you stand with your hand on my waistline
it's a scene and we're out here in plain sight
i can hear them whisper as we pass by
it's a bad sign, bad sign
After three months of living this nightmare, Lydia doesn't know how she's still standing. She isn't, though - not really. Stiles has a careful hand wrapped around her waist, keeping her pressed to his side as they watch the casket lower into the ground. She can't even cry, no matter how badly this hurts. At this point, she's all cried out.
It's Stiles who feels the shift in the air. He tenses next to her, pulling Lydia from the thick fog she's let herself slip under.
"He's here," Stiles whispers, his voice low. His fingers press harder into her side and she winces, following his gaze. There, in the shadows, lingers a face they can't seem to shake, no matter how hard they try.
"It's time, Lydia. We have to go."
Lydia looks up at him with wide, grave eyes. He's right. They have to run, and yet the empty, hollow feeling in her chest says there's no point. Scott, Kira, the others - they're all dead. What makes Lydia, the banshee, and Stiles, the human, think they can outrun a cold blooded killer?
"I don't have any of my - "
"We don't have time," Stiles cuts her off, his voice firm. How is he holding it together? How does he have the capability of being strong? "You don't need your things, Lydia. We need to go. If I can save you - if I can save us, I have to try. Okay? I have to try."
There's something about the conviction in his voice that sparks a light inside her. It's a small flame, flickering and in danger of being snuffed out at any moment, but it's a flame nonetheless. This is a long shot, and she knows chances are they won't survive, but they have to try.
A glance in Sheriff Stilinski and Melissa McCall's direction confirms it. At the very least, they can lead the killer away from their families, from the people left to mourn the lives of children taken far, far too soon.
"Okay," she whispers, turning her wide gaze back onto Stiles. "We leave tonight."
