A/N: This fic has a trigger warning for abuse (nothing Stydia-related and nothing graphic but it's in there). This is a Stydia fic but there's a fair amount of Lydia/Jackson in the first half, so consider yourselves warned. *runs and hides* Inspired by the poem quoted below:
You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. You're in a car with a beautiful boy,and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over andhe touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.
-Richard Siken, You are Jeff
Rain lashes against the glass doors at the entrance to the school, the sky outside an ominous grey. Bad weather for lacrosse practice, Lydia thinks idly, picturing Jackson, mud on his cleats, rainwater in his hair. His face a mask of disdain.
Shoes squeak on the linoleum floor behind her. It's five-fifteen in the afternoon and it's raining outside and Allison is late.
Lydia turns around.
There is a boy standing just behind and to the right of her, a set of car keys twirling between his fingers.
She doesn't know his name but this can't be held against her given that no one in their grade knows his name, with the exception of Scott McCall perhaps. He has a nickname, Stiles, a fact she only knows because lately Allison has been dropping it in conversation.
Scott and I went to a movie with Stiles...
I swear, he loves Stiles more than he loves me...
I'm sitting with Scott and Stiles today, you're not mad, right Lydia?
"Need a ride?" He's looking at her, she realizes, looking at her arms crossed tightly across her chest, eyes scanning the parking lot. "Allison left with Scott half an hour ago."
Lydia checks her phone and sure enough there's an unread text from Allison:
Sorry, left with Scott, will make it up to you tomorrow, promise! Heart eyes emoji, boy and girl holding hands emoji, eggplant emoji.
Lydia despises emojis. They're immature and also so imprecise, wildly open to interpretation. Language was invented for a reason.
"What do you make of this?" she asks, holding the screen out to the boy.
His cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink. "Well they're either boning or cooking eggplant parmesan and given that I know for a fact Scott doesn't know how to turn his oven on, I'd say definitely the former."
"Unbelievable," Lydia murmurs. Never has she ever envisioned a scenario in which her best friend would ditch her for Scott McCall's dick.
"So, uh, you want that ride?" The look on his face can only be described as hopeful but Lydia is used to this, boys looking at her with stars in their eyes.
It doesn't mean anything.
"You're Scott's friend, right?" The words sound cruel as soon as they're out of her mouth, like she's deliberately trying to put him in his place.
Scott McCall used to be a nobody until he made first line of lacrosse last spring and started dating Allison. It must hurt, to be the one left behind, the boy sitting on a bench watching his best friend get all the glory and the girl.
Stiles shrugs, his body wrapped in layers: tee shirt, plaid flannel, navy blue hoodie. "And you're Jackson's girlfriend."
A statement, not a question. She narrows her eyes at him. He could've said, you're Allison's friend, he could've said, you sit across from me in precalc.
He could've said, you're Lydia Martin, because he knows her name, everyone in Beacon Hills knows her name.
"I'm not his property," she says sharply. "I'd prefer not to be referred to as somebody's girlfriend."
He snorts. "You might want to tell him that."
"Excuse me?"
His eyes widen just a fraction. "Nothing. He just, you know. Talks about you sometimes. In the locker room. Guys do that, it's not a big deal, sorry, I didn't mean to imply-"
"Whatever." She cuts him off because she's getting the impression that without someone to stop him he'll just keep going, and being ditched by her best friend is enough humiliation to endure for one afternoon. "Yes."
"Yes?" A look of shocked surprise on his face.
"To the ride. If you're still offering."
"Oh! Yes, absolutely." He peers out the doors, watching the rainstorm, and looks down at her shoes, which happen to be four inch stiletto heeled suede ankle boots.
"They match my dress," she says preemptively, waiting for an insult that doesn't come.
"I'm parked at the end of the lot," he says. "You can wait here, I'll pull around to the front for you."
Before she can think of a response (Jackson would never do that, he hates waiting for anyone, has no understanding of what it's like to walk in heels) Stiles is peeling off his sweatshirt and handing it to her before throwing his body out the doors and running down the steps to the end of parking lot.
She presses her face against the glass, watches him drive a death trap of a car around the lot and park right in front, hazard lights flashing.
