A/N: This takes place after Parallelism (it can be found in my stories section), and it's not absolutely necessary that you read it, but it'll give you the backstory as to why Allison and Stiles are now together.

Just so you guys know, I researched engine failures and gas leaks and all these different ways a car can break down for this fic. So you should appreciate me. Also, I tried to find a horrible French dish but it was hard so you're just going to have to make up for yourself what it is.

Anyways, I'm excited about the start of this fic! :D I'm hoping to make it a set amount of chapters so I know how to end it, but right now I only have a few more chapters planned. Please review and let me know what you think, I would be very grateful for feedback!

Allison hums a little as she wraps a silk scarf around her neck, the blue fabric nestling smooth against her skin. She glances at herself in her armoire mirror; her hair is curled, half held up in braids, and her makeup is light. She looks… pretty, she decides. And she hasn't really cared if she's looked pretty or not in a while. But things have been different.

Bounding down the stairs with her bag slung over her shoulder, she hastily grabs a piece of fruit from the fridge. Her dad sits at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in his hand. He glances up from the newspaper, one eyebrow raised.

"You seem to be in a good mood," he comments, sounding a bit pleasantly surprised, probably because not that long ago any semblance of a good mood had seemed impossible.

Allison looks at him and shrugs, taking a bite out of her peach. "I guess so," she says flippantly, and heads out the door.

Recently, and today especially, she has something to be in a good mood about.

Stiles sighs as he takes out his history textbook and puts it into his backpack. There is a weight on his mind, and on his shoulders; he feels it oppressing him and it is uncomfortable, but there are happy butterflies in his stomach that counteract it. Simply put, Stiles feels conflicted because he's nervous and he can't tell if it's the good kind or the bad kind. He decides it's most likely a bit of both.

He swerves abruptly when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and he does a sort of exaggerated karate-esque flail.

It's Allison, and she's staring at him with big eyes and a subdued smirk on her face, as if she is trying not to laugh. "Um, hi, Stiles," she says, her dimples now prominent.

"Hey, Allison!" Stiles returns, sounding a little too loud. "I was just- you know, hanging by my locker. Or, well, actually, I was taking something from my locker- that's what those lockers are there for!" He pats the locker, giving a pained laugh. "For… locking stuff in. Yep. I mean, I know I use my locker all the time and-"

"Stiles." Allison takes his hand and he stops talking at once, his eyes widening. She leans forward and presses a chaste but soft kiss on his lips. The sensation melts him instantly and his eyes flutter closed. He can feel her smile returning against his mouth and she pulls away. He already misses the touch.

She's still holding his hand and she gives it a squeeze; her palm is smooth and Stiles knows his is sweaty and he thinks about how much of an indication that is to their opposite moods. "I'll see you in class, okay?"

"I- yeah," Stiles gets out, nodding slowly. As he watches her walk away, he leans back onto the row of lockers, and mumbles to himself, "I am never going to get used to this."

Allison taps her pencil thoughtfully onto her desk and shakes her head, still amused at Stiles' panicked spazzing that morning. It was cute. She supposes she had always found it a little cute. But before, Stiles had been more of a staple to Scott rather than his own person, mostly because she never had gotten to know him very well.

That is, until the whole English project thing. And the playing Call of Duty thing. Oh, and the kissing and getting together thing. Yeah, now she knows him a bit better.

And Allison is comfortable around Stiles. Well, for the most part. She gets a giddy sort of anxiety around him sometimes and it makes her feel like she's in middle school. Or it makes her feel like she did in the beginning of her relationship with Scott. (The thought of him sometimes still brings an ache in her chest, but it's a bittersweet ache, not a longing one).

Though it doesn't seem it all the time, Stiles can be quite comfortable around Allison, too: just not when they're doing anything remotely relationship-like. And since they've only been dating a week, they haven't gotten the chance to do much.

Which is why Allison decided their first date should be Friday night.

