title: to you alone
rating: t
disclaimer: teen wolf and its characters belong to mtv.
a/n: the idea for this actually came to me literally over a year ago however, due to many reasons which include (but are not limited to) writer's block and college, i didn't start planning it until october. then the election happened and, well, let's just say i didn't write anything until the new year. either way, here we are.

this is a canon-compliant future fic based on the premise in the move before we go which i implore you to watch-it's not going to be how this ends up panning out, but the set up is the same. i had originally thought that this would be a complete au in which stiles and lydia are strangers which is closer to the movie, but after the 6a finale i figured out a way to make it work while still existing in the same universe as the show. plus, it's a little more angsty this way which is always a plus for me.

this will be three parts, and cross-posted to ao3 as well so if that's more your style you can find it there.

anyway, that's pretty much all of the house keeping from me. enjoy!

(title from to you alone by tom rosenthal)

- to you alone -

part i.

Stiles Stilinski doesn't believe in fate. He doesn't believe in destiny, or providence, or divine will.

It just seems odd to chalk up everything that he's been through as something that was fated to happen. It was fate that he would take his best friend out into the woods that night. It was fate that he became possessed by a pain-feeding, riddled-obsessed void spirit. It was fate that he be wiped from existence for three months. Yeah, sounds like bullshit to him.

Still, he understands the appeal behind the notion. It is on some level calming to think that there is always a plan in place. That no matter what happens or how a situation might unfold, things will eventually work themselves out. Maybe if he tried harder he could adapt that mentality and actually get some sleep at night. Maybe, if he tried, everything he had gone through would have some purpose, be a means to an end that he has yet to discover.

But as it is, fate is a farce.

There was nothing behind his choice to sit in Grand Central concourse in the middle of New York City besides his own free will. He made the decision, about three hours ago now, to come there on his own. That's all it was. Him deciding something and him finding a way to make it happen (not that it was hard—literally just walk and sit and look like you're supposed to be there and you won't be kicked out for loitering). That is how things work. Even after everything he has seen, he could not be convinced that something else is playing a hand in his life.

Fate is a farce.

-x-

Train stations are different than airports in that there typically appears to be less stress perforating the air. There is a larger sense of peace, of overall harmony in the way travelers come and go—sometimes meeting others and sometimes going by in solitary. Noises blend together seamlessly until there is nothing but a dull rumble providing both a sense of comfort and a sense of possibility.

Stiles, sitting on the floor across from the scheduling board, is quickly becoming lulled by the sensory overload. The occasional overhead announcements blended seamlessly into the white noise of laughter and conversation that never seemed to die down even as the hours pressed on into the night pulled his mind into a fog. Footsteps echoed into each other, those closer to Stiles' spot causing minor vibrations that he could feel through the floor. He could almost sense everything that was happening in this space.

From his position on the floor he searches for the clock above the information desk and sees that it reads near 11:00. He exhales slowly. That was that—it's probably over by now. He had made his decision, and there was no way of going back.

His pulls his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans, frowning as the low battery message flashing on its notification screen. He should have grabbed his portable charger from his bag before leaving. But it doesn't matter; he doesn't expect to be out for that much longer. He had already killed most of the time he needed to and in an hour tops he will more likely be back at the apartment and in his makeshift bed on the couch.

At that thought, his back cramps. Stiles arches against the wall an attempt to relieve the muscles sore from the position he had been holding for the past couple hours. Marble was not the most comfortable surface to sit or lean on for two hours if his aching body was anything to go by.

He's considering moving to the opposite side of the concourse for the few seconds of relief it would bring him just to walk there when his attention is suddenly pulled away. From the corner of his eye, a flash of color.

Strawberry blonde, the clattering of heels.

He sits up straighter as she runs past his line of vision, not seeing or even registering his existence. But he saw her. It was hard to think of an instance where he wouldn't have.

The first question, of course, after the few moments of shock, was immediately why was she here? And why was she running?

A dense clatter echoes throughout the station as a cellphone slips from her hand and onto the marble floor. He watches, dumbstruck, as she takes the briefest of pauses before she scoops it back up.