Lydia holds his sweatshirt over her head to protect her curls from the rain as she walks to the car, careful not to slip on the pavement. He's turned the vents on and she folds his damp sweatshirt and twists around to lay it across his lacrosse bag in the backseat.
She's seventeen and alone in a car with a boy and she doesn't know his real name. She's in a car with a boy who isn't her boyfriend and it feels like a little rebellion. She can imagine the look on Jackson's face if he heard that Lydia Martin went home from school with Stiles Stilinski.
She doesn't realize until he's pulling up to the curb outside her house that he knew how to get here without asking for directions.
"I've picked up Allison here with Scott before," he explains. "I'm not stalking you or anything."
"Oh," she says, because she really doesn't care. She doesn't even know him. He's just a boy.
"Allison talks about you a lot," he comments. "You guys are totally like, best friends forever, friendship ring kind of friends, right?"
"I would never wear a friendship ring," she says coolly. "Tacky."
Stiles laughs. "I totally want to get Scott a friendship ring now just to see what he'd do."
"So you're all pretty close now?" The words come out flat. "The three of you."
Stiles shrugs. "He's my best friend so if I actually want to spend time with him sometimes...it's fine. Allison's cool."
Allison is cool but she's dating Scott, and Jackson has despised Scott McCall since he made first line. Lydia is explicitly not allowed to talk to him, otherwise Jackson might have a coronary. Allison, being Allison, is carefully polite to everyone and pretends that Lydia's boyfriend doesn't want to slam Allison's boyfriend headfirst into a wall.
"You could come sometime," he says lightly. "It would definitely alleviate some of the pain of being the eternal third wheel."
"Jackson doesn't like Scott," she says primly.
He snorts. "I don't know if you've noticed but Jackson doesn't really like anyone."
She tosses her hair and gives him a sweet smile. "He likes me."
Stiles bobs his head, looking a little helpless. "You're Lydia Martin. Everyone likes you."
"I should go," she says, abrupt, internal walls coming down, locks and bolts sliding into place. She keeps her legs carefully crossed as she gets out of the car. "Thanks for the ride."
Stiles leans across the empty passenger seat, the window down. He smiles and suddenly he's beautiful, warm eyes that crinkle in the corners, a cute upturned nose, very kissable lips. "Anytime."
She doesn't stand on the bottom step of her house and watch him drive away in his hideous Jeep because she's Lydia Martin and he's just a boy. She doesn't stand there long after he's disappeared around the corner, wondering, testing herself, weighing her feelings against the thoughts in her head.
It's still raining. Her curls go limp and she hardly notices.
/
Jackson likes to leave marks. Hickeys on her neck, bite marks over her breasts. His hands squeeze her waist and hips and thighs, she can line up her fingers over the marks later, when her skin starts to bruise like an overripe piece of fruit.
Sometimes she goes into the bathroom to shower and stares at herself in the mirror, her naked body a map: here are the marks the boy she loves has left on her skin. Here is her proof, his desire stamped in blood.
So everyone knows who you belong to.
She is here, standing naked in her bathroom with fallen curls, three purple bruises across one hip. Thinking about Stiles' long fingers and broad palms.
The kinds of marks they could leave.
/
Lydia's standing at her locker switching out her French book for World History when the boy - Stiles - crashes into the locker next to hers, wide eyed and flailing. "Ohmygod you have to help me, I'm begging you Lydia, you have to help me out here, I can't do it again, I'm begging you."
She shuts her locker with a neat flick of her wrist. "You're rambling."
He inhales dramatically and straightens out, broad shoulders rolling back. "I need you to go on a date with me and Scott and Allison. Sorry, not a date date, like a platonic group hang, well, Scott and Allison will be on a date, you and I will be hanging. Platonically."
"I'm sorry," she says tartly. "Did you just ask me to socialize with you, Scott and Allison? Together? In public?"
"Scott and I were going to see the new Avengers movie. Just us, and then somehow Allison got invited, and now we're getting dinner before the movie and I hung out with them last weekend and it was disgusting, Lydia. Like, yay for love and all that but seriously, I can't even eat when I'm around them anymore, nobody is that truly in love, I'm sorry, they are just not natural, and if you don't come with us and give me something to focus on other than ScottandAllison, epic romance of our time, I will die and it will be all your fault, so please, please come with us."
