a/n: this is beyond overdue because it was written as a tag to 3x06 due to the fact that motel california basically tore my heart out with its gut-wrenching ability to induce ALL THE FEELS. i'm really sorry because honestly, i kind of don't know what this is it's too much and not enough at the same time and i don't even know. story title comes from the admittedly awesome i won't say (i'm in love) from disney's hercules soundtrack.

you swoon, you sigh, why deny it

They arrive back at their high school in a wearier state than any group of teenagers should be subject to.

Lacking the energy and the incentive to listen to Coach Finstock's rambling for one more second, Lydia exits the bus carefully, and her head is spinning by the time her boot-clad feet hit the concrete. Stiles reaches a hand out to steady her, and once there aren't two Isaacs in front of her and the world is standing upright once again, she nods her thanks.

He frowns, worried gaze flickering across her face, and Lydia resents the jittery feeling in her stomach at the thought that he probably sees the fear outlined so clearly in the hue of her eyes and the set of her lips. Somewhere away from the proverbial bubble that surrounds them, Scott clears his throat.

His hand drops from her back, and she ignores the fact that she can feel its absence so acutely.

Everyone looks to their unofficial-yet-obvious leader, whose shoulders are too hunched for Lydia to be comfortable with. Scott, bless his heart, perks his ears and gives them a smile, looking at each of his friends with what she perceives is supposed to be pride. Stiles steps next to his best friend and claps a hand on his shoulder, giving him an encouraging nod, and Scott's smile doesn't look nearly as forced anymore.

"Well, looks like we survived yet another mishap, and─"

"Good word usage," Lydia commends, pursing her lips. "I see someone's been studying for the PSATs."

Scott's eyes light up like a six-year old's Christmas mornings and he sends her the briefest of smiles before looking back toward the group as a whole. Behind him, Stiles sends her an appraising nod at the way Scott's chin is no longer about to make contact with his pectoral muscles, and she winks back.

"I just wanted to bring it to you guys' attention," Scott says, speaking in the direction of where Isaac and Boyd are standing, "that we wouldn't be standing right here without Stiles, Allison, and Lydia."

"Yeah, Team Human!" Stiles shouts enthusiastically, fist pumping the air.

Allison, ever so modest, steps back and raises her hands, shaking her head. "Don't look at me. It was all Stiles and Lydia. My involvement doesn't extend past keeping Ethan from tearing Stiles apart." At the mention of this, Stiles sends her a soft smile, conveying his gratitude in the tilt of his lips, which the brunette happily returns.

Everyone looks to Lydia, then.

Raising a dubious eyebrow, she asks, "well? Where's our round of applause?"

There's a beat of awkward silence before Boyd rolls his eyes, Allison shakes her head, Isaac huffs, Scott chuckles, and Stiles grins. All very different reactions, but they each clap their hands nonetheless, and Lydia forces her shoulders to stay upright instead of sagging in relief; with her snark and her blasé demeanor, she managed to take their minds away from the horrific events of yesterday and center them on the idea that she's alive and well enough to joke about it, so they should be, too.

These people have gradually become more family to her than the people she actually shares biological ties with, and she'd be damned if their individual counts of already monumental PTSD were going to be increasing on her watch.

After the applause dies down, everyone begins to disperse; Boyd stalks off in the direction that everyone knows means he's going to stop by Derek's, and upon seeing this, Scott and Isaac hurry to join him, walking close behind him and giving each other worried glances. Allison's father pulls into the lot, and the brunette turns toward her.

"Want a ride, Lyd?"

She's about to elatedly accept─her car won't be brought back to her from the rest stop she abandoned it at for another two to three days─until she feels a hand lightly come to rest on her back.

"I can take her," Stiles assures Allison. Miffed, Lydia readies herself to go on a tirade about how she doesn't need him to take care of her and also, who does he think he is. Before she can get a word out, he looks down at her, and she can see the plea swimming in his eyes. "If that's okay with you, of course."

Just like that, she deflates, imperceptibly shifting closer toward him before she sighs and sends Allison a resolute nod. Allison sends them each a tired smile before hopping into the passenger seat of her father's SUV, and Stiles and Lydia both wave to the elder Argent before they drive away, leaving the duo standing on the sidewalk.

Stiles reaches a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, and Lydia deftly ignores the expanse of skin that assaults her peripheral vision when his sweater and shirt ride up with the movement.

