oh my lover i'll never leave you behind
Author's Notes: Hello again, and welcome to another year of 'Annie sees canon through Lydia's eyes while cramming in as much stydia as she can fucking manage'. You guys should know that while I am fully aware of the legal, moral, and ethic issues concerning lydia&parrish, they are going to appear here, and probably in a lot of fic this year, because it looks like they're going to be a thing, despite well, all of those issues.
I am honestly okay 'hanging up my teacher hat' as it were for a little while every summer and just enjoying teen wolf for the most part for what it is, because if this were a real life situation I'd be so not cool, but I honestly don't have the energy or desire to be enraged and like, boycott their scenes or something.
And I just like to be as faithful to canon as I can, because I just enjoy writing that way.
Sorry, not that sorry.
Okay onto the fic.
(lydia)
It's further than midnight when he insists on driving her home.
"Senior Scribe go okay?"
Parrish—Jordan (she needs to be better about the name she uses in her head) is smiling a little from the driver's side of the car, as if he's unable to muster the disapproval necessary for admitted acts of public vandalism. Lydia in turn, feels unable to match the mischief of her earlier coffee delivery.
"It was fine," she says, knowing even as the words leave her that she's unsucessful in projecting an air of fine, just fine.
Jordan glances at her – Lydia is very aware of his gaze on her face — but doesn't ask for details. There is a knowing (or understanding) tilt to his mouth, to the studied focus of his eyes on the road, but the feeling just swels inside her chest until it comes spilling out anyway.
"Scott left her initials on the shelf with ours."
The deputy looks at her again, this time catching her eyes. Lydia wants suddenly, desperately, to escape the small space and the feeling of being so exposed. And so sad.
"You okay?" Jordan asks, very softly, as though he's not asking for anything at all — not even the truth. He's still looking out at the street; she turns away from watching streetlights play with the colour of his eyes, to letting them wash over her eyes instead. The road is dark and still between tall lamps – it feels almost like they are the only two people in the world.
The thought isn't as scary as she might have once thought.
"I miss her," Lydia says into the night.
It isn't an answer to his question, but Jordan keeps driving anyway.
—
It is a surprise (and somehow not) to find Scott sitting on her front porch when they pull up two houses from hers. Parrish looks from the alpha to Lydia, but there is only that knowing still. "Get some sleep," he says, and offers her that charming half-smile again. "Thanks for the coffee."
Lydia feels an odd mix of warmth and satisfaction. "Anytime."
He waits until she is safely on the porch with Scott before turning out onto the street.
If Scott is even remotely curious as to what she's doing with the Beacon County deputy at such an hour, he doesn't look it. Lydia considers the faint slump of her friend's posture before she says, "Come on," and leads him inside. Scott is quiet until they are both sitting on her bed, the door closed, and the house quiet.
"I can't remember the saying," he says. "In French." Scott looks up at Lydia, and though his eyes are not bright or red, there is a pleading there that makes her want to cry all the same. "She said it to me but she never wrote it down and I–" He laughs, almost painfully soft. "My French is terrible."
Lydia is faintly aware of an odd pressure in the air. So she takes a deep breath and says, very carefully, "Nous protègeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes."
Scott nods, his eyes far away. "We protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Lydia wraps her fingers around his arm. "You're a great alpha, Scott." She squeezes. "Allison would be so proud."
Now she really is crying.
"I don't want to forget," Scott says. "I don't ever want to forget." He pulls up his sleeve to reveal his tattoo. "I don't know if it's bad that they'd both be for missing her."
Lydia swallows over the lump in her throat, unable to speak. She gets up to cross the room, to pull from the bottom-most drawer of her desk a slip of paper that no one else has ever laid eyes on, and hands it to Scott. He looks from the drawn and re-drawn design — a single arrow with an 'A' carefully hidden in the fletching — back to her; the compassion lighting his eyes is almost too much to bear.
"I was going to wait," she says, feeling vulnerable. "Until graduation."
Scott nods. "We still can, if you want."
The feeling from Parrish's car washes over her again — Lydia just wants it to hurt less.
"No," she says, mustering a smile. "I don't want to wait anymore."
—
They call Stiles, who says, "As long as I don't have to look again."