Which is today.

Which is why Stiles had been so jumpy this morning.

Allison twirls her pencil and flicks it onto the desk, propping her head on her hand. This was going to be an interesting evening.

"So you're really going out with Allison Argent?"

Stiles glances sideways at his dad, who was leaning against the hall closet door, his arms crossed, expression skeptical.

"Yeah, dad," he says, shrugging and looking back into the bathroom mirror, the response sounding weird and almost indecipherable because his mouth is currently wide open as he checks his teeth. He has already brushed them twice, and it was probably really unnecessary to make sure they were clean, but Stiles had found himself doing it anyway out of anxiety. He couldn't just sit around and do nothing, after all.

"And Scott is…?"

Stiles turns to him again, closing his mouth. "Scott is surprisingly okay with this," he says, as if he can't quite believe it himself. "Maybe weirded out, I guess, but for the most part, he's okay. Trust me, when Allison and I started spending more time together, I felt horrible. I felt… I felt like a really bad friend."

"Stiles, you've never been a bad friend." His dad walks across the hall, placing a hand on the doorway to the bathroom. "Sometimes feelings change and feelings grow. It's natural."

"Yeah, I know." Stiles picks up the washcloth from the counter absentmindedly, turning it over and over in his hands, and remembers when he had said much of the same thing to Scott nearly a month ago. Feelings change. "I haven't thought about Lydia in weeks. For the first time in probably years. I never even really saw Allison as anything other than Scott's girlfriend for the longest time. We were barely even friends."

"Well, I'm happy for you," his dad says. And he looks it, too, his eyes crinkled, his mouth in a proud half-smile.

"Thanks," Stiles says, grinning a little.

"You're nervous," his dad remarks.

"What? No."

"Stiles, if you twist that washcloth anymore, it'll be in shreds."

Stiles looks down at the rag, startled. He'd been twisting and turning it so tightly that it seemed ready to fall apart. Sheepishly, he puts it down. "I'm not nervous," he lies, shaking his head as if the very idea was ridiculous. He walks out of the bathroom past his father, looking back at him. "This is going to be fine- great, even! I am so ready for this, I can't even tell you how ready I-"

"Stiles-" his dad starts, but he's too late, and Stiles slams right into the hallway wall.

Allison flips through her closet and pulls out a simple white cardigan, shrugging it on. She begins to head out her bedroom door when she comes face to face with her dad.

"Be sure to be home at eleven," he says, voice stern. He's standing with his arms crossed, shifting from one foot to the other. Typical concerned parent behavior. Not that her dad was really typical, considering that when she'd been with Scott, he had spent half the time trying to kill him.

"I knew that already, Dad," Allison tells him, easing her way out the door and starting down the stairs. "Considering you've repeated it three times!"

"Well… I'm worried." Her dad starts down the stairs, stopping behind her in the foyer.

"Don't be." Allison turns around and looks at him, smiling slightly. It hadn't been easy to get things right with her dad after everything, and it was still weird around the house, but they manage. "I have fun with him."

"I know," her dad says, nodding. The distress in his face fades away into relief. "I'm grateful to… Stiles."

"Well, good. Because you should be." Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her dress. She takes it out and sees that it's from Stiles, indicating he's outside in his trusty Jeep.

"I'm off!" Allison exclaims brightly, and she grasps the front doorknob but stops when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

"Remember. Eleven and no later."

Rolling her eyes, Allison opens the door. "I know."

Stiles stops the Jeep by the side of the road and lets out a breath.

"Impressive," Allison remarks in the passenger's seat beside him. She's looking at the restaurant he picked: a four star high-end cuisine establishment in the middle of the downtown Beacon Hills area.

He'd told her he might pick something fancy, just so she could dress accordingly (at least semi-casual). It seemed a good idea at the time, just so the first date could make an impression, but now he's doubting himself because he's perspiring and his shoulders are stiff. He glances at his hand and lets go of the steering wheel, not realizing he'd been gripping it tightly.