She reaches up and straightens her ponytail. You're asking me for a favor?"
"Yes," he says emphatically. "Please be a friend and do me this favor."
"But we aren't friends," she points out.
He waves an impatient hand at that. "We're totally friends."
"One shared ride does not a friendship make."
"My best friend is in love with your best friend, so by the transitive property-"
"We're not numbers, we're people."
"You're incredibly argumentative," he says, but he's smiling, like he likes it. And then he snaps his fingers, triumphant. "I gave you a ride!"
"Yes Stiles, I'm aware of that."
"I did you a favor!" he crows. "I gave you a ride, I saved you from walking in the rain in heels, you totally owe me!"
She bites her bottom lip. "Jackson won't like it."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "So don't tell him."
"He's my boyfriend."
Stiles raises an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't his property."
She stands in the hallway next to the lockers, two minutes left to get to History on time, and listens to herself say yes as if the word has left her mouth of its own volition.
/
She's in a car again but this time she's behind the wheel. She's wearing a navy silk vintage dress with white birds swirling around the hem of the skirt and the top section of her hair is braided away from her face, the rest left curling around her shoulders. Liquid liner, red lipstick, she looks like a doll, a porcelain skinned Lydia doll.
Buy me, want me, love me. Don't you think I'm pretty?
She drives to Cafe Roma with Allison in the passenger seat. Her best friend smiles, her face is alive with light because they're going to meet Stiles and Scott, and nothing makes Allison smile like Scott McCall.
Lydia is secretly envious. She wants to look like that, cheeks flushed with arousal and eyes shining with trust and love.
But Lydia is not Allison Argent. Girls like Allison, willowy and tall, pretty but not fussy, girls who giggle like that, speak in soft honey tones like that, deserve to smile, to have boys like Scott McCall worship at their feet.
Lydia is the type of girl who inspires a different kind of devotion.
She sits in a booth across from Allison and Scott, Stiles only three inches away from touching her body in the vinyl seat. Lydia watches the three of them devour individual pizzas piled with veggies (Allison) extra cheese (Scott) and meat (Stiles).
She has a Caesar salad and a glass of ice water with three lemon wedges because Jackson loves your body, yeah, just like that, god Lydia, your mouth your tits your thighs your hips.
Allison and Scott are pressed shoulder to shoulder and he's looking at her like there are galaxies woven through her curls, diamonds glittering in her dimples. It's like looking at an island, something beautiful and mysterious and distant.
Lydia smiles and nods and listens to their easy banter, eats her salad leaf by leaf and lets Stiles pay for her because Scott is paying for Allison and apparently a platonic date is still a date.
The movie is playing at a theater a few blocks from Cafe Roma. Lydia and Stiles walk side by side, a few paces behind Scott and Allison. Allison's laughing and tossing her hair, Scott's hand dipping lower and lower on her back until he's cupping the top of her ass.
"See what I mean?" Stiles tips his chin at them. "Like, zero awareness that there might be any other people around!"
Scott gives him the finger with his free hand without turning back at them and Allison giggles.
"You're engaging in a fruitless endeavor," Lydia advises. "They're idiots for each other."
"Yeah," Stiles says fondly. "I guess they're kinda sweet when they aren't being totally nauseating."
Inside the theater Scott and Allison share a tub of popcorn, Allison half in Scott's lap. Lydia's sitting next to her, Stiles to her right, mouth wrapped around a red vine in a way that looks just obscene. Her stomach twists in hunger and she thinks about his tongue, if Stiles would taste sticky sweet with artificial sugar.
Halfway through the movie something gets passed into her hand. She looks down in the dim light to see herself holding a Reese's peanut butter cup. Stiles is holding its twin, the shadows in the dark theater catching on his face. She raises a questioning eyebrow at him and he gives her a shy smile, leaning in to whisper in her ear.
"You look hungry." His voice is low, right in her ear, he's so close he could catch her earring in his teeth. "And everyone likes peanut butter and chocolate, right?"
She's sitting in a movie theater with a boy she hardly knows and her best friend is making out with Lydia's boyfriend's mortal enemy. Allison has clearly forgotten that Lydia (hell, everyone except Scott) exists and Stiles is closing his hand around her wrist.