She weaves her way through the crowd towards the descending ramp to the platforms quickly, and he has to strain to keep an eye on her. It can't actually be her, can it? Slowly, still dazed, he stands and watches her begin to disappear down the ramp and out of sight.

Stiles gently hits the marble wall behind him as he slumps back. That could not have been real. He imagined it. Lack of sleep, stress, you name it… he had been through enough in his lifetime for vivid hallucinations of ex-girlfriends in the middle of Grand Central station to seem plausible. Still, he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel his stomach in knots. It was a vision that he had definitely believed.

And yet.

His head snaps to attention when she returns, emerging from the archway in what appeared to be slow motion. He blinks.

Lydia Martin, five foot three, green-eyed and as frantic as he'd ever seen her, is standing forty feet from him. He hasn't seen her in months, hasn't even had a complete conversation with her in almost a year, but something is wrong. That was easy for him to spot even from this distance. He watches her tangle a hand through the roots of her hair and she whips around, searching desperately.

And in moments he's off the wall he has called home for the past two hours and walking straight for her before he can talk himself out of it.

"Lydia?" His voice sounds strange to him as he calls out over the terminal chatter, but she hears him.

She turns to him, a temporary halo of red hair framing her face as she swings herself around. "Stiles?"

She is about as shocked to see him as he was her, but he isn't sure if he was anticipating anything different. She was the last person he would ever think to see today. Still, standing in front of her in the middle of the Grand Central concourse feels like something out of a dream. Nearby someone lets out a laugh, but to him it might have well been from a separate plane of existence.

"What, uh," he clears his throat. "What are you doing here?"

The surprise leaves her face almost instantaneously, and in its place something more anxious and pressed takes hold. "Oh, just missing my train. By one whole minute, if you can believe." She laughs shortly, the hand clutching onto the long strap of her bag falling to her side in defeat. Her hair is longer than he remembers.

"Oh," he says, dumbly. "Sorry."

Lydia just sighs heavily and places her hands at her hips. Her eyes are still searching around the station. "It's just… one more thing, you know?" It's a question Stiles knows he isn't exactly meant to answer, but he knew the feeling. "Hang on," she says, appearing to spot the unoccupied station manager happening to pass nearby and hurrying off to catch him.

Stiles follows, part of him not knowing if he even should and another hating that he feels that way to begin with.

If he had been told in middle school that he would eventually come to date Lydia Martin for almost a year he would not have believed it. Nowhere in his pre-adolescent mind would he find it conceivable that he would befriend her, date her, and then lose her all in the span of three years. But that was the thing about Lydia—everything about her eventually finds a way to surprise him. And here she is again, surprising him, catching him completely off guard with merely her presence.

"Excuse me," Lydia asks the man, who had looked up at her approach. "Was that the last train to New Haven for the night, the one that just left?" New Haven. He knows the route she's taking—he has taken it himself several times before. He swallows hard at the memory.

"I'm afraid so miss. We're running limited trains tonight," the man responds. A pained expression appears on Lydia's face, to which he quickly adds. "But our first train in the morning leaves at 6:10. They'll honor your ticket from tonight if the train isn't fully booked."

"Okay, thank you," She turns slowly, looking off into the distance with an unreadable expression on her face.

"Are you okay?" Stiles asks her, even though he was well aware that she was not.

"I just—" she stops, exhaling shakily. He can tell she's putting in a great deal of effort to hide her stress from him. It's a foreign observation.

"Do you have to get back to MIT?" He gestures back to the station manager at her confusion. "I used to do that, last year. Grand Central to Stamford then transfer to the express to Boston, right?"

With that, whatever was already between them in that moment appeared to intensify. Last year. Lydia nods, seemingly unable to look at him. "Yep, that's where I was trying to go."

"Oh," is all he gets out. Because that should have been obvious to him. Lydia and MIT went together so perfectly in his mind it should have went without saying. If there was any person out there who belonged in a state of the art research university making breakthroughs in mathematical theory it was Lydia Martin.