Two nights later, they pile into the Jeep, and Lydia is aware suddenly that this is the first time the three of them have been alone in the car in quite some time; judging by the look Stiles gives her in the rearview, she isn't the only one. They drive in companionable silence – when Lydia asks about the girls, both look at each other before Stiles says, "We just said there was something the three of us had to do."
And that's that.
The artist, a bearded, gruff-looking man, nods at the boys in recognition. There is light in his eyes when he almost-smiles at Lydia, a kind of light that reminds her of Parrish and calms the nerves that had erupted in her stomach with the clanging of the bell on top of the door.
"Arrow, right?" Lydia nods.
"Lydia."
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Carl. Got a picture?"
She hands over the slip of paper, so worn from redesigns and rough erasing that she can basically see the bright lights of the parlour bending through it. Carl's eyebrows furrow as he looks at it, taking one finger and dragging a knuckle across, tracing the lines of the 'A'.
Lydia can feel herself shake – not with fear, but with some too-much emotion that only stops when Stiles puts his hand on her back. The open inverse V of her shirt and the banded top beneath leave most of her back exposed; his fingers brush her spine. She shivers.
"Where would you like it?"
Lydia turns around and reaches backwards on her left, touching just beneath the black edge of her top that is basically a bra. A large, calloused finger lines up against her own and Lydia pulls her hand away. "Here?" the man asks, all of him steady when all of her is not.
"Yes," she says, willing herself to sound firm.
"Take a deep breath," he says, gentle – Lydia thinks of Jordan again – and she does. "Ready?"
She nods again. "Yes."
"Alright, then come on over."
Carl leads her to a bench instead of a chair, lined with dark cushions as if it were a window seat – though without the window. He pulls a pillow from nowhere. "Head on this side," he says, pointing, before brandishing that same finger at Scott and Stiles.
"You," he says to Scott, "Over there. Too many people. And you," He looks at Stiles. "Hold her hand."
Stiles' eyes nearly bug out from his face. "You do remember last time, right?"
Carl barks a laugh. "Consider this your opportunity to redeem yourself."
Lydia opens her mouth to tell Stiles he doesn't have to, but there is something in his eyes when he drops down in front of her, sitting on a small stool so they're at eye level. "You good?" he asks quietly, and she nods, dragging her hair towards him.
"Razor first," Carl says, brandishing it for her. "You may want to something about those Ariel locks, my dear."
Lydia smiles – though it hurts to – and braids carefully, content to focus on something else besides her returning nerves. Stiles' eyes are intent on her the way she catches him at sometimes, in rearviews and darkness before all the monsters close in. The sound of the needle tears his eyes from hers, and saves her from having to hold in a strange flush.
"You're supposed to be helping me, remember?" she says, teasing.
He coughs a little, dropping his gaze until his fingers find hers, cool and strong.
"Good to go, Lydia?" Carl asks over the buzz of the needle – Lydia thinks of Barrow and promptly banishes the thought.
"Yeah."
She tried to mentally prepare for the pain, but it doesn't help much; Stiles' sharp inhale is her own, and her fingers convulse around his of their own volition.
"Okay?" he asks as she blinks away the dots of white. Lydia inhales carefully. "You can do this. Just look at me, okay? Focus on my voice."
She starts. Just block it out, okay? Stiles' eyes are soft, unflinching even as Lydia swallows a gasp. Carl hums softly. "You're doing just fine Lydia," he says. "This'll only be a few minutes."
"Distract me please," Lydia says quickly. She watches Stiles' brain work for some kind of worthy topic.
"So what's up with you and Parrish?"
That'd do it.
Lydia finds herself struggling for words. "Nothing's up."
To say Stiles looks dubious would be an understatement.
"I mean," she tries, hissing at particularly sharp needle jab. "I don't know. We're just..." Stiles is smiling a little and she's not sure what that means, or how she feels about any opinion Stiles may have on...whatever it is she and Jordan are doing. "Trying to figure him out, " she says, reigning in the urge to grimace."And then there's graduation. There isn't exactly a lot of time for anything to happen."
Stiles makes a face as if he concedes, but she knows he doesn't.
"Would you want it to?" he asks quietly.
She wants to shrug. "I don't know."
A pause.
"My dad isn't wearing his wedding ring anymore."