Lydia stares at him, his hand on her, and it's as good as she thought it would be. His fingers are so long he could close his whole hand around her wrist without touching her. But he is touching her, skin warm against hers. It's grounding, makes her feel more real.
Eat, he mouths.
Her hand floats to her mouth, like she's powerless against his command. Chocolate and peanut butter consume her senses, the heat of his body so close to hers that she just kind of melts and involuntarily moans as she swallows. She spends the rest of the movie watching his fingers dance in his lap, tap against his thigh, drum against the armrest, always, always moving.
She still has the taste of sugar on her tongue when the movie ends. They file out into the lobby, Scott and Stiles pretending to reenact a fight scene when Lydia sees two boys walking out from the concession stand.
It's Danny Mahealani and that weird kid Isaac Lahey. Danny is Jackson's best friend and Isaac is friends with anyone who gives him even a sliver of attention. They're on the lacrosse team with Scott and Stiles.
He talks about you in the locker room.
She looks away before Danny can catch her eye but Scott shouts out, "Danny, Isaac!" Waving at them, big friendly smile on his face.
"What's going on guys?" Danny fist bumps Scott and Stiles, giving everyone a cheerful smile.
"Hey Scott, Allison." Isaac nods shyly. "Stilinski." He doesn't say anything to Lydia because Isaac, like half their grade, is terrified of Jackson and by extension, her.
Four boys:
One of them cares for her like a sister, bonded by Jackson, their shared belief in his greatness.
One of them fears her, tries to shy away, hunching his shoulders. This boy doesn't know how to be seen. Maybe he doesn't want to be.
.
One of them loves her best friend but is a bit (justifiably) suspicious of her. This one doesn't trust her yet, which makes her like him more, for being right about her.
And one of them wants to nurture her: keep her dry, keep her fed. Looks at her with warm wet eyes like he sees right through her charade, can see all the marks on her skin. He is the one she is afraid of, in a thrilling sort of way.
Careful, she reminds herself.
Porcelain breaks.
/
"Lydia!" Allison is waving to her from across the cafeteria, gesturing to an empty chair at the lunch table she's sharing with Scott, Stiles and Isaac, but Jackson is watching her with narrowed eyes.
Lydia shakes her head at Allison and flips her hair, sits down in an empty chair to Jackson's right. He and Danny are studying for a Spanish quiz but Jackson's hardly paying attention. He watches Lydia eat a carton of nonfat Greek yogurt bite by bite and as soon as she's finished Jackson rises from his chair, wordless, his hand gripping her upper arm to pull her out of her chair and lead her out of the cafeteria.
Lydia makes the mistake of looking back as they go out the double doors and into the empty hall. Stiles is watching them, frowning, head tilting in Allison's direction to whisper something.
She lets Jackson tug her down the hall to Coach's empty office. Jackson pulls them inside, locks the door and shuts the blinds. His face is a mask, hollowed eyes and rosebud lips pressed tightly together.
Lydia raises a sharp eyebrow at him. "Is there a reason why you manhandled me in here?"
He's staring at her, jaw locked, looking at her like she's prey, a small animal, something he wants to tear apart with his teeth.
"Coach teaches freshmen health this period," he mutters.
"Jackson."
"Danny told me he ran into you the other night." His voice is low and sharp. "Said you were with Allison and McCall and that loser Stilinski."
She blinks innocently at him. "Really?"
Jackson's upper lip curls back in a snarl. "I told you, I don't want you hanging out with them."
"She's my best friend," Lydia snaps. "It's not my fault she's dating Scott."
Just the mention of Scott's name is enough to make Jackson glower. "Stay away from him."
"Or what?" she taunts. "Are you going to punish me?"
"I don't want to punish you." His voice is soft and dangerous. "I just want you to apologize."
She reaches her hands up and settles them around his hips, blinks up at him in a manner she hopes is both contrite and sexy. "I'm sorry."
Rough hands push her to her knees and she gasps involuntarily at the shock of it, bare skin smacking hard on the floor. Jackson's hand goes to his belt and she stares up at him, frozen into silence, watching him unzip his jeans and tug them down over his hips.