"Are you coming?"

Stiles looks sharply to his right; Allison is standing outside, one hand on her hip, the other ready to shut the car door. It takes him a second to answer, because once again, he's caught off guard by how beautiful she is. Her hair is neatly piled up in a bun on her head, with a few stray curls framing her face, and her blue spring dress hangs prettily just over her knees.

"Uh- yeah," he says, hastily scrambling out of the car and onto the pavement.

He can feel her grinning at him, but she says nothing. They walk into the restaurant together, arm in arm, (Allison had commented in a mock-posh voice that he was such a gentleman and Stiles had proceeded to agree, donning a similar accent).

They're only about ten feet from the door when the evening starts to get a little off course.

The young male host checking reservations gives Stiles a disapproving once-over, and gives Allison a… very approving once-over. A bit too approving, in Stiles' opinion. He thinks Allison feels it, too, because she raises her eyebrow at the host and he quickly goes back to checking the name.

"Mr.… Stilinski?" the host asks, sounding out the word with a hint of disdain. He nods to the waiter at his side. "Francis will show you to your table."

Stiles and Allison share a look for a moment and they almost laugh at the emphasized way the host had said Francis.

So that would have been fine, the host's contempt: amusing, mostly. But then they get to their table and see that they're sitting by the entrance to the kitchen toward the back. So close, in fact, that it seemed possible to be hit by the swing of the door as people went in and out.

Stiles, of course, quickly takes the chair closer to the door. Allison smiles at him appreciatively, and though it reprieves a fraction of the stress Stiles is currently enduring, he still feels tension in his shoulders and a restlessness in his entire body. Worried that Allison can sense it, he's glad when the menus arrive so he has something to focus on: but this relief soon dissipates when he sees most of the food names are in French.

He raises his eyebrows and nearly falls over as he jerks forward to stare at the menu.

Surreptitiously glancing at Allison, he sees much of the same reaction in the way she is reading (or not reading) her own menu.

Stiles grits his teeth and briefly closes his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

Oh, god.

Langue Lucullus. Tete de Veau. Pintade.

Huffing, Allison shakes her head and squints at the menu, as if that would magically change it into something she could understand. "How are we supposed to order if we can't even tell what there is to eat?"

"Uh- I can… tell!"

Allison looks up at Stiles, one eyebrow quirked. "Sorry?"

"I mean-" Stiles laughs and scoffs, "I can totally… read this. Obviously."

"You can read French."

"Psh- yeah. Who do you think I am, Allison?" Stiles skims the menu quickly and points out a selection with a particularly long name. "Let's just both get this," he says triumphantly, grinning at her.

Allison shrugs and closes the menu. She's not buying this whole "I can read French" thing, but she'll go along with it, because it seems as if Stiles is sort of grasping at straws, and she wants him to unwind. The restaurant he picked is nice (despite the fact they'd been seated so close to the kitchen door). It's very aesthetically pleasing, with a European style to the architecture: lots of curves and arches. Looking out the window across the way, Allison even spots a fountain, its waters sparkling with the reflection of the moon.

It's all lovely. But it's not really Stiles'… well, for the lack of a better word, style. To be honest, she'd expected something more fun and lively for their first date, and had been surprised when Stiles suggested dressing nicely.

She turns her attention back to Stiles, and suppresses a sigh. He just looks so… on edge. Which lately, at least, is rather unlike him. He's still gripping the menu with one hand, though it's closed, and his other rests on the table. Except rests isn't really accurate because that makes it sound relaxed, and currently it is nervously closing itself in and out of a fist. Allison feels a strong and sudden impulse to place her own hand over his, and she nearly does so, her arm reaching out, when the waiter comes back to the table.

"Ready to order?" he asks.

Allison pulls her hand back quickly but Stiles hasn't seemed to have noticed. He sits up, and points out the entrée he'd picked before, sounding out the word in an exaggerated French accent. Allison snorts, and ignores the stare from the waiter.

