Title: Salvation
Rating: T - for implied violence, vaguely implied character death
Spoilers: None
Title Credit: Salvation, by Gabrielle Aplin
Author's Note: This is a variation on future-fic, I suppose, theoretically post-cannon. I imagine Lydia to be between 25 and 27 years old at this point. Memory loss, but no amnesia. The entire fic is heavily inspired by Gabrielle Aplin's album, English Rain.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of the creators of Teen Wolf. Any original characters, settings and plots are the property of PuffleHuff. PuffleHuff is in no way associated with Teen Wolf, and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.
Lydia stepped through the door and let the wave of familiar sounds and scents wash over her. The tinkling of the bell over the door, the sizzle and pop of things cooking on the grill, the mixture of strong black coffee and the spicy incense Donnie kept burning in the front window. Brianna looked up from her order pad and waved in Lydia's direction, and Mrs. Brennan smiled over her cup of coffee. Another day, another dollar.
Lydia didn't mind the work so much anymore. The deep depression of forgotten memories and under-utilized talents had receded into the background, and it was the people who kept her going. Her fellow staff, the regulars, the drifting, and the out-of-towners. It was simple work, yet it was hard work to make it look so simple.
And it was thankless, 90% of the time. But Lydia knew that remaining 10% was unusually high, and she appreciated it.
Another day under her belt, another shift over, Lydia pulled the apron over her head and hung it on her peg. She shook down her wavy curls, releasing them from the ponytail that kept them back through the afternoon. She sighed as she rubbed creme into her oft-scrubbed hands, stowed her little upkeep kit in her locker and strolled back through the diner. She paused to wish Jenn a good night at the register and continued out into the waning sunlight.
With her satchel heavy with textbooks and notebooks, Lydia made her way down the hill in the direction of the ocean. The smell of salt in the air surrounded her, as familiar as the smell of coffee and grease lingering in her hair. She settled at the picnic table at the edge of the sand and the broken pavement where surfers parked their trucks and vans on good wave days. She watched a young looking boy carry his board up the beach, the sun at his back. The crash and rush of the tide over the sand soothed what little stress of the day remained while she sat.
Lydia pulled a thick physics text from her bag and opened to the last marked page. The little parking lot's lone streetlamp hummed to life overhead. As her eyes scanned the familiar problems and as her fingers held the pencil that deftly set down solutions that came as second nature to the relays of her brain, her mind drifted toward the dark edges of memory. Flirting with heartbreak.
There were certain things she had always remembered. There were a few innate truths the seer was incapable of taking from her. The way her mother frowned through her parent's divorce. The thrill of solving ever more complex math equations. The eyes of her little pack of friends.
There were other things the seer had all but obliterated. When she prodded the darkness there were sometimes flashes of blood and the sounds of rending bone. There was a piercing scream echoing somewhere behind the muffling veil of oblivion.
She knew that banshees were known for their screams.
Lydia hadn't screamed in fear or pain in a very long time. As far as she could recall, the scariest thing that had ever happened was her grandmother's decay into insanity and eventual death, and the most painful was the burn she'd gotten from being too careless near the diner's griddle.
But there were other scars on her fair skin. And there were still whispers she could not account for in the tremulous space between waking and sleep.
This warm evening, Lydia conjured their eyes. The friends she had left behind. Sometimes she imagined what they might be doing at this very moment, but knowing she had asked a seer to remove their memories from her mind, she never allowed herself to dwell on that thought for long.
First came the light brown eyes with the long lashes and the arched, expressive brows, curious and excited. The name had not stayed hidden for long. Allison. In another life, Allison had been the first true best friend Lydia had ever had. Her heart soared and plummeted in quick succession every time Lydia saw those laughing eyes in her head.
Then came the ever changing eyes. The eyes that had started out a dark brown, that complimented Allison's, then turned a luminous gold, and finally a fierce and hungry red. Tonight Scott's eyes were still brown.
Next, unbidden, rose the murderous blue eyes that flashed with frosty light. A shiver raced across Lydia's skin as her mind retreated from the darkness of things forgotten. She refused to give those eyes a name.
