Summary: Stiles is starting to think he has a type: smart, strawberry blonde, emotionally unavailable Martins.
Ivy is adjusting to the move as well as she can, though her cousin Lydia isn't exactly welcoming.
Scott just wants to keep everyone safe, even if that means teaming up with unlikely allies.
Allison's struggling to reform her family's archaic beliefs, especially in light of recent attacks.
Lydia wants her old life back – before werewolves and banshees and her mother's financial problems.
Will these teens make it out of Beacon Hills alive? Only time will tell.
Chapter One
And So It Begins…
Stiles is starting to think he has a type. Smart, strawberry blonde, emotionally unavailable Martin women. The thought strikes him when Ivy stumbles into a pack meeting at Lydia's (and hers now, too) house; wearing a short skirt and a smile. Her pink lipstick is smudged around her cupid's bow – probably from Conner's goodnight kiss – and Stiles wants to punch someone. Preferably himself. In the face. Because seriously? He'd only just scrapped the five-year plan to make Lydia fall in love with him like, two months ago and now he has the hots for her cousin? Her very cute, very taken cousin? What the hell, self? What. The. Hell.
His only saving grace is that Lydia hasn't noticed. Stiles tries not to think about how, even now, his emotions aren't even a blip on Lydia's radar – and half of the time he succeeds. Which is improvement but still totally pathetic. Scott knows though, which means so does Allison. Probably the other wolves too since they can probably like, smell it or something. Stiles would be embarrassed if he wasn't sitting on a goldmine of blackmail since he walked in on what was quite possibly the early stages of a threesome between Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. They can suck it.
Stiles only half-listens to Scott's patented Good Work Everyone speech, letting his attention wander to Ivy – who is trying to fly under the radar, from the looks of it. She toes of her shoes and tucks them into a corner of the mudroom, and hangs her rain splattered coat and purse on the rack beside the door. She still has a smile on her face as she heads to the kitchen and every so often her fingers brush against her lips as her cheeks turn a darker shade of pink.
"Someone had a good date."
It seems Stiles wasn't the only one to notice Ivy's behavior. Allison is fixing the girl with a bright, bright smile – a stark contrast against Lydia's deep scowl. Ivy does not let her eyes linger on Lydia too long though, because Allison is the closest thing Ivy has to a friend in this town and it was a good date.
"Yea," Ivy says. She's being quiet, almost bashful, and pterodactyls assault Stiles' stomach because of it. "We went to check out the new art installation downtown, and there were these little finger sandwiches that were so cute I almost didn't want to eat them."
She did of course, and stopped counting after the eighth one. Conner had been impressed.
The girls converse for a few minutes – Erica interjecting whenever the opportunity for an innuendo arose – until Lydia interrupts.
"Ivy," she says. "A minute?"
Stiles watch as the Martin girls leave the room before turning to Scott. "What're they saying?"
"Dude," Scott says. "I'm not going to eavesdrop for you."
"I will." Isaac grins, ignores his alpha's disapproving stare, and focuses on the voices coming from the kitchen.
"Lydia?" Ivy asks.
Lydia has spent the past two months ignoring Ivy whenever their mothers weren't around, so her interest is… concerning. Had Ivy overstepped a boundary by talking to her friends? Whenever Lydia's clique came over they acted – well, weird. Secretive and uneasy. Like they were afraid she'd overhear. More often than not Ivy made herself scarce, but there'd been no avoiding them tonight.
"Break up with Conner."
Lydia's demand is so unexpected; Ivy takes a moment to respond. "Excuse me?"
"Break up with Conner," Lydia says, slower this time.
She crosses her arms and settles her weight on one hip, fixing Ivy with a stare that makes her feel stupid.
Ivy hates feeling stupid.
"Do you like him or something?"
"As if I'd date some second-string nobody. Please. Just -" Lydia takes a deep breath, counts back from ten, and says: "You can't date him."
Ivy prides herself on being level headed. She did not throw tantrums as a child, or when her father died, or when her entire life was uprooted. Ivy Martin-Sinclair keeps her emotions under lock and key until another, more appropriate time arises. But now, at her cousin's demand – she loses it. Because she likes Conner, and Lydia hasn't said one nice thing to her since moving in, and it wasn't like Ivy wanted to come to this stupid town any more than Lydia wanted her to, okay? So Lydia can just shove off.
So that's exactly what she says, and it's a toss-up as to who's more surprised: Lydia, Isaac, or Ivy.
"She just told Lydia off," is what Isaac says, and if there's awe in his voice no one comments on it. Because Lydia can be scary, okay? It is (apparently) a Martin trait.
Erica's smile is stretched so wide her face might split.
"Good for her," the shewolf praises. "Lydia's been a real bitch lately."
"Like you have room to talk," Stiles rebukes. He can't help but wonder how much his defense of Lydia is genuine or out of habit.
Lydia, meanwhile, can't believe her little cousin decides to grow a backbone over Conner Rhodes of all people. Especially since he's going to die.
It's the same every night. Lydia runs through her routine – cleanse, moisturize, lay out three options for tomorrow's ensemble – and turns in for the night. Before well, everything Lydia would have an approximate seven hours of beauty sleep before waking exactly two minutes before her alarm and starting her day. But now that werewolves and darachs and banshees are real, Lydia is lucky to rest at all. Because even though she sleeps – still that approximate seven hours– she dreams of death.
