Author's Note: I've been thinking a lot about Lydia's emotional state in season four and how her powers are becoming stronger. Spoilers for season 4. Please enjoy!
"What'll I do?
When you are far away
And I am blue
What'll I do?"
—Frank Sinatra, "What'll I Do?"
Lydia is sitting in history when it happens.
Her teacher is prattling on about treaties that led up to the outbreak of World War I and honestly, it's a subject that the young banshee knows like the back of her hand, but she's supposed to be focusing on school and normal and trying to find her place now that Alison is gone. She's supposed to be paying attention and giving the right answers and taking notes, but it's in this class that it sinks in. She's not even sure what triggers it exactly, but one moment she's listening and the next, it hits her.
She's a banshee that someone wants dead.
She's a banshee who can't control her powers, who feels herself drowning in the otherworldly voices more and more with each passing day. People—who knows how many—are actively hunting her and her best friends. They have no idea why and she doubts the reason would help her anyways.
"Miss Martin?"
She glances up and meets the concerned glance of her young, blonde AP history teacher. The young woman grimaces slightly as Lydia bites her lower lip nervously.
"Yes?"
"Please pay attention." Her teacher finally says, after seemingly giving up her original thought. "This will be on the test."
"Yes, Miss Tate."
Her teacher moves on to the next student and Lydia chides herself, shaking her head slightly. What is she doing? Who is she kidding? She can't be the super student and the banshee. She can't handle this all on her own, but there's no one to turn to for help. She's not like Scott—she can't turn to a mentor to guide her through everything. She's on her own here.
The bell rings and she hops up, sliding her books into her bag. She practically sprints out of the classroom and down the hall to her locker, her heels clicking in the hallway. She has the urge to just walk out the door of the school, get into her car and drive until she's left this town behind.
But she can't do that—not now, not until she's helped save the pack and herself.
That doesn't mean she doesn't want to though.
"You sleeping okay?" Kira asks, later that day as she comes to sit at the lunch table. The table is pratically deserted as Scott is helping Liam and Stiles is off with Malia, but it gives her a sense of normalcy to keep up the charade. "Lydia?"
"Hmm?" She snaps out of her reverie and faces the kitsune's concerned gaze. "Yeah. I'm good."
Kira raises an eyebrow.
"You're pale."
"I forgot to put on foundation this morning—" The lie rolls easily off her tongue.
"And you look like you're about to face plant into your tray." Kira points to the lunch tray and Lydia's face precariously hovers above. Immediately, the banshee straightens up and tries to appear nonchalant, like the old Lydia Martin who hadn't had a care in the world.
"I've just been trying to help." Lydia mutters, taking a deliberate bite of her salad.
"And that's great, but who's helping you?" The young kitsune asks and the question strikes Lydia like a punch to the gut. "If you ever need anything—" Kira begins, reaching out with a small smile.
"Thank you." Lydia replies, sincerely happy, but she rises up from her seat quickly. "I need to go to the library. I'm going to try and take another crack at the code."
Before Kira can even protest, the strawberry blonde is out the door.
But who's helping you?
That question haunts her for the rest of the day.
She dreams about Alison that night.
For once, she doesn't relive her death. There's no blood or corridors or the Nogitsune's twisted grin and on Stiles' face.
It's just Alison and her, sitting on her bed, gossiping about boys and laughing at cheesy romantic comedies. She hears best friend's voice and her laugh ringing in her ears and it's honestly the happiest Lydia's been in months and she wishes it could last forever.
"And Stiles?" Alison asks, chuckling as she takes another bite of popcorn.
"He's got a girlfriend." Lydia mutters, shrugging noncommittally.
"A girlfriend?" Alison echoes, sitting up straight on the bed. "Who?"
"Wait . . . this isn't right." The banshee stands up and backs away from the bed. Not once have Alison and her ever discussed what was going on currently in Lydia's life. This couldn't be right—she needed to wake up.
"Well, I guess it's to be expected." Alison sighs softly, running a hand through her hair. Then, with a malicious smile, she adds, "Especially because of what you are."
"Me?" The strawberry blonde echoes and is it just her or does the room seem to be getting darker and do the walls seems to be closing in? This dream is quickly turning into a nightmare.