It's like this with him sometimes, aggressive, passionate, but usually she has more warning, usually she's in control. She didn't think Jackson actually had it in him, to challenge her like this, to flip the script.
Make her submit.
"Jackson?" she whispers.
She doesn't say you're scaring me because she's Lydia Martin and she is fearless.
His hand fists in her hair. "Apologize."
She could stand up and leave. Hit him across the face, make a mark of her own for once. Break him before he can break her, make him curse her name.
She doesn't.
Lydia opens her mouth and shuts her eyes, and does what he tells her. He's Jackson Whittemore, he's going to be a star and Lydia is going to ride him all the way to the top; she's playing the long game and she can do this.
This is love. A sacrifice, an offering. His hand on the top of her head a blessing, a curse, all her sins forgiven.
This is love. This is what love feels like.
Isn't it?
When it's over Jackson doesn't have that haunted look in his eyes anymore, he helps her up to stand, fingers tender on her mouth.
"Your lipstick is smudged," he informs her, carefully running the edge of his index finger along her lip line. "There, that's better."
Her mouth tastes bitter and there's a dual throb in each knee that tells her she's going to have bruises later. "Oh," she says, shaky and hating herself for it. "Thank you."
Jackson's fingers drift to her chin and squeeze. Not enough to hurt but enough to demand her attention. "You really drive me crazy," he says grimly. "I just can't think straight when you make me mad like that."
"I wasn't trying to make you mad." Her heart is cramping painfully but her face remains placidly calm.
He grasps her jaw, tight, four points of pressure threatening to crack the bone. He's got that blanked out expression he gets after he comes, like he's remembered who he is, remembered that he's Jackson Whittemore and no one crosses him, girls fall to their knees for him simply for the privilege of being chosen.
"Lydia," he says seriously. "Try harder."
/
The party's at Danny's house and because everyone loves Danny everyone is there. Scott and Allison, Jackson of course, Stiles (because Scott), even Isaac, the whole lacrosse team and every moderate-to-extremely popular girl in the junior class.
Lydia is dancing and Jackson's hands are up under her skirt, fingertips sinking into the flesh of her upper thighs, his mouth dragging across her bare shoulder. His lips skate up to her ear, hands drifting around to cup her ass.
"I need another drink." His fingers squeeze, hard enough to burn, just for a second and then he's walking away from her, leaving her alone in the crush of bodies.
She slinks through the crowd, hips swaying to the music, and they part for her like Moses parting the Red Sea, like she's something divine, protected by angels. She knows Danny's house, knows to take the back staircase to the second floor bathroom when she sees that there's a line ten people deep outside the first floor powder room.
The bathroom is occupied. She waits for the door to open, swaying in her stilettos, and when it doesn't she knocks with a fist. After a moment the door swings open to reveal Isaac Lahey, pretty blue eyes unfocused and a little red. He just stands there, blocking the doorway, a stray curl falling across his forehead, staring at her.
"Well?" Lydia asks impatiently. "Are you going to move or am I going to have to make you?"
He stumbles backwards farther into the bathroom, arms coming up to block his face. "S-sorry," he stutters. "I'm sorry."
"Oh my god, it's a party, relax." Lydia grabs him by the elbow but he jumps away and retreats, darts past her through the doorway and runs so fast he almost falls headfirst down the stairs.
She spends a few minutes in front of the mirror, touches up her lipstick and her hair. When she comes downstairs she can't find Jackson until she goes into the kitchen. He's sitting at the table with Danny and some other guys playing quarters and a girl with a long blond ponytail is wrapped around Jackson like a snake.
Lydia doesn't move. She waits for Jackson to see her and when he does he just smirks, his eyes burning cold like ice.
Her cheeks flame, she doesn't care if he's mad at her because she went to one stupid movie, she is Lydia Martin and no one disrespects the queen. Lydia turns on her heel and stalks out of the kitchen, pushes through all the gyrating bodies in the living room until she makes it out the front door.
The night air is cold on her skin. She's in a black strapless minidress with a flared skirt, no tights, open toe strappy pumps, and her boyfriend is inside with a girl who isn't her (blond, long long legs wrapped around Jackson's waist).