When Lydia squeezes his hand this time, it's not for her.
"You alright?"
He laughs a little sharply. "I'm awful at this, aren't I?" She smiles up at him carefully. "I.." Stiles drags his free hand through his hair. "I'm okay, I guess? I mean, I'm happy for him and I want him to be happy, but–" He breaks off, as if he's afraid to finish his own sentence. "You know?"
His eyes are searching for something that Lydia is glad to be able to give him. "Yeah, I do." The pain is flaring – she inhales and exhales slowly. "My mom's seeing someone new, I think."
Stiles' hand must hurt, but he drags his thumb over her knuckles almost absentmindedly. "You okay with that?"
She would shrug, if she could. "I just want her to be happy."
"This angle's gonna hurt," Carl says, all the warning he gives before Lydia has to squeeze her eyes shut.
"Hey–hey," comes Stiles' voice, and then a calloused palm on her cheek. "Breathe. You're okay."
Lydia's eyes jerk open to a vaguely blurry Stiles, and leans into his hand. "You're doing surprisingly well," she manages. "Scott told me you passed out last time."
Stiles' fingers tangle in a few strands of hair she missed, his smile rueful. "Not my finest moment, I admit."
She tries to laugh, but hisses instead. He drags his thumb across her cheekbone. "Tell me about the new kid," she says, and his jaw goes tight.
"He says he's this kid we knew in the fourth grade – Theo." Stiles grits his teeth. "I don't trust him."
Lydia considers this. "Okay."
His surprise is endearing. "Okay?"
She is careful to look him in the eye. "I trust you. I don't need anything else."
Stiles' expression takes her breath away.
"All done!" Carl announces, which breaks them out of their reverie. "Looks good. Here," he says, reaching out. "Hand me your phone. I'll get a nice picture."
Lydia hands it over, grinning and giddy with her success. Stiles stands to peer at her back and his face breaks into a wide smile. "It looks great, Lydia."
Scott ambles over too, his face full of a boyish excitement that she hasn't seen in a long time. "Awesome."
Her skin is red and sore in the photo, but the lines of her arrow pointing towards her spine are dark and beautiful, the A just standing out among the fletching. Lydia swallows a lump in her throat as she looks at Carl.
"Thank you so much."
His eyes are kind. "You're very welcome."
She listens as he details the care instructions and places a bandage on her back. Lydia knows the symbolism of arrow tattoos, that they only move in one direction – forward – but she doesn't mind that hers will serve to root her in the past. Not with a person she loves so much.
"Your turn?" Carl asks, turning to Scott, who shakes his head.
"I think I'm gonna wait," he says to their surprise. "I don't think I'm ready yet."
Lydia looks from Scott to Stiles, who just tilts his head in a 'what can you do' kind of expression and shrugs. Carl nods. "Fine with me."
When the door clangs on their way out, Lydia feels steadier than she has in a long time.
—
When Kira says, "Shouldn't we have done a u-turn?" Lydia's first instinct is, no.
Her next instinct is dread.
When Scott's voice says, "Tracy," over the line, Lydia wants to disappear into the earth and let her failure drag her down.
"Let's go," she tells Kira instead. "There's got to be something at her house that can help us find her."
"Lydia–" Stiles grabs at her arm. "Be careful."
"You should know that I don't approve of this plan!" the Sheriff calls, but he doesn't try to stop them, and Lydia is grateful.
She is more grateful still when upon bursting into the station the following night, that her mother is out with the most armed and in-the-know adult in Beacon Hills — besides Mrs. McCall, that is.
But of course that thought goes to hell moments later.
It's amazing to watch Kira fight, though Lydia has never been so aware of her complete uselessness in battle. It's all she can do to edge herself into Tracy's line of motion, but it doesn't help. Tracy still grabs her mother while Kira's fox form fades from around her, and Lydia is bleeding and possibly dying and not paralyzed, but somehow that makes it worse.
There goes her tattoo care, is her first odd thought.
"Lydia!" Kira' hands are on her almost immediately, despite Lydia's desperate desire to wrench away. "Lydia, oh my god."
"My mom–"
"Kira," comes the Sheriff's voice, stern and calm. "Pull her into my office."
