I'm a horrible person. This was originally meant to be a one-shot but I'm a sucker for suspense so I decided to split it up. Hence why it's so short. So if you're going to review and tell me it's too short or to make my chapters longer... yeah, don't do that. So there'll be a couple more chapters after this, not sure how many. Read, review, check out my other stories, etc. This is set right at the start of 4x01.
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The first few times she says it, he doesn't listen. But this time it's different.
"We're going to die."
There's a hitch in her voice, a slight crack that he knows all too well. Stiles comes to a stop and turns to face her. She's standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself and her gaze fixed on a place somewhere beyond his shoulder. Halfway through another dismissive comment, he snaps his mouth shut.
"Lydia?" he says softly, not moving toward her, not moving away. Just standing, waiting, because suddenly he knows what's coming. She doesn't answer right away, but she lowers her gaze. "Lydia," he says again, and she looks up at him. "Who is it?"
She clears her throat, and he can't tell if she's stalling or trying to find the courage to say the words. "You know how you told me to limit my comments to actual predictions?" she asks.
Stiles nods, his heart sinking. There's that faraway look in her eyes, like she's looking at something the rest of them can't (and probably wouldn't want to) see, and her head is tilted slightly to the side. She's listening – what she listens to, they're not exactly sure, but she's never been wrong about this before.
"Well." She bites her lip, and suddenly the faraway look fades. But instead of being reassuring, this is only more troubling – because all Stiles can focus on is the fear glistening in her eyes. "Stiles, it's…"
He says her name again, crossing the space between them. He rests a hand on her shoulder, and a jolt of some half-forgotten but still-familiar feeling rushes through him. Lydia doesn't seem to notice, because she doesn't move, doesn't react at all. "Lydia, who is it?" he asks again.
She turns her gaze to him, but it's like she's looking through him. And even before she says it, he knows. "Stiles, it's us." She jerks her head toward the club they'd just been about to enter. "If we go in there, we're going to die." Her eyes flick to him and then back again. "Both of us."
It's not an idle comment, not even a prediction. She says it like a fact, and although he tries not to show it, the words chill Stiles to the bone. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket, trying to be optimistic, but Lydia's uncharacteristic quietness is more than a little unsettling. "Okay," he says, already punching in the number, "okay, we'll just change the plan. I'll call Scott and -"
"Stiles."
There it is again – he'll never understand how she can convey such emotion in a single word – the way her voice shakes and the word tangles up in itself.
"What?" His fingers still over the keys, and he's suddenly sure he doesn't want to know what she's about to say. But he's equally sure he needs to know.
Lydia reaches for him, almost like she had the night that Allison and Aiden died; like if she doesn't hold onto something, she won't be able to keep herself standing. Instinctively he steps closer to her, and she leans against him. He tries to pretend he can't feel her shaking.
"If we go in there, we're going to die." She swallows, hesitates, and then hammers the last nail into their coffin. "But if we don't go in there… then the others - Scott, Kira, Malia... they're all going to die instead."
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Sorry not sorry.