Lydia crosses her arms over her chest, feeling very small. Like something old and used, her sheen all worn down, something nobody wants anymore, like a broken toy.
Broken toys get thrown away, everyone knows that.
"Hey, Lydia!"
She turns and Stiles is jogging down the front steps, keys dangling from his fingers. She stops on the sidewalk and waits for him to catch up, crossing her arms protectively against the chill.
Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Need a ride?"
He's parked two blocks away; Lydia follows him down the sidewalk, loose limbed from the alcohol. It feels like it's going to rain, she shivers against the chill and Stiles stops on the sidewalk, reaching out to grasp her wrist. "Hang on."
He unzips the dark grey jacket he's layered over a red hoodie and shrugs out of it, moves behind her and lays it on her shoulders, hands smoothing over it. "You're not wearing a jacket."
She cranes her neck around to look at him. "What are you doing?"
Stiles frowns. "Giving you my jacket."
She stares at him. "Why?"
Stiles' hand skates across her shoulder and sends a shower of sparks down her arm. "Because you don't have one."
She doesn't care that Stiles is touching her and it's not making her stomach flip. "It didn't match my dress," she explains, and her voice does not get high and breathy like she's intentionally flirting with him
It takes him just a little too long to step away from her than it should. "Aren't you cold?"
She smiles slyly. "Not anymore."
When they get into the Jeep the interior light comes on and suddenly Stiles is leaning over in his seat, reaching out to brush her bruised knees with two fingers. Lydia hisses, pulling away from his touch, curling her legs defensively towards her chest.
His eyes go wide. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?"
"I fell," she lies fluidly. "My heel broke."
Stiles' glances down at her feet, where both heels perfectly intact and strapped on. His eyebrows shoot up. "You want to try that again?"
Her cheeks flame. She has to look away, what a stupid lie, her heel broke, she might as well have said she walked into a door.
"It was an accident," she finally says. "And no, I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay," he says. The keys are dangling in the ignition but he hasn't turned the engine over. He looks out the windshield, forehead furrowed, like he's trying to work out a problem.
"What?" she snaps.
His mouth twists. "Did something happen with Jackson?"
Ice runs up her spine. She's an animal in a bear trap, a butterfly pinned under glass.
Exposed and trapped.
She raises her chin and gives him her frostiest stare. "Excuse me?"
He lowers his eyes, he thinks he's offended her. "I just mean, didn't you come with him?"
She turns around in her seat to face straight ahead, smoothing her hands over her skirt like a good little girl, don't you want to be good for me, Lydia?
"Are you driving me home or what?" she asks tightly.
"Sorry," he mumbles. "Shutting up now, got it," and turns the engine over.
/
"What happened to your knees?" Allison asks on Monday in the locker room, when the bruises are fading to an ugly greenish-yellow.
"More like what were you doing on your knees," Erica Reyes cackles, slinking past them to the mirror over the sinks in a black lace bra and matching thong.
Lydia yanks up her tights and pulls her rose colored silk top over her head. "Bitch," she mutters.
"Lydia." Two of Allison's long slim fingers tap her wrist. "Are you okay?"
She can't tell Allison. Allison will tell Scott and Scott will tell Stiles-
Why does she care what Stiles thinks-
He can't find out, she can't let Allison find out; she's Lydia Martin and she has it under control, she can fix this, she has to fix this-
"Lydia!" Allison's eyes are wide and earnest. "Are you even listening to me?"
Deep breath. Smile, Lydia. "Everything's fine."
/
Jackson's waiting for Lydia at her locker. She ignores him, spins her combination and deposits her books.
"Lydia," he says impatiently.
She meticulously paints on a fresh coat of liquid lipstick using the little mirror hanging on the inside of her locker door. "Did you want something?"
"You're coming to practice, right?"
"And why would I do that?"
"Uh - because you're my girlfriend?"
"Am I?" She slams her locker shut just to see him flinch. "Because it didn't look that way Saturday night."
"Aw c'mon, I was just playing around."
She crosses her arms tightly against her chest. "Well maybe I don't want to play with you anymore."
He reaches out to cup her elbow, gives her a charming smile that's just the right side of dangerous. "Come on Lydia, don't be mad."
She gives him a stern look. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask." His smile is smug, a flash of shiny white teeth.