"But–"
"Lydia." Stiles' father has never raised his voice at her before. "If she doesn't put pressure on that, you are going to bleed out. Your mother–" Lydia is choking on a sob. "Your mother would never forgive me if I let that happen."
"I'm sorry," Kira whispers, before Lydia is being dragged across the floor. "I'm sorry."
"There's a first aid kit in there, in the last drawer," says the Sheriff, still careful and calm and quiet. "You'll need all the bandages you can find. Constant pressure, you hear me?"
"Yes," Kira replies, though Lydia can hear the faint panic in her voice. "Got it."
She presses and Lydia's vision goes white.
—
It feels like hours before Malia appears in the doorway, but Lydia is sure she's lost her ability to keep time.
"Lydia?"
"I'm okay," she cuts in, and everyone lets her keep the lie. "It's–it's not as bad as it looks." Kira flexes her fingers and Lydia struggles to breathe. "Malia, listen. Tracy — she thinks she's still asleep; she thinks she's dreaming." She swallows. It hurts. "It's a night terror."
"I don't know what that–"
"She's not dreaming." Lydia can feel her voice slurring. She's so tired. "She's not asleep. Get her to understand."
"Basement," calls the Sheriff. "They're in the basement."
"They?"
"Tracy..." Lydia gets out, "And my mother."
Malia disappears and Lydia shudders out a breath.
"Hang on Lydia," Kira says, that panic in her voice rising. "Just hang on."
"Don't let her black out," the Sheriff warns. "Keep her awake."
"Come on Lydia," the kitsune goes on, "the boys'll be here soon. You're gonna be fine. I mean, someone's going to have to explain to them what I just did, because I have no idea."
Lydia wants to laugh but it comes out a choked wheeze instead.
"Stiles is gonna be mad," she whispers, feeling an almost absurd coil of anxiety press in her chest. "Our parents were going out on a date and I didn't tell him."
"He'll forgive you," Kira says firmly. "Besides, he'll be more mad at his dad than you, anyway."
"While I'm not happy about that," comes the Sheriff's voice, dry. "I'm inclined to agree."
Her eyelids are so heavy.
"Lydia? Lydia." The Sheriff's voice again, sharp. "Stay awake you hear me?"
She struggles. She can barely make out Sheriff Stilinski's shape across the room.
"Stay–"
And then the door bursts open.
—
(stiles)
"Wait."
Malia's scent has lead them to the station, which causes Stiles' heart to beat in triple time. His first instinct is to slam through the door, but Scott puts a hand on his chest to hold him back.
"Smell that?" he asks Theo, who nods. "Blood."
Stiles' stomach drops.
"Who–" he starts, but then his father's voice steals the question from his lips.
"Lydia? Lydia. Stay awake you hear me? Stay–"
And then Stiles doesn't need to hear any more.
—
"Lydia!"
Stiles' heart has never pounded so loudly in his ears. He takes in the trail of blood, his father looking up at him from the floor, Kira's hands red and shaking—
and Lydia.
As pale as a ghost.
"Lydia–!" Stiles is only half-aware of Scott and Theo hauling his father to his feet, surging forward to–to help to do something—
"Stiles," Lydia's voice sounds like half a breath, but it roots him to the floor. "Stiles, downstairs. Malia–" She gasps and the anxiety slams up into Stiles' throat. "Tracy took my mom."
His thoughts clamour and scream for top priority – Dad and Mrs. Martin she's in danger Malia there is is so much blood Lydia what happened I told you to be careful – he feels sick. But Lydia's eyes have pull like no one else's, and now they're full of tears.
"Stiles. My mom. Please."
Stiles spins on his heel to lock eyes with his father. "Dad?"
"Go, son."
And then he's turning and running and he can't look back, because if he looks back he'll never leave her again.
—
"Malia?"
His limbs feel like they're going to upend each other as he hurtles himself downstairs into Evidence. She's standing in the ruins of the room, staring blankly at the still form of Tracy Stewart, in a pool of silver mercury. Malia turns as he skids to a stop; his heart won't stop racing. Her face is wet with tears and his chest seizes.
"Hey, hey are you okay?" Malia nods mechanically. Stiles' shoulders sag with relief, but this pressure in his heart won't quit.
"Lydia's mom," she says, pointing across the room. "Paralyzed."