She shook out her mane of curls and redoubled her focus on the problem she was slowly but methodically unraveling on the page. She flooded the plains of both her conscious and subconscious mind with numbers and formulae until she began to shiver not from the flash of blue in her mind but the oncoming night.
Home in her little studio apartment, Lydia prepared for sleep. The physical tension of a day on her feet washed down the drain along with the salt of sweat and the smells of food and people. Warmed by hot water and the satisfaction of a problem sorting itself out, she quickly slipped to sleep between soft white sheets.
Lydia paused in the doorway, the bell's chime still reverberating above her. She quickly spotted her student and made her way to the booth, returning Brianna's wave as she passed the counter.
"Ready for some math?" she asked Gabrielle as she slid in across from the young girl.
"I guess," Gabbie glumly replied.
"Oh, come on! It's going to go so well. You're going to have an A on the next quiz, for sure."
With Lydia's extra enthusiasm and the promise of a banana split if they could get all 15 of Gabbie's homework problems done before her mother's shift ended, they made quick work of the worksheet and reviewed the basics Gabbie would need for her next quiz.
Lydia watched the stubborn frustration melting into proud accomplishment on her student's face and wondered for half a moment what it would have been like to have children of her own one day.
Another day, another dollar. A shift at the diner. A child in need of math tutoring. Another textbook from the University library returned.
Lydia made her way through the days, watching humanity pass through and pass by. And each night she went places she could not remember upon waking, with people reduced to a flash of iris in the dark.
She made friends amongst the waitresses and the students who frequented the diner in the small hours after concerts or before exams. She fell in love with the taste of ocean salt on her lips after a walk in the sand or a swim in calm waters. She had carefully built a little life for herself over the unseen ruble of her past.
She'd even had a boyfriend for a little while. But when she'd dreamed of honey amber eyes and awoken in an unfamiliar bed, Lydia decided not to entertain thoughts of long term relationships.
Another beautiful day, another dollar, another book on the shelf, another proud "A" on a little kid's report card.
Stiles settled behind the steering wheel of his worn down Jeep. He looked into the rear view mirror, but there was nothing to see behind him. The sad face of the seer waving goodbye on a background of smoke-filled landscape. Everything back there was gone. Stiles turned the key and savored the cacophony of familiar groans and protestations, fought the shifter into gear, and headed down the coast.
His body ached as the old Jeep jostled him, but Stiles did his best to ignore the bruises and burning scrapes. He couldn't remember how he'd sustained his injuries, and the seer had warned him against dwelling too long on them. The dark places where memories had once lived were best left alone, the seer had said, like worrying the spot where a wisdom tooth had been with your tongue. The temptation was great, but he must not do it.
Stiles drove as far as he could before fatigue overcame determination and guided him off the road. He slept under the tarps in the trunk space of the Jeep and dreamt of nothing.
In the morning he showered, ate, and refueled at the nearest truck stop. Bought a map and headed off the highways.
Stiles drove until he'd lost himself and the smell of salt had been replaced by pine in the air. His hands traced the dents and scratches in his old Jeep's body while he lay across the hood, eating his lunch of beef jerky and cheddar flavored popcorn, soaking in the warmth of the sun.
Sun-warmed and as full as could be expected, Stiles consulted his map and the folded paper the seer had slipped into his hand before departing.
Back behind the wheel, Stiles continued south, the roar of the road beneath his tires the soundtrack to his scattered and empty thoughts.
The second night in the Jeep was warmer. Stiles tossed against the tarpaulin blankets, searching for a cool spot to rest in. He dreamt of wide hazel-green eyes and nothing. The eyes watched him, and he watched them, and in his sleep he was still again.
The sun was sinking ever lower as Stiles pulled onto the cracked pavement of a little parking area by the beach. His limbs had gone practically numb with aching, and he wanted to get out of the old Jeep more than anything.
More than he wanted a cool glass of water, more than he wanted a full stomach. Stiles wanted to taste the salt in the air again, to feel the cold water between his toes. To feel connected to something deep and powerful, and unpredictable like the ocean.
He stretched and winced, checked his inexpertly bandaged scrapes. He pulled off his sneakers and wandered toward the surf.