"I don't want to bother you…" She trails off, seeming to realize the circumstances of the situation. She then takes him in, giving him a once over. He tries to ignore the slight flip of his gut. "Wait, what are you even doing here?"

"Oh, you know," he can only manage a vague gesture behind him towards the wall he had been sitting against. "Just hanging out." She tilts her head to look past him.

"Huh," is all she says.

There is a prolonged moment of silence between them that Stiles desperately wants to fill and hates that it even has to exist in the first place. The last time they saw each other over Christmas break it had been like this, with the attempts at speaking only breeding silences that would grow and grow until finally someone caved and left. And this time he can see that it isn't going to be him—Lydia is readjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, zipping up her long coat.

"Well," she begins, and his stomach sinks a bit. "I guess I have to go and figure this mess out. It was good running into you, Stiles."

Then with a departing smile and a small wave, she turns and begins to walk away.

And he should let her go—it was not his place to get involved in her life if she did not want him to. If she had wanted him to be involved, she would have asked. That wasn't his role anymore, it wasn't up to him to solve her problems. There was a line they both had to walk if they wanted this, whatever this was and however small it may be, to function at all. Yet he is following after and calling her name before he can stop himself.

"Lydia!"

She turns for a second time, surprised for a second time. "Yes?"

By this time, he's caught up to her. Lydia Martin, standing before him in one of the busiest transit stations in the country. "I want to help you," he says, meaning every word of it. "What's your plan?"

"Oh," she blinks at his declaration. "Uh, well, I'm not sure. I was going to go figure it out."

"Well, when do you have to be back in Boston, by morning?"

"Eleven at the latest," her smile is thin-lipped. "Ideally, anyway."

"Right." He goes to eye the clock face at the center of the concourse. Less than twelve hours from now. But they can figure this out. They've solved worse. "Um, can I call you a cab?

"Stiles, you don't have to waste the rest of your night on me," she begins to slowly turn away again, heading for the exit. "Really, I'll be fine."

He just follows her. "Oh yeah? Where are you going to go?"

"Oh, you know…" she trails off, making the same vague hand gestures he had earlier towards the entrance.

"Alright, where are you staying in the city?"

"I'm not, I was only here for the day." She then stops, as if realizing this for the first time. A newly defeated groan escapes her lips. "I don't have money for a room—or a cab, for that matter. It would be somewhere upwards of thousands of dollars for a ride that far."

"Uber?"

The look softens, turns sheepish. "A friend puked in the back of one once so I'm banned."

Stiles bites down a laugh. It would be funnier if the situation didn't feel so urgent. "How about a bus? Those run almost all night, there might be one to Boston in a bit."

"I'm still broke, Stiles."

Stiles frowns. "Could your mom send you some money?"

"It's 2 A.M. in Beacon Hills." She shakes her head adamantly. "No, I'm not going to bother her. This is my mess."

That was something that Stiles understands completely. "Alright, so you're stuck."

Lydia sighs heavily, the short frame of hers sagging under this realization. "I was holding out for that to not be true."

He feels for her, torn between that constant desire to help her that has always been present within him and the newer sense of hesitancy that was creeping in. At this point they have made it outside, standing by the curb near the taxi stand, the chilly night air cutting through Stiles like a knife. "Listen, I'd help you out with a bus or something but I'm kind of strapped for cash as well." Which was a pretty generous claim—his personal financial situation was reliant on student loans and an on campus job in the library which paid very little.

"Stiles, I'd never ask you to."

You wouldn't need to, he thinks, not quite feeling brave enough to say it out loud. He considers her options, ticking off all the resources he knows about. Then, he thinks of it. "Hey, I can call Scott."

She looks confused. "Scott?"

He's fishing his phone out from the front pocket of his jeans. "Yeah, we both came up for the weekend, he flew in this morning. He's with Kira right now, she has a loft in—"

"Brooklyn, yeah. I've been there before."

"Oh." Stiles is struck for a moment at the concept of not knowing something about her life. "Uh, I'll just call Scott then."