So maybe ordering this random dish hadn't been a very good idea. Stiles picks cautiously at the unknown meat before him, glaring at it. He isn't even really sure what the cooked vegetables to the side actually were, and everything was covered with a strange tasting sauce.

"This is… interesting," Allison comments. She's chewing the food slowly, and Stiles can't tell if it's out of deliberation or concealed revulsion, because she appears a little pained.

"Yeah, it's, uh. It's good," Stiles says, sounding less than enthusiastic.

"So what is it, exactly, again?"

Stiles looks up at her, but her face betrays nothing but innocent curiosity. "It's… you know, food with… vegetables," he explains vaguely, and is saved when the waiter comes back to refill their water.

However, the waiter had filled Allison's glass a little too high, and when Stiles reaches across the table for the salt (because the food needed something to help it), he accidentally knocks it a little and it tips over easily, cascading over Allison's plate and, noticeable when she stands up in surprise, her legs, too.

"Oh my god-" Stiles starts, but is quickly interrupted.

"Stiles, it's totally fine, it's just water-"

He gets up, moving around the table, frantic now, gesticulating wildly. "But your dress and- and the food-"

"I'm serious, it's okay," Allison says, trying and failing to reassure him out of his panicked state. "I'll be right back!"

She moves off and heads toward the bathroom, and Stiles can only slump back into his chair, feeling completely and utterly like a failure. He picks at the napkin on the table and wonders how much Allison is wishing she was with Scott instead.

Allison climbs into the Jeep easily and casts a worried look in Stiles' direction, who hasn't said a word since the whole water incident. It had taken several paper towels, but she'd manage to soak up the water fairly easily, and even though he must have noticed this, he still looks dejected.

She wants to say something, but honestly, she doesn't quite know how to salvage the situation. So she sits silently as he pulls the car out onto the street, gazing at the sky overhead. It's such a pretty night, full of stars, and Allison wishes she could just enjoy it with her boyfriend instead of feeling like there's a ticking time bomb in his pocket, never sure when it was about to explode.

They're about a mile away from downtown when Allison turns toward him and opens her mouth, but in that exact moment, the car lurches forward- just a bit, but enough to startle both of them, and she gasps.

"What was that?" she asks, turning to Stiles; her heart drops when she sees his expression is not far from devastation.

They slow to a stop, coming to the side of the road. "The engine…" Stiles says, looking sort of lost. "I think the engine just died."

"It died? As in, we can't fix this ourselves and we need to call AAA or something?"

Stiles doesn't answer, and then whispers in disbelief, "How could it have died just like this? I- what, is it a faulty coil wire? An electrical problem? I mean, I always take care of this Jeep. This is my Jeep. Why would it have-"

"Listen, Stiles," Allison interrupts before he has a chance to panic more. "The car broke down, and it's old- it's, well, it's charming, but it's old. So it's not really your fault; it's fixable, it's okay-"

"How is any of this okay?" Stiles exclaims, and Allison is taken aback by the rise in his volume. "The host was kind of an asshole (which, okay, was sort of funny, but still), we were seated by the kitchen door, I can't read French, the food we ordered - what the fuck was that? – I got water all over your dress, and now the car broke down!" He slumps down, running his hands through his buzzcut. "This is, officially, the worst first date in existence. Hell, I wouldn't blame you if you dropped me now!"

"Dropped you-" Allison sputters, indignant, actually speechless at this tirade. She sits back, her mind reeling. Stiles turns back and gets his phone out, and for a moment, the car is quiet, until Allison bursts out loudly, "Stiles!"

Stiles nearly lets go of the phone in surprise, and he stares at her, eyes big.