He stood motionless at the water's edge, letting the tide lap at his feet until the heat of the car and the days on the road fizzled out. And no sooner had the first shiver caught him than his stomach began to growl.
Stiles turned away from the burning glow of the sun on the water and squinted up the hill in his light-blindness. A neon sign stood out in the growing shadow, proclaiming "24" in lime green numerals, and he made his way to it, tugging his sneakers back onto his feet.
Stiles stepped through the door and let a wave of sounds and smells wash over him. The ringing of a bell over the door, the sizzle and clatter of the kitchen. A mix of black coffee and fried foods, and the unexpected spice of incense. A blonde girl with a name tag that read "Jenn" looked up from the register with a warm smile on her face.
"Anywhere you like," she said with a wave at the room, and Stiles headed for a booth by the window, near the back.
He'd only made it halfway when he stopped short, attempting not to collide with a woman striding the opposite direction.
"Oh," she softly exclaimed, pausing right in front of him. Her wide eyes turned up from their feet on the floor to see Stiles's face, an apology already forming in her throat. "I'm-"
She wore cute little platform sneakers on her feet, her slender legs smooth and bare to the raw edge of her shorts. Her shirt beneath a denim jacket was emblazoned with the same lime green "24" as the neon outside, and the words "Donnie's Diner" in electric orange. Her complexion was fair and unblemished, strawberry waves of silken hair framing her beautiful face.
And her eyes, hazel-green, bored into him.
"-sorry..." the word fell from her lips as a whisper.
Stiles didn't remember much of his life before three days ago, but he knew those eyes. He knew the flecks of gold amidst an array of greens. He even knew the narrowing of eyelids and the tugging together of brows in confusion expressed in the petite woman's look at this very moment. They were as familiar as the steady ache in his body and the weathered shell of his Jeep.
Without realizing he had moved, Stiles took her hand and led her with him to the booth by the window. He settled across from her, still holding her delicate fingers in his hand.
She still held him in her gaze, the confusion in her eyes shifting into concentration as she studied him. And Stiles watched her as she studied him, the spark of recognition igniting a flame inside of him.
"You knew me," she finally said, her gaze shifting now to their intertwined hands on the surface of the table. "...Before."
Stiles nodded his agreement. "I think I did," he said.
"But you don't anymore?" she asked, eyes still on the hands that hadn't relinquished each other.
This time Stiles shook his head, no.
He wanted to. He desperately wanted to know this woman, with her hair like sweet fire and her eyes on his pale skin. But those eyes belonged to a different person now. She was a different person now. Different even to what he would never remember, he knew.
"I want to," he said, hazarding a look back to her face. She met his gaze.
She pulled him back up, never once loosening her grip on his fingers, and led him back out the door, past Jenn's baffled expression.
She led him down the hill again, pausing beside the battered blue Jeep in the parking lot, a glimmer like unshed tears in her eye. She pulled off her shoes one-handed, waited for him to do the same, and led him onto the sand. The sky a glow of violets and corals, the waves sparkling with the last rays of sun.
She sat in the sand, pulling him down with her. She watched him watching her.
His mind flickered dangerously close to the darkness.
Finally, she relinquished his fingers only to brush her own fingertips gently over the freckles and bruises of his face.
"You used to save me," she said when her hands and gaze fell back to her lap.
He nodded. "And you saved me," he said, the conviction of his words surprising him.
He hesitated, reached out, his thumb ghosting over her cheek.
"The seer sent me to you," he breathed, his words nearly lost to the rush of the surf.
Heat rose in her cheeks despite the chill of the sand and the breeze off the ocean. The darkness in her mind rose up like a wave – she gasped – only to snap back again, leaving a last trinket on the plain of her consciousness.
"She sent you to me, Stiles," Lydia agreed, testing the weight of his name on her tongue.
His name in her voice was like fuel in his brain, his own darkness surging up in leaping tongues of black flame, then burning out just as quickly to a single glowing ember.
"Lydia?" Stiles asked, though he already knew the answer.
She nodded, pressing her warm cheek into his trembling hand.