The phone provides something for him to focus on as he listens to it ring, silently urging his best friend to pick up. This was definitely a very weird and very unexpected situation to find himself in on a Friday night in late March. And it had to be this Friday night in late March. Out of everyone in this city he could have possibly ran into tonight, it had to be Lydia Martin.

"Hey, you've reached Scott McCall—"

Stiles hangs up. Retries. But the second attempt concludes with the same result.

"Scott's not picking up," he says, with a mixture of both disappointment and satisfaction, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "But he had told me to keep myself busy tonight while he's spending time with Kira, so..."

Lydia cocks an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to spent a night on the streets of New York because they want to get laid?"

"Like we all knew you were coming to town, Lydia."

"Well," Lydia crosses her arms. "What were your plans before you ran into me?"

"I mean, what you saw was the gist of it."

"You were going to hang out in Grand Central until they kicked you out?"

"Yep."

"With no money?"

Stiles nods. "Mhm."

The look she gives him is one he has become so familiar with he could close his eyes and see the exact same expression burned across his eyelids. "Seriously? Scott tells you to let them have Kira's apartment to themselves and your plan was to sit in a train station?"

"I mean..." He considers, briefly, confessing that it had not been his plan at all. That, blocks away, in a ballroom at the Waldorf-Astoria, the reason he is even in town in the first place was likely just finishing up. He considers it, and no sooner does he what the inevitable conclusion of that confession would be does he decide against it. "Yeah, yeah that's what happened."

He can tell she's trying extremely hard not to roll her eyes and despite their situation he has to fight a smile. She turns away from him for a second, allowing a short breeze channeled between the surrounding buildings catching her hair before she faces him again. "So, where should we go?"

Even with her standing right in front of his face he is still having a hard time coming to terms with the concept of "we" meaning her and him. The situation he is in, however, is becoming more clear—it's him, it's Lydia, and it's a city of eight and a half million people.

"Well, this is the 'City That Never Sleeps,' Lydia. We could go anywhere we'd like. Except the parks. Probably not a good idea at…" he checks his watch. "…eleven fifteen at night."

She crosses her arms tighter around her body, not offering up any suggestions of her own.

"You cold?" He asks, very much aware of the early Spring chill in the air. It was a cloudless night (not that one could really tell with the city's light pollution) providing little coverage from the breeze—his own hands were buried in the pockets of his jacket. "We can go get coffee. I know a place that's open all day. We can sit and think of a game plan."

She eyes him skeptically.

"Come on, it's just coffee." He gestures up the street with his head, smiling at her.

There had been nothing behind his choice to sit in Grand Central concourse in the middle of New York City. He had made the decision, and he had come here. Standing before Lydia Martin, his hand symbolically outstretched, there is a moment where he wonders what might happen if she says no. It is beginning to dawn on him that they are facing a crossroads in their reborn friendship. And she's looking at him as if she is starting to realize the same thing.

Lydia smiles. "Okay."

She follows after him until they're in walking in step, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat as they walk from the station.

-x-

It was a more-or-less quiet twelve-minute walk.

The conversation between Stiles and Lydia on the way was extremely cordial. Unusually cordial—he was sure the metaphoric tiptoeing between the two was audible even to the occasional passerby. New York City is still buzzing, still lighted from the usual Friday night activities that encompassed the city as the weekend hits its full stride. Even the roads were still seeing an influx of cars, something to which Stiles was particularly thankful for as the noise offered a distraction from the silences that did plague the attempts at conversation.

Stiles looks over at her just as the muffled bass from a passing car begins to fade. "You doing okay?" Lydia's shoulders are noticeably hunched, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her black coat.

"Yep," she says.

She's lying, he knows that. But he lets it drop.

The place he leads them to a small diner with a red façade with lights strung in the front windows. It looks warm and welcoming, and as Stiles slows to reach for the door he can sense Lydia's relief (whether it is from the chill or from him he isn't sure).

It's considerably less empty than Stiles had expected. Despite the narrow space, the diner appears cozy and open with a wide selection of (mostly open) tables and booths to choose from. Immediately he can feel his nose start to thaw.