"My Jeep's this way," he tells her, pointing a thumb behind him where, sure enough, the sad scrap of metal that he calls a vehicle awaits, looking as battered and bruised and weary as she's sure they both feel.

She tries to muster up enough energy to look annoyed, but finds it to be quite the task; there's mutual respect now. She seeks him out as much as he does her, and whenever he has something to say, she listens, absorbing each word with precise thought.

She likes it, she realizes, this equal push and pull. He's no longer chasing after her, rushing to catch up, but he doesn't allow her to trail far behind, either. Instead, they walk next to each other, their steps perfectly in sync. Even now, when the only sound that fills the desolate parking lot comes from their feet as they hit the pavement, and if that isn't a metaphor for their relationship, she doesn't know what is.

Gone is the boy who would fumble with his words and subtly hint at the idea of them being an item, forever unwilling to suggest that she was anything less than perfect. In his place stands a boy who, granted, still looks at her like she hung the stars, but he isn't shying away from letting her know that he sees her flaws; he showcases his frustration with her when she's being intentionally difficult, and he isn't afraid to tell her when he thinks she's making a mistake.

In regards to her, he's grown and matured, and it makes the feelings he claims to have for her feel all the more real.

All the more terrifying.

Stiles follows her to the passenger side of his Jeep and opens the door, quickly throwing several empty water bottles and papers into the backseat before he steps aside and gestures to the vehicle with a sweep of his arm. She rolls her eyes and hops in, her eyes following him as he makes his way around to the driver's side.

Lydia doesn't realize she's shivering until Stiles reaches into the backseat and comes out with a royal blue New York Mets hoodie. "Here," he offers. She looks down at the item of clothing, with its uneven drawstrings, the "NY" insignia on the left, and the hideous clash of blue and orange. Even with all those arguable points, she doesn't hesitate to grab it from his hands and pull it over her head.

As expected, it smells like Stiles: a mixture of cleanliness, his cologne, and a muted muskiness that is distinctly him. In a word: heavenly.

She buries her freezing hands in the pocket of the hoodie and furrows her eyebrows when she sees him looking at her in his sweater, mouth slightly agape. Lydia doesn't recognize the expression, but she does recognize the flash of something primal in his eyes, and her throat goes dry.

Stiles shakes his head, coming out of his stupor immediately, giving her a shy smile as he puts the key in the ignition and puts the heat on full blast for her. However, Lydia isn't one to be so easily distracted, so she finds herself discreetly watching him as he waits for his car engine to be adequately prepared, busying himself with organizing his CD collection while he waits.

Here's the thing: Stiles is attractive. She isn't referring to the you-have-one-or-two-qualities-that-deem-you-somewhat-visually-pleasing attractive, she's talking about the holy-shit-I-want-to-lick-my-way-up-and-down-every-inch-of-your-body attractive─which, by the way, isn't a thought she's entertained in the past. Definitely not more than once.

Ahem.

So yes, he's hot. She knows this, has known this since he approached her in a hospital and started spouting off about their "unspoken connection," and has been seeing more of it as their connection went from "unspoken" to "unspoken, but very tangible and reciprocated."

His sweater is rolled up to his elbows, so she gets a nice view of his arms, which are encased in sinewy muscle from playing lacrosse and video games and the arduous task of trying to survive each day as the best friend of a werewolf. From the glimpse she got when his shirt rode up in the parking lot, what Stiles is hiding under baggy sweaters and plaid button-ups is something she definitely wouldn't mind uncovering. His eyes are the only pair of brown eyes that she's ever seen be so expressive and emotive, and she's grown inexplicably fond of the moles that cover his face and neck. Then there's the hair, for which she only has two words: A. Plus.

She's taken out of her reverie by the sound of Stiles' seatbelt clicking into place, and it takes every ounce of willpower she obtains to rein in her dismay.

She just lusted after Stiles.

Vividly.

In his presence.

Lydia shakes her head and chalks it up to the PTSD while simultaneously thanking whatever divine power is listening that Stiles is human and obtains no super-sniffing powers, knowing that if Scott or Isaac or Boyd had been nearby, the smell of her arousal would've hit them like a tidal wave.

She focuses her attention on the direction in which he's driving them in order to stray her thoughts away from the rated R mental images she'd just spent a good three minutes entertaining. When she sees that he's driving them toward the exit that leads them to the center of Beacon Hills rather than their houses, she blinks.