She imagines them sinking into her flesh, blood spilling over Jackson's lips. Imagines her hair wound around his incisors, cartilage and bone being masticated.
In the end Lydia goes, but only because Allison does too, to watch Scott while she does her math homework. On the field Jackson is working his ass off to keep up with him; Lydia doesn't know what Scott is on but he's easily matching Jackson without breaking a sweat when last year he would've been on his knees gasping for air.
"Allison."
Allison shivers and blows on her hands. "Yeah?"
"How's Scott's asthma?"
Allison crinkles her noise. "What are you talking about?"
"Scott," Lydia says slowly, like Allison is purposefully being an idiot. "Asthma."
Allison grins helplessly. "Yeah, I still don't get it."
Lydia stares at her. "Allison, I've known Scott since kindergarten, the kid couldn't make it through one field day without having an asthma attack."
Allison shrugs. "He must have grown out of it, he's never said anything to me about it."
"I've never heard of someone spontaneously outgrowing a medical condition overnight but sure, why not?" Lydia drawls.
Allison rolls her eyes. "I'm his girlfriend Lydia. I'm telling you, he doesn't have asthma."
"But he"-
"He doesn't." Allison's voice is suddenly very firm, like Lydia is acting like an annoying child. "You must be remembering wrong."
She's not, she knows she's not, but there's something about the way Allison is looking at her that makes Lydia feel the need to be careful. "Fine, whatever. It's not like I even care."
Allison smiles then, and gives Lydia a naughty wink. "Trust me, there's nothing wrong with his lungs. My guy's got stamina."
Lydia scowls. "Congratulations."
"Seriously, are you okay?" Allison gives her a look of sweet concern. "Did something happen at Danny's party?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lydia says flatly.
Allison sighs. "You know you can talk to me, right?"
"Oh look," Lydia deflects. "Practice is over."
Allison actually squeals and jumps to her feet so she can skip down the bleachers and throw herself into Scott's open arms. Lydia follows slowly because she's wearing four inch wedge-heeled booties and a plum knit miniskirt that's shorter than sin. Stiles joins them at the same time Lydia does, popping up from behind Scott's back, because where Scott McCall goes, Stiles Stilinski follows.
Lydia sees Jackson come off the field with Danny, his jaw locked, a look of disbelief on his face. Lydia suddenly realizes with horror that she's standing with Scott, Stiles and Allison, all together, like she's part of their group. Like she's made some kind of choice or declaration.
And then, because of course she does, Allison says: "Stiles is driving me and Scott, do you need a ride?"
Lydia takes a careful step backwards. "I can't," she says loudly. "I'm having dinner at Jackson's. We always have dinner with his parents on Monday nights." She turns to Jackson and flips her hair. "Right Jackson?"
He grins and struts over to her, slings one arm around her shoulder and kisses the side of her head. Like a perfect Ken doll boyfriend. "Yeah, that's right babe."
Something in Allison's eyes flickers, but then she smiles brightly and shrugs. "Okay! See you tomorrow."
She and Scott trot toward the parking lot, hands linked, sun setting against their profiles like a couple in a magazine. Lydia and Jackson follow, his arm a warm weight over her shoulders. This is what it feels like, somebody's love draped over her body like a protective cloak.
Just make a choice. Choose Jackson, his perfect face and cut body, talent, potential, that wealthy family. Imagine stardom, a diamond engagement ring, make it Tiffany's, a Reem Acra wedding dress and a honeymoon in Turks and Caicos.
And then she makes the mistake of looking back over her shoulder. Stiles is trailing after Scott and Allison, head hung, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie.
Lydia's stomach twists and suddenly everything feels wrong.
So don't choose then. Or choose something else.
Choose a boy who talks as fast as she thinks, a boy who races her when solving math problems at the chalkboard and graciously loses every time. A boy who touches her like he could break her into shards of glass if he isn't careful.
Stiles raises his head and their eyes catch. He doesn't say anything, doesn't smile, just gives her a hard stare. Lydia's heart shrivels in her chest, all her confidence evaporating in the face of his judgment. Her cheeks flush with shame and she has to look away, guilt unfurling inside her like a slow blooming flower.
