They had gotten close, anyone could see it. Lydia had gone from not noticing him at all to feeling only completely herself when she was with Stiles. His presence made her feel safe and protected, things were just right when she was with Stiles. Their whole pack had their ups and downs, but the one thing that never changed whether they were in the middle of an immense supernatural crisis or getting a chance to be normal teenagers for a moment, was how easy it was for Stiles and Lydia to be together.
Currently, they were in Stiles's bedroom. He was laying on the floor, legs propped up on the bed, with the econ textbook he was supposed to be reading, held over his head. Lydia was perched on the corner of his desk painting her nails, the window behind her opened wide so the fumes wouldn't fill the room. Somehow she was managing to balance the open bottle of polish on her knee without spilling it across the carpet.
Stiles stared, upside down, at her. "Do you ever get frustrated with it?" He asked.
"Painting my nails?" Lydia replied, never taking her eyes away from the second coat she was applying.
"No. Although that looks way too precise and time consuming to be worth the reward. The way society just kinda, I don't know, expects, you to do all that."
"You turning into a feminist on me, Stilinski?" She smiled.
"No. It just isn't fair. The hair and makeup and clothes and nails and shoes. It's crazy." He rolled over so that he was looking at her properly. "Like, it's perfectly fine for me to walk out the door into the world no matter what I look like as long as I take two seconds to put on pants. It doesn't matter what I look like, nobody cares. But you, women in general, have to worry about things like whether or not your nails match your purse. And you get criticized if they don't! How is that fair?"
Lydia finally looked at him, shaking her hand to dry the now blood red nails. "It's not. But that's just the way life is." She shrugged. "And you match the nails to the clothes. Bag to the shoes." She grinned at the incredulous look on the young man's face. "Ya wanna know a secret though? Most of the time, we don't really mind." She said, examining a small smudge on her left pinky.
"When I was little I would beg my mom every day to let me play dress up in her clothes." She continued, "I would trip around the house in heels that were twice the size of my feet with lipstick smeared all over my face because she let me do it myself. One time she got out her old prom dress out of the attic and let me try it on, electric blue with huge shoulder pads. It was hideous but I thought it was the greatest day of my life. And now I get the chance to do that every day. It's kinda fun."
"You don't need it though," He insisted. Her green eyes met his brown and she saw the seriousness behind them. "You really mean that don't you?" She asked.
"Of course I do!" He stood up and flopped backwards onto the bed, speaking to the ceiling. "God, Lydia. You don't see it. You're… you're perfect. And you don't NEED to do all that crap." He took a breath. "You're perfect without any of it. And you, just being you, is so amazing. If somebody is too blind to see that then they don't deserve to be a part of your life."
Afraid he had gone to far, he hesitantly glanced up and across the room, finding Lydia putting the nail polish bottle back into her bag and hopping off the desk. Great. Stiles thought. I upset her. As she walked closer to him though, he saw that she was smiling, gleam of tears shimmering in her eyes.
She leaned across the bed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You're pretty perfect yourself, Stiles." She told him as she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. He lay on his bed for a while once she was gone, fingers pressed against the waxy lipstick print left behind, goofy grin on his face.
Finally he got up, forcing himself to sit down at his computer and try again to work on the econ assignment he had due at the end of the week. He didn't get very far on the paper though, out of the corner of his eye a flash of red caught his attention. There, scrawled on the top of his stack of sticky notes in loopy cursive, Thank you. With a blood red nail polish heart in the corner.
Stiles carefully pulled the paper off the stack with a smile and ran a finger across the two words. He resisted the urge to poke at the heart, afraid it was still wet and he didn't want to smear it. Instead, he gently pressed the tacky strip on the back to the wall above his desk, poking a tack into each top corner just to be safe.
He knew that to most people that little piece of paper wouldn't mean much. Most would have just smiled at the note and tossed it aside to be gathered up and thrown out later, never thought of again. Others would have treasured it, kept it in a place safe from prying eyes and dangers that could accidentally damage the fragile paper. Not Stiles though. He wanted that note to be right where he could see it every day; A constant reminder that no matter how bad things got or what went wrong in his life, on that day, he had done something right.
This has the potential to become the home for all future Stydia drabbles.
Thank's for reading, hope you enjoyed!