"Uh, Stiles, you aren't trying to lead me away to some secretive spot to murder me, right? Because I feel inclined to inform you that you'll have to finish our English assignment by yourself. And also, I could probably kill you with your own sweater if I had to."

He sputters, choking out a laugh before looking her way, amazement prominent in his gaze. "Trust me, I don't doubt that. I'm pretty sure if you glared hard enough, you could burn holes through me."

She grins, sugary sweet. "As long as you're aware. But really, where are we going?"

He sobers up then, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before staring straight ahead once more. "Just have to make one quick stop," he says by way of explanation.

She's about to complain, about to argue her insomnia and the fact that she hasn't eaten in over thirty-six hours, but then she envisions a flare, making its way across the nighttime shimmer of cement toward a pool of gasoline, and she swallows her grievances and nods, settling back into the passenger seat.

Before they're even out of the school's parking lot, she feels her eyes begin to droop, and fights to stay awake by mentally reciting names of the periodic table in order of electronegativity. However, Stiles soon finds a song he likes on the radio and begins humming along to the low sound of Oasis as it fills the confines of his Jeep, and Lydia finds herself pondering the fact that she has an easier time falling asleep in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle with Stiles at the wheel than she does in her own bed, in the home she's lived in her whole life.

She quickly reverts back to breaking down the periodic table.

This time, by atomic mass.

.

She doesn't realize she's asleep until Stiles stirs her awake by gently giving her arm a squeeze.

Her eyes reluctantly open, feeling heavier than they ever have, and before she can gather her wits and take in her surroundings, she finds herself with a lapful of plastic containers and bottles. Since she's still only half-awake, Stiles beats her to the punch before she can voice her confusion.

"Listen, I know you're really sleepy and you're probably ready to take whatever measures necessary in order to ensure I can't ever reproduce, but don't think I didn't notice how you could barely stand back at the school. And besides," he chirps, reaching across to open the container in her lap, and Lydia can't help but moan in appreciation as the aroma of cinnamon pancakes hits her nostrils, now fully awake. She doesn't notice the way Stiles swallows or the way his hand falters as he retracts it back to his side, but he continues, "I happen to know for a fact that these are your favorite, and I asked for extra whipped cream, so they're practically drowning in it. I didn't know how you take your eggs though, so I got them scrambled to stay on the safe side, and, well, the bacon speaks for itself, let's be honest."

Her heart lurches inside her chest, and she's pretty sure if she tried to say anything right now, she'd start crying.

Lydia's not usually one to let herself get sentimental over other people's acts of kindness, and she's not one to falter in the face of unfortunate circumstances either. When Jackson would bestow some expensive, designer-brand present upon her, she'd bat her eyelashes and reward him between her sheets, and when he dumped her in the middle of the hallway during third and fourth period, she took no less than seven seconds to raise her chin, flip her hair, and dismiss him as easily as he'd done her.

It was superficial, and while they later discovered there was more depth between them than they were ready to admit, she won't deny that it was almost too easy to shake her head and accept things as they were. Good or bad, things with them always seemed simple enough because she was never risking herself in being with him.

With Stiles, it's the hardest thing she's ever faced.

He's an anomaly, an enigma. She's never questioned the selfish nature of humanity until she was introduced to a boy with unruly movements and adorable moles, too kind for his own good, even when he's aware he won't be receiving anything in return. He's completely, heedlessly in love with her, and yet, she knows that if she were to proposition him at that very moment, he'd frown in disappointment. He wants her body, yes, but more than that, he wants her mind, her heart.

And she has absolutely no idea how to give it to him.

Oblivious to her internal war against her own conscience, Stiles is still pointing out the items he'd picked up for her. "There's water, and orange juice, and I got a hazelnut latte in case you wanted it, too. Oh! And before I forget!" he enthuses, popping open the last tiny container carefully. "Some strawberry cheesecake."

Yeah, Lydia doesn't need Stiles to take care of her, but the fact that he always does warms her heart to a degree she doesn't remember ever feeling. So when her watery eyes meet his, there's genuine affection swimming in them, and, still not trusting her voice, she reaches over and squeezes his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles in the hopes that it's enough, at least for now.

Judging by the winning smile on his face, it is.

.

They ride in a comfortable silence, and when he pulls up in front of her house, she's almost saddened by the prospect of having to leave.