He whips his head around. Natalie Martin is lying prone several feet away.
"She's breathing," Malia says, before Stiles can summon the courage to move. His heart restarts. "Just passed out. Still paralyzed, though."
Stiles reaches forward, some part of his brain unable to comprehend the fear in her expression. "What–"
"There were others down here."
He starts, but she barrels on. "These peope — three of them — they had masks." Malia's eyes are wide. "They were–they were strong, Stiles."
Stronger than you?
Her face gives him the answer.
"You sure you're okay?" he manages, and Malia nods again, fiercely, as though she were angry with herself for it.
"How's Lydia?"
Lydia. He looks at Mrs. Martin again. "Just..stay here a sec, okay? Someone'll come down to help you just..." Stiles leans forward and catches Malia's mouth in a quick, sloppy kiss. "Stay here."
He wrenches off his hoodie and bunches it up, lifting Mrs. Martin's head carefully and sliding the sweather beneath it. "It's going to be fine," he says, to Lydia's mother, to Malia, and to himself. "It's going to be okay."
And then he's racing back upstairs and taking the lie with him.
—
By the time he makes it, his father is leaning on a trembling Kira ("You were great. I'm proud of you.") and it's Scott's steady hands staunching the gash in Lydia's side. Stiles' ability to think coherently is falling away again.
"I'm sure Lydia would love to be off the floor son," comes his father's voice, oddly gentle. It spurs him forward; Stiles looks at Scott and with a silent nod, the two of them half lift Lydia off of the Sheriff's office floor so Stiles can cradle her head in his lap. He brushes her hair away from her face, thinking of the night she'd gotten her tattoo and wishing they could go back there.
Just for a second.
"Stiles?" Lydia's voice trembles. "My mom–" Tears streak her cheeks; it's all he can do to brush them away as they splash down onto his wrist. "Is she okay?"
"She's okay," he says, his voice low and soft. "She's unconscious — Tracy paralyzed her."
Lydia inhales slowly, shuddering. Stiles drags his thumb across her cheekbone, forward and back. There is a silent question in her eyes; he shakes his head, his heart heavy. She turns away and he pretends not to notice new tears landing on the floor.
"The bleeding's stopping," Scott says. "My mom should be here any minute."
"I'm sorry," Lydia whispers, and it's all he can do just to ask.
"What for?"
Her eyes are still wet when she looks up at him. "I knew our parents were going out," she says, and something in his chest presses. "I should have told you."
"Don't worry about it," Stiles insists, running his fingers through her hair. "I'll just get mad at my dad later."
The door slams open with a bang (Lydia jumps violently and Stiles instinctively tightens his grip),but it isn't Melissa's voice calling out. "Sheriff?"
Deputy Parrish's eyes sweep the room – even from his spot on the floor Stiles can see the measuring, the calculating, the analysis of threat and safety – until his gaze lands on the three teens on the floor and something changes. "Lydia–!"
"I'm fine," she says, her face white, her fingers curling around Stiles' arm. "I'm okay."
"Basement, Deputy," says his father. "Mrs. Martin needs you."
Parrish looks from Lydia to the basement doorway and back again; if Stiles had to choose an expression he'd probbably use torn. But then he blinks and the man is already moving. Parrish disappears and Lydia lets out another shuddering breath and slumps in Stiles' arms. He wants to say something, but he can't decide what, and before anything comes out Melissa comes rushing in.
"Lydia?" She tips Lydia's chin up with one hand. "Sweetheart, you just hang on okay? You just have to stay awake until we get to the hospital."
Lydia opens her mouth, her expression imploring. Scott jumps in quickly. "Her mom's downstairs. The kanima— Tracy — paralyzed her. She's unconscious."
Melissa's mouth falls open. She looks over her shoulder at the Sheriff, and some strange kind of silent communication passes between them. Stiles looks at Scott, who just shrugs.
"I'm not sure I can explain that at the hospital," Melissa says. "Just take her back to our house okay? It wears off, right?"
"No–" Lydia protests weakly, trying to pull herself away from Stiles. "I don't–"
"Honey I'm sorry," Melissa soothes. "You have to go to the hospital. You need a transfusion." She looks up at Scott and Stiles. "Help me get her in the car."