"First off, you are not allowed to assume that I am the type of girlfriend that would just drop you because of a bad date- bad dates happen, Stiles. Trust me. It happened with Scott, and we didn't even have the time to barely go on any dates. Second-", she takes (or, rather, grabs) his hand with both of hers and his mouth parts in surprise, "-I need you to stop freaking out, okay? I know you were trying hard here with this date, but- honestly, I'd rather just do something fun, and I'm positive you would, too! You were completely overthinking everything, and that's how this got so messed up. Not to mention some of it was just out of your control but you let it get to you. God, you were so stressed out the whole time I thought you were going to have some sort of nervous breakdown! I mean, sure, the idea of a fancy restaurant is sweet- you're really sweet- but it's not really our style, is it? So can you just- can you just calm down?"

Stiles is frozen, stunned, his hand still enclosed in Allison's. Then he slowly lowers his gaze, as if thinking, and says, "I just… I guess I was worried because you're so experienced with this stuff, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I've kind of never had a girlfriend before and this is all new territory and to be frank it's just freaking me out."

Allison loosens her grip on his hand and starts to rub it soothingly. She's suddenly worried that she'd been hurting him, her hold was so tight. "Look, it's true that I'm…'experienced', but Scott was my only boyfriend. I moved around so much that I never had time for a relationship, and before him- and now you- I wasn't looking for one, anyway. I'm not judging you or anything, and I'm certainly not comparing you to Scott." From the way his eyes flick and his face twitches, she can tell that that he'd been thinking of her putting him up against his best friend and deciding who was superior boyfriend material. "Both of you are different, in good ways, and as people, neither of you are better than the other. You, right now… just happen to be better for me."

Stiles looks at her, his eyes filled with confusion and maybe a little bit of hope. "But… why?"

"Why are you better for me?" Allison asks, and sighs. "Is it really so hard for you to believe that I legitimately like you? Because I do. I like the way you make me laugh, I like the way you make me feel. And I even like your insecure craziness; we're both flawed and we can't help that. I just like being with you. And that should be reason enough."

"It is reason enough," Stiles says quietly, smiling a little.

After a beat of silence, Allison pulls him toward her, leaning forward, and kisses him hard. He responds after a second with his mouth still parted so she can feel his breath flow into her; her tongue grazes his lip hungrily and he complies by deepening the kiss, his hands now on her shoulders and running up to frame her face and push her hair back. The feeling of his fingers though her hair makes her pulse quicken, and she suddenly feels so overcome by a wave of desire that she nearly half-climbs over onto the other car seat, pulling her legs up to lean further, her hand on the console compartment to prevent herself from toppling onto him. A heat is running through her body and she moves her lips to his jawline, tasting his skin, trying to get herself closer because suddenly any distance is too much distance.

Stiles pulls away, to Allison's displeasure, and a throaty, frustrated groan escapes her without warning. She still has a grip on the collar of his shirt, and she'd pulled so close, propping herself onto the console, that her breasts are pushed against his chest, the fabric of her dress skewed because of her falling shoulder straps. Feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, she pulls away, blushing.

"I might have gotten a little carried away, there," she says, giving him a sheepish smile and fixing her dress.

"No, that was-" Stiles clears his throat, shaking his head. "That was, um. Good. Yeah. I just didn't want it to get too- well, you know-"

"Oh!" Allison nods, smoothing her hair. "Definitely. We don't want it to get too… yeah."

They sit in silence for a bit. Allison's heart is still beating hard. Then she adds, "Just so you know, it's not only you getting nervous."

"What?" Stiles turns to her, eyebrows furrowed.

Allison coughs, not meeting his eye. "Well, I wasn't freaked out about this date, really, I was just excited. But you're not the only one who gets… flustered."

Comprehension dawns on his face, because she's so very obviously disheveled by what had just happened a minute ago, and he grins smugly. "So what you're saying is, you just can't help getting all hot over the Stilinski charm-"

Allison shoots him a look; he clamps his mouth shut and gets his phone back out.

"Right. Yep. Calling AAA now."