"I'm sorry." Lydia turns to Stiles so fast, she's pretty sure she has whiplash, but she ignores the way her neck is complaining in favor of watching as his lips turn downward when he raises his eyes to meet hers. She says nothing, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he continues, shaking his head as he weakly hits his palm against the steering wheel. "I implied the possibility that you were behind what was going on, and...Peter Hale or no Peter Hale, I should've given you the benefit of the doubt instead of just jumping to conclusions. I should've known that─"

"Hey," she interrupts. "You had every right to suspect me, okay? Even I suspected me until I got Coach's whistle." Lydia looks down at her hands where they rest in her lap, causing her now-lanky waves fall in a curtain around her face, and she raises a hand to push the tendrils behind her ear once more. "I don't even know what I am or what's going on with me, so there's no way you could've either," she whispers.

It's his turn to take her hand in his, fierce conviction in the way he says, "We'll figure it out."

Coming from him, it's not hard to believe it.

The past desire she felt for the boy sitting next to her has been dulled, clouded by something infinitely more meaningful than even she, with her extensive vocabulary in several different languages, can put into words.

"Thank you, Stiles."

He gives her a single nod, the single action speaking volumes for everything he isn't saying.

She extricates her hand from his grasp and thrusts her purse into his lap before her hands reach down to the hem of his hoodie, beginning to pull it up, when Stiles' hand lands on her arm, ceasing her movement.

"Keep it." She raises an eyebrow at him, and his arm awkwardly falls back to his side. "I'm pretty sure you don't own a single article of clothing for the sake of keeping warm rather than being fashionable, so."

Damn him for being right about that.

Lydia scoffs, but releases his─now hers, she supposes─sweater, retrieving her purse from his hold.

Almost too reluctantly, she reaches out and pulls the handle to the Jeep, hopping out and feeling the effects of the previous night seep into her once more when her feet hit the concrete.

She closes the door behind her, forcing her stance to be steady as she walks toward her house when she would like nothing more than to curl up on the pathway and sleep for a couple of weeks. She thinks of the newly-purchased eucalyptus spearmint bubble bath that's resting on her bathroom counter and uses that as incentive to keep moving.

She's digging around the inside of her purse for her keys when she hears him again.

"Lydia, wait!"

She turns, biting down on her bottom lip to keep from chuckling when she sees him haphazardly exit his Jeep, running around it in a way that reminds her of a baby deer trying to keep steady on hardwood floors. He jogs to her, laying a hand on her shoulder before she can register what he's doing, and when she does, she's left hoping he didn't hear her sharp intake of breath.

If the girl she was a year ago could see her right now, rendered speechless by nothing more than Stiles Stilinski's hand on her clothed-with-three-layers shoulder, she would blanch. With that thought, she raises her chin defiantly, looking up at him under a fringe of dark eyelashes.

"I knew you had an ulterior motive," she says, and she realizes she comes off as accusing when he frowns, removing his hand from its resting place. Great, all Stiles wanted was to make sure she got home safe, warm, and nourished, and she's treating him like he attempted to steal her virtue. Swallowing thickly, she takes a deep breath and tries for a softer tone. "What is it?"

As an answer, he pulls her into his arms.

Lydia stiffens immediately, calming down only when Stiles' thumb rubs continuous circles over her shoulder blade that has her all but sagging against his body. After a moment's hesitation, her own arms wrap around his waist, hands connecting at the small of his back where she can feel the waistline of his jeans through his clothes. She almost feels impure; her blatant awareness of every millimeter where her body connects to his and the comforting weight his chin provides as it rests atop her head isn't something she should be focusing on quite so much.

She wonders whether he's ecstatic right now, whether he's registering every fragment of data from this gesture to tuck it away for a rainy day. He's not doing the usual flailing and stuttering that she'd expected, and the arms that are strewn around her shoulders are steady in their embrace.

"Thank you," he whispers, his lips moving against her hair, and she decides this is way too intimate. They're friends now, all conflicting emotions and mutual attraction and tension-filled moments aside. Friends don't hold you so delicately, and their voices don't drop a few octaves before they speak, and they sure as hell don't make you dwell on how easy it would be to tilt your head up just enough so that their lips would be right there. "If it wasn't for you, Scott would be dead."

She lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and turns her face into his chest to conceal the guilt that seems to have claimed permanent residence in the pit of her stomach since the events of the previous night. She breathes in his fleeting scent of detergent and gasoline once more before pulling away, her gaze immediately trailing down to the cracked asphalt beneath her worn boots.

