked. Then again. Then once more. The words felt tucked under a joke she didn't understand. A quick glimpse between the two women confirmed that she was very much in the dark about something.

"Oh, Dallas, come on. How could he stand a chance against those eyes?" Sybil cupped her chin softly as she stroked the once tear-stained cheeks. "No wonder the poor boy can't live without you."

Her tongue felt dry. It didn't sound like a compliment.

"It's the sire bond. He's loyal to you. He can't help it."

A shadow spilled across the floor but she couldn't focus on anything but the move of her aunt's lips. It was if water filled up her lungs and only let out gurgles of confused stuttering. Sired? Bonded? No, Stiles loved her because he loved her. Surely.

"He's programmed to."

A box crashed to the ground behind her. Stiles could've fallen with it. A part of him wished he'd stayed outside a little longer. He wished he strained a little more. That way, he didn't have to walk in on such a rude awakening that he didn't want to rise from.

Shattered pots littered the floor and crumbled cardboard could barely survive the stomping that came next. He looked embarrassed, wounded even, as he practically curled into himself.

"Here's your boxes."

Dallas wanted to reach for him but he'd already grabbed his coat. His white sneakers kicked the broken glass across the tile, shredding and tearing at the stitching, before sinking into the mud outside. His coat was tearing apart at the seams. As was his gel from the rain. As was he.

She panted softly before grabbing her coat too. She wanted to follow. To say something. She just didn't know what.

"Stiles." The rain was nothing but a pest on her flushed cheeks. If he could stop. Listen. She could explain. "Stiles, hang on!"

"That an order?" He spat, turning to her. "Or am I just supposed to always hear you out no matter how fucked up it gets?"

Dallas almost slipped on the mud as he turned so sharply. His voice was an octave higher than she was used to. His stare was much more bitter. She suddenly lost all courage to speak.

"Stiles, I don't know what she's talking about. I— I would never-"

"Use your siren call on me? Control me? Manipulate Me?" He stepped forward. Wind howled against her ears, making him shout much louder than he wanted. "What did you do, Dallie? Do you even know yourself?"

"No. No, never. I'd.. I'd never use that on you. You know that."

Stiles interrupted her. "That night... at the lake house. When you turned for the first time-"

The words weren't coming out right. It was that thing again. That self-blame, self-hatred, that made every person who hated her so frustratingly right.

"I kissed you. In the water."

Stiles spat out the words like they were sour on his tongue while hers was still so sickly sweet.

She teased his every dream, his every thought, his every being. He felt haunted when she wasn't around. Each dark corner filled out her silhouette and each passing wind seemed to don the same perfume. 

"I kissed a siren right in her domain."

Dallas stepped forward. "You kissed me, Stiles. Me. In the lake. Because you're my boyfriend and you love me."

"I do love you. I can't sit here and say I don't. But that's not what I'm questioning, baby, I'm questioning whether this love.. this.. that you're mine because you're meant to be. Not because your siren mind willed it."

He grabbed her hands, squeezing them hard enough to print his fingertips into her skin. "Tell me it's a lie."

Dallas couldn't. She couldn't be sure that she hadn't sired him. Just like she couldn't be sure that she hadn't hurt those who got too close when she was in the same state he saw her in.

"It's real to me, Stiles. Always has been."

"But is it real to me?"

She felt her heart drop. He wasn't asking her out of bitterness. It was a genuine question he expected her to know the answer to. "You .. don't know?"

He swallowed thickly. "I.. I don't."

Her hands pulled out of his. "I'd never manipulate you. Maybe we are bonded. Maybe you are sired, but not once have I ever made you love me. I never forced you to come to the lake and— and—-" she swallowed. "And id never sit here and question if it was real. That's how I know mine is."

"If you can't give me that answer, maybe you should go and figure that out."

Stiles stepped back and tore his eyes away from her.  It was almost painful not to stare forever. "Dallas, I have to question it. I.. I have to."

"I-"

"I think I need some time."

He watched as she traced a red coffin nail against the spot where her necklace once sat. Her lips, cherry-chapped, pursed together in a look of firm disapproval and disdain. There was an odd calmness to her voice, like the sweet aftertaste of a bitter wine.

"So do I."

☆ word count: 3,916. ☆

A/N: WE ARE SO BACK