"For two?" A waitress asks, greeting them at the door. Stiles nods, Lydia says nothing, and they're lead to a booth near the counter. The waitress goes to slide two menus in front of them, but Lydia stops her.

"I'll just have coffee, thank you."

Stiles follows her lead. "Uh, yeah, just coffee please."

While the waitress left to get the coffee pot, they sit in silence—Stiles fiddling with the sugar packets and Lydia looking extremely interested in the wall art. But within a minute they each had a warm cup of coffee and very little to hide behind.

It's not that this is awkward—it is, it definitely is. The general situation of sitting across a table from your ex is arguably something that not a lot of people would find comfortable. But something else sat between them, something heavy. Unfinished, Stiles lets himself think for a moment. He knows it's dangerous to linger on that, he knows it's better to pretend it isn't there. And he had been for the past year. But it is harder to fight it when it was sitting in the booth opposite from him.

But he knows the place they used to be at, the one that is slipping further and further away. Even before senior year they were still able to talk comfortably with each other. They could sit in a silence and not have this insistent need to fill it biting at their heels. They could just enjoy each other's company without a need for filler. He just wants to get back to that. He just wants to sit here, with her, and not think about what he should or can say.

His ears prick, and he is suddenly aware that the back of his neck has grown hot. Lydia had been eyeing him over her cup of coffee, studying him in the silence.

"What?" He eventually prompts.

She gives a small shake of her head. "When I woke up this morning I definitely did not expect to see you today, let alone be sitting in a diner with you."

When Stiles woke up this morning he was too preoccupied trying to iron a dress shirt while hungover, so it is safe to say this was a shared conclusion.

"Out of all places to run into each other," she continues, "we manage to do it in the busiest train station in the country."

Stiles thinks about this as she lifts the cup for another sip, now his turn to watch her. "Why are you trying to get back so badly?"

She blinks. "What?"

"You seemed to want to get back to Boston very badly." He thinks of the look on her face when she was told there were no more trains out tonight. Desperate. "Why is that? If you don't mind my asking, I mean."

Lydia looks down. "Oh, like I said, I just have to get back to campus."

He doesn't buy it. "It's not like… a feeling or anything? No banshee senses tingling, no premonitions…?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," Lydia shakes her head adamantly. "Actually, since I've settled in at MIT more I haven't been having that many experiences."

Stiles frowns. Something about that bit of information both relieves and concerns him. "Really? Do you think they're fading?"

"No, it's not that. I mean, they still happen from time to time, especially because of how close the general hospital is, but I think it was Beacon Hills. I don't know, it's like being away from there gives me more of a chance to breathe and to focus on something else. I kind of assumed that it would always be as hectic as it was but really it's almost as if it all never happened to being with. If it wasn't for the scars, some weeks it was like I was normal."

It is a concept he had thought about before, many times—usually around 3 A.M. in the midst of another sleepless night. Where would they be, had he not dragged his best friend out into the woods that night? Where would that place him? Or Scott? Or Kira? Or Malia? Allison?

He looks at her. "I get what you mean—Beacon Hills is literally a Beacon. Things felt full speed, all the time."

That gets a small smile from her. "That's one way to put it."

"But, you're fine," he watches her carefully. "Nothing too overwhelming or out of control, right?"

"I'm fine. Still talk to your dad often?" It's a deliberate and obvious attempt to change the subject, but Stiles lets it slide. He wants to pry, but it isn't his place anymore.

"Yeah, talked to him this morning actually." He was happy, he thinks quickly.

"How's the Beacon Hills Sheriff station holding up?"

"Physically? The foundation is still solid. I'm sure the earthquake insurance has yet to be claimed." She gives him that look of hers, and he coughs. "Oh you know, same stuff, different day. But less intense—it seems to have calmed down since we've left. I mean there's still the occasional supernatural interloper, but I don't think that's ever going to stop. Scott's trying to figure out what to do now that Liam and Mason are going to be graduating in a couple months."

"He told me the last time we spoke he thought he might have to bite someone else."

"He doesn't want to do it, Lydia," Stiles says, serious now. "You remember how he struggled with biting Li—" he stops when he sees the waitress approaching their table.