The first time it happened, Lydia hadn't thought anything of it. Nightmares are an appropriate response to trauma. Dreaming of her neighbor Mrs. Brinkley's death was a little strange, sure, but life is strange. So she applied her makeup, curled her hair, and dressed to impress.
When her mother informed her that the police were outside of the Brinkley house - that the cleaning lady had found the missus on the floor, it was a heart attack, and isn't that just a shame? – Lydia did not scream. She did not drop her cup of coffee, or cry, or skip school.
Lydia Martin does not freak out. She does not get scared. She has her shit on lock, thankyouverymuch. Martin women can handle things. Calm, capable, beautiful Martins. Never mind her grandmother, who died in a mental institution. Never mind her sister, who left nothing but a note behind that said I'm sorry, I can't pretend anymore. Never mind her mother, who cries over a man who never loved her.
Calm. Capable. Beautiful. Martins.
Lydia goes to Mrs. Brinkley's wake because it's expected. She tells no one about her dream, because in it Mrs. Brinkley had not died of a heart attack. Oh, no. In Lydia's dream, she was killed.
And just last night, Lydia dreamt of Conner Rhodes. Her cousin's boyfriend.
Ivy excuses herself quickly, a little teary-eyed from her fight with Lydia. She's like her mom that way – can't raise her voice without crying. It's not like she feels bad for losing her temper because she doesn't. She's just frustrated, and maybe a little embarrassed because there's no way Lydia's friends missed their little spat.
Ivy scuttles up the stairs and makes eye contact with exactly no one and draws herself a hot bath because she deserves it. (Not to mention her legs are absolutely killing her from this afternoon's run. Six miles through uneven terrain? Ouch.)
Ivy undresses, lights her favorite candle, and settles into the water with a sigh. The Paper Kites' lilting melodies play from a Bluetooth speaker on the countertop, and Ivy resolves not to move until her skin prunes or the water turns cold.
Ivy doesn't sleep well that night. She hears Lydia in the next room tossing and turning. Her cousin is a fitful sleeper; Ivy knows that much. Sometimes Lydia talks in her sleep. Nothing coherent but it's loud and frequent, and most nights wakes Ivy up. She never mentions it – not to Lydia, or Aunt Nat, or even her mom. Because Ivy knows about what happened to her cousin last year. How Lydia was attacked and went missing. Nightmares are a natural response to trauma, and it's none of Ivy's business anyway. Lord knows she'd hate it if Lydia said anything about her late night jogs – how sometimes Ivy can't breathe in this damn house and needs to go, get out, just run.
Ivy tries not to think about running away being a family trait.
She's dressed and out the door before Lydia's alarm goes off, and leaves behind freshly brewed coffee as an apology. Ivy still doesn't think she way wrong but she hates confrontation almost as much as she hates Beacon Hills.
On the fridge is a note from Ivy's mom telling the house she's working a double and won't be home until tonight. Ivy's stomach burns with something that isn't quite anger. She pushes the feeling away because there's a history test first period and she can't afford to be distracted.
Ivy's car is a '96 Ford Bronco that belonged to her father. It smells like the treatment oils she uses on the cracked leather seats and sweet perfume. On the dashboard are a few solar-powered figurines that dance and splotches of white paint from a spill that happened long before Ivy was born. In the glove compartment is a sleeve of CD mixes since the car was made long before smartphones, and a new sound system is too expensive for her to get installed. Ivy loves this car. It makes her feel safe and closer to her dad, whom she is so far from since his grave is back in Oregon and she is not.
Ivy's trying not to be bitter about things, really.
She takes the scenic route to school and parks at the very back of the empty lot. It's drizzling today which only dampens her mood. Ivy would rather it just pour and get it over with. They could use a break from the damn humidity anyway.
School doesn't start for another hour and Ivy's mixes just aren't cutting it. There's only so many times you can listen to the same songs without going out of your mind, so she turns on the radio and closes her eyes.
"Early this morning, joggers discovered the body of a high school student on the eastern trails in the Beacon Hill's Preserve. Police have identified the body as one Conner Rhodes, a senior at B.H. High. Though sheriff Stilinski has not confirmed Rhodes' death as a homicide, eye-witness accounts…"
Ivy does not hear what the reporter says next. She does not hear anything but her own breathing, which is growing shorter by the moment.
Conner is dead, she thinks. Conner is dead but last night he was with her, and charming, and the best kisser she's ever met, and alive.
"Oh my god," she says. "Oh my god." Ivy throws her father's bronco in reverse.
The only other car in the parking lot is a blue Jeep, and in it is Stiles Stilinski – not that she notices. He watches as Ivy speeds away and brings his ringing phone to his ear.
"Hey Scotty," he says. "I think we've got a problem."
Author's Note
*This fic takes place after season 3a and will include very little (if any) plotlines from seasons after. I'll be tweaking the timeline as well as some events from the show to fit the story. And also because I disagree with some things. (Side-eyes Allison's death.)
**Title from Roman poet Virgil. "Vires acquirit eundo : It gains strength by going (or as it goes)."
***Cover Image found on tumblr with no credit to photographer. If anyone knows where it is from, please link me so!