"Take a cruiser," the Sheriff calls. "It'll be faster. Parrish can drive."
As if on cue, the deputy appears, carrying Lydia's mother carefully while Malia trails behind, holding Stiles' hoodie. Lydia redoubles her efforts to get up; Stiles locks his arms around her and feels deeply guilty.
"Parrish, Stiles, and Melissa with Lydia in a cruiser," Stiles' father says in his no-nonsense voice. "The rest of you with Natalie in Melissa's car. Take her to your house, Scott. Don't let anyone see her."
"What about you, Dad?" Stiles demands.
"Someone has to stay with the rest of the deputies."
"But you're–"
"I'll stay," Kira says, her hands pink and raw. "I'll stay with him."
He can only hope he looks as grateful as he feels.
"You can let go of her Stiles," Melissa is saying, gentle and soft. "I've got her. You can let go."
He doesn't want to, in this place deep down, and he thinks Scott's mother can see it – she touches the side of his face very gently. "She'll be okay."
Stiles sits back, his arms and lap empty, and feels abruptly very cold.
—
(lydia)
She wakes up feeling cold, to equally cold white walls and feels an awful familiarity.
And then she remembers.
"Mom?"
Lydia lurches upright, pain flaring in her side, but it doesn't matter — strong hands are there immediately, pushing her back — she wants to scream (she's a banshee why can't she scream) and thrash but those hands are too steady, firm but not unkind, and when Lydia can finally suck in a full breath, Parrish's bright eyes swim before her own.
"Hey–hey it's okay." The deputy ducks his head, pulling her gaze up to his. "Lydia, it's me. You're okay, it's okay."
"Jordan," she gasps, and his hand slides up from her arm to her neck, sweeping matted and damp hair away from her face. Lydia can barely feel his fingers.
"Take a deep breath," he says, and she is pulled back to Carl and the tattoo parlour and that mirrored warmth. She does. Jordan watches her take three more before pulling away, sitting back down in a chair by the bed.
"Your mom's okay," he tells her. Lydia can feel her heart slamming in her chest, slowing down. "Stiles just went to check on her. He should be back any minute." The deputy pours water into a plastic cup; Lydia's throat aches. But she didn't scream.
Her mom didn't die.
Lydia didn't die.
"Lydia!"
Stiles nearly throws himself through the doorway, landing half on the bed, his body towering over hers in a way that only makes her feel strangely protected.
"Hey, you okay?" She's nodding but Stiles is dragging his hands over her anyway, up her shoulders, behind her ears, tangling his fingers in her hair as his nose presses in the top of her head. "Please don't ever do that to me again." Lydia curls her fingers into the collar of shirt and feels abruptly very safe; his lips might have pressed into her hair but she can't be sure.
She's too focused on not crying.
Stiles pulls back, sweeping his knuckles over her cheek like he's not even aware of it.
"Your mom's awake," he says. Something inside her caves through. "She's asking for you – Scott's bringing her here." His phone pings inside his pocket. "That's probaby him – I'll be right back, okay?"
And then he's gone as quickly as he'd come, leaving Lydia finally warm again all over.
"Drink this," Jordan says — seemingly unperturbed by the whole thing even as she has to struggle to pull herself together — waiting until her fingers are firm above his before pulling his hand away. "Doc says you'll probably have to stay a day."
She nods automatically.
"Jordan?" Lydia asks, knowing she has to get this out now, or lose her nerve. "Can you–can you help me with something?"
The deputy tilts his head just a little; there is a familiar knowing in his expression, the same knowing from the car so many nights ago. "Of course," he says. "What do you need?"
Lydia looks down at the ripples trembling across the water in her hand.
"I want to learn how to fight."
There is no condescension in his gaze, no pity or concern. Only a kind of certainty.
"Okay."
She puts the cup down, carefully meeting his eyes so he knows her certainty, too.
"Okay."
More Notes: Woo it's good to be back. I tried to balance my expectations of canon with all the stydia, but for those of you who really hate lydia and jordan, I'm sorry you're just gonna have to deal, I guess. Not to be mean. I just go with whatever's going on up here and try not to fight it too much – I get stuck that way.
Comments are loved and appreciated! (Unless you're gonna hate, because please don't)
Hope to see you guys again soon.
Annie