"More coffee?" She holds the pot aloft.

Lydia smiles at her. "Yes, thank you."

Stiles raises his eyebrows as an acknowledgement to his newly refilled cup (which had not needed much), waiting for her to leave. When she does:

"He hated turning Liam. He knows someone has to watch over Beacon Hills, he knows someone has to be there, but he doesn't seem to want to do it."

"I don't blame him, it's a lot to be putting on somebody." Lydia says while reaching for the sugar packets. "He would be picking whose life would change forever."

"I'm worried he's going to feel like he needs to move back." Stiles picks at the edge of the table at this, finding himself unable to look up. "Like he needs going to quit vet school and go back to Beacon Hills."

Lydia frowns. "He can't do that."

"You know he would. If he felt he needed to, he would do it in a second."

She releases a sigh. "He takes on too much sometimes."

They all did, he thinks.

She takes a long sip during the silence that settles between them. There is a dance they're both preforming right now, Stiles can feel it. Both tiptoeing around each other, stepping up to a line but never crossing it. Talking around what was staring them right in the face. He itched with the unspoken.

"How did you know of this place?" She eventually asks, starting it up again.

"Uh, I stumbled onto it last year with Scott while we were drunk," Stiles scratches the back of his head. "Well, I was drunk. He was there to watch me."

"Watch you?"

Stiles nods, lips pressed together. He is finding it difficult to look her in the face, and instead lets his gaze fixate on the now very intriguing handle of his coffee cup. Lydia does not press it—unusual for her, normally. If Lydia wanted to know something she would pry it out. But perhaps this did not exactly constitute a normal circumstance.

(She doesn't say anything more about it, so he supposes that confirms that suspicion.)

There is a soft 'tap, tap' of Lydia's rings against a fired ceramic coffee cup. "So," she exhales. "Are we allowed to sit here all night?"

"Pretty much, they don't close. But I thought you had to get back tonight?"

"Unless if we rob a bank I don't see us getting enough money for a cab or car anytime soon, so I guess I'm staying here." Lydia looks down, toying with the zipper on her jacket. "You don't have to stay with me if you don't want."

She keeps trying to get rid of him. On some level he completely understands why she's doing it. When was the last time they really talked? Christmas break was near unbearably uncomfortable with the lengths they both went in order to avoid being alone together—dipping out of kitchens to dodge cleanup duties, ducking to the bathroom when they were the last two awake at movie nights. Admittedly that had been mostly his own behavior, but he hadn't exactly given her a reason to spend time around him. But it was hard for him to adjust to these new boundaries, hard for him to balance his own feelings with the new lines drawn in the sand.

But tonight, he's willing to figure it out.

"Lydia," he starts. She looks up at him. "I am going to help you get home tonight. Okay?"

She smiles at him. After a moment, perhaps one too long, he has to break their eye contact.

"So," she says, forcing his attention back to her, "Clyde. What's the plan?"

There's a particular glint in her eye that causes his heart to skip and breath to hitch, and like a train, it hits him.

"Wait. I have a friend that might be able to help us," Stiles says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "From the criminal justice program. He's in town, might be able to help us." On his phone screen, the low battery alert flashes. Shit. He had forgotten about that. "Uh, we should probably just head to where he is and save my battery incase Scott calls."

"Which is where?"

"The Waldorf-Astoria." This he is absolutely sure of. "It's only a couple of blocks west, easy to walk to."

"Alright." Lydia gathers up her coat from its spot in the booth next to her. "Should we just go now?"

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles gets to his feet, leaving a five on the table for their coffee. At this Lydia pauses.

"Wait." She digs in her handbag and comes up seconds later with a fistful of quarters. "Laundry money. I can at least pay for my coffee, Stiles."

"All I had was a five, Lydia." He tucks his wallet back into his pocket. "It's fine, just pay me back later."

She reaches for his wrist and turns his palm face up. The change falls into his hand, still cold. "Here. There should be the three seconds of interest included, too." Her eyes, green and lively, shine at him before she turns for the door.

Stiles follows, thinking of how warm the skin of his wrist feels.