She doesn't want to catch the slightest glimpse of the palpable softness in his eyes that she's sure is present, doesn't want anything to sway her into admitting the fact that her haste against time had nothing to do with pulling Scott from his wolfsbane-induced trance and everything to do with getting Stiles out of the literal line of fire. That the strangled cry that escaped her throat was for the boy with the golden eyes, for the Robin rather than the Batman.

So would you, she wants to say.

She wants to yell; you're not a werewolf, you wouldn't have survived! What the hell were you thinking?!

More than anything, she wants to whisper into that damned fleece hoodie that smells of innocence and tragedy; quite frankly, I would've gone out of my freaking mind, too.

Instead, she shrugs and purses her lips, "yeah, well. You would've done the same."

He tilts his head and expels a chuckle as if he's been presented with a hopeless cause. There's something in the quirk of his lips and the gleam of his eyes that she can't identify, and his passive secrecy has her eyes narrowing in return.

However, before she can badger him to confess via the threat of purse violence, he grins.

"In a heartbeat."

She gives him a small smile, if only because she knows he's being nothing less than sincere, and somehow, the idea that Stiles would readily risk his life for her is one that seems vaguely familiar, almost like he's done it before. She spends the next several seconds exerting her mental energy trying to pinpoint a moment she doesn't remember, only to come to the conclusion that she must've dreamed it.

"Thank you again."

He smiles, beginning to walk backwards away from her, raising his arms out. "You don't have to do that; it was no problem catering to Beacon Hills' resident kickass genius."

She lowers her head in an attempt to hide her smile, and when she looks up, she regards him with a thoughtful expression. "Yeah, well, even the best kickass geniuses can't do it alone."

The last thing she sees before he gets back into his Jeep and drives away is his wholesome grin, bright and beautiful as ever.

She waits until she sees him round the corner before sighing and pulling out her key, dreading having to go into her house and spend the day alone with her thoughts. She has half a mind to call Stiles and ask him to stay with her, but ultimately decides against it, knowing her feelings aren't exactly something she needs to be at the front and center of her mind right now.

Not if she has any hope of relaxing in the next hour.

Instead, she focuses on how a shower is a luxury she will never again take for granted.

She fingers the ends of her hair, staring down at the strawberry blonde locks in disdain. Not for the first time, she curses the fact that the span of twenty-four hours making sure that Stiles, Scott, and their werewolf posse didn't die─while simultaneously throwing in a few of her more questionable dilemmas, like being under Peter Hale's influence and why the hell she's the only one that heard that couple arguing and that mother lulling her baby into a morbid sense of security; needless to say, it wasn't one of her best days─didn't include a spa at some point.

She steps out of her boots, almost moaning at the pleasure of having her bare feet make contact with her carpet. She searches for Prada only to find him on a chair at her dining room table, his paws in the air as he lies on his back, apparently too tired to bother with greeting her, and she grimaces, eyes narrowing with envy.

Getting clean and falling under her own slumber spell is a compelling thought, but first, she needs to get this whole jittery-palms-accelerated-pulse thing under control. She pulls out her phone and texts Aiden; come over? Mom's out of town, I'm grimy, and I'd rather get clean with company.

Lydia knows it's not exactly the best course of action when what she craves is something that only a certain hyperactive brunet with a sharp tongue and penchant for playing detective can deliver, but that very simple truth is something that requires solitary confinement and a considerable amount of alcohol for her to admit.

Even to herself.

She'd rather be distracted by a superficial attraction that promises a good time than something earnest and tangible and so, so frightening.

She sighs in relief when she gets his compliant response less than a minute later; eagerness, tasteless abbreviations, and a winky emoticon─the works.

Lydia rolls her eyes and tosses her phone on the opposite end of her couch, leaning back against the cushions to wait as she desperately tries not to think of Stiles' brown eyes, or how sincere he sounded when he apologized for upsetting her, or the way he always comes to her in her time of need, or his hair and how soft it looks...

...and fails.

She sniffs at the collar of his hoodie and groans. "What have I gotten myself into?"

She picks up her phone, tells Aiden nevermind, unwillingly postpones her bubble bath, and manages to get herself showered and scrubbed before her head hits her pillow, cinnamon pancakes and ugly sports hoodies on her mind all the while.

For once, nightmares elude her.