"You're a banshee, Lydia." Alison states. "And before long, you'll be just like her."
"Who?" Lydia whispers, but she's terrified to find out, to see if her suspicious are true.
"You know who." Her best friend teases in a singsong voice.
In a flash, Alison is gone and in her place, Meredith sits.
With a gasp, Lydia awakens in her best, her heartbeat racing, and her pulse pounding.
Meredith's blank eyes appear whenever her thoughts drift.
She doesn't sleep.
Ever since the nightmare with Alison and Meredith, she doesn't see a point to. So, she chugs coffee and forces herself to keep moving until her body can't take it and she crashes into blissful oblivion for a few hours, only to get back up and do it all over again.
Lydia thinks she's doing a pretty good job of covering her tracks too until Malia blurts out one day,
"Lydia, why are you so exhausted all the time?"
They're at the lunch table and suddenly, all eyes are on her and she ducks her head quickly.
Malia turns to Scott, puzzled.
"Tell me you can feel it too."
"I can." Scott admits softly, and she feels his gaze on her, burning.
"Lydia?" Kira's tone invites a conversation, one that the young banshee doesn't have the energy to have and she rises up from the table. But, she does it too quickly, for the world spins around her and she feels her knees buckle. She's about to fall flat on her face when a pair of strong arms pulls her up.
"Easy." Stiles murmurs and she relaxes in his warm grip and dimly, she recalls Deaton's stern voice informing them about anchors and geez, she must really be that sleep deprived if she's thinking about that.
"Lydia!" Kira's concerned face swims into her vision and she can hear Scott say something, but it's muffled and it takes all her energy to shift her gaze upwards and she meets those familiar hazel eyes that always brought her comfort, even in the darkest of situations. "Lydia, anc uyo hem?"
"Lydia, odlh tono hem!"
"Tkae rhe ot rsnue."
"What?" She mumbles, her voice slurring. More faces appear, but her eyelids feel like dead weights and before she knows it, she's gone.
Lost to the darkness.
"You're going to lose your mind." Meredith tells her in the darkness. "All banshees do."
"I don't—" Lydia shakes her head.
"It's not a matter of what you want!" The other banshee growls. "You'll do what the voices tell you."
And they're there—the voices, the whispering, the sounds of Alison screaming, of her friends and their future demises. Soon, she's drowning and can't remember what her name is or what she's supposed to do now. All that matters is the voices and what they're saying and she'd been stupid, how could she have ignored them for all this time.
Lydia!
The voices quiet.
"Stiles." She breathes.
He pulls her back.
She stays in the hospital for a week. Melissa tells her that she's exhausted, that she needs to relax and recover. The pack visits her—Stiles everyday—and they all tell her the same thing, to rely on them more, to confide on them more.
Lydia thinks that's the least of her problems.
"Hey."
Stiles stands at her door, a hot chocolate in his hands and what looks like to be a special edition copy of The Notebook. She eyes him suspiciously before opening her door fully and wordlessly lets him in.
"It's been days, Lydia." He starts, voice soft and the strawberry blonde sits on the couch, trying to ignore the pity in his gaze. "Why won't you tell us what's wrong?"
How can she tell them?
How can she admit that whenever she closes her eyes, she's lost to the voices? How can she inform them that she's slowly losing her mind, as the voices get louder? Alison and Meredith were right—someday soon, she'll be locked up in the asylum. And what then? What will her life be like then?
"I can't." She tells him with a tight grimace. "Stiles, I—"
His phone rings and he frowns slightly before placing the phone to his ear.
"Yeah?"
And suddenly, her world is turned upside down once more.
Kira is missing, taken by something—Kate maybe?—and it's a race to find her because the longer someone stays missing in this town, the more likely it is that they're dead and she can't lose anyone else.
It'll break her.
Scott is white knuckling it and she can't blame him. The thoughts he must be thinking, so soon after Alison, are anything but good ones. They tear to where her cellphone signal last was and they're piling out the car when it hits her like a wave.
Lydia.
She can hear Kira and the thought thrills her and terrifies her. Scott is briefing the group and his words wash over her, but the comprehension doesn't sink in.
Please, someone! Help me, I need to get out of here.
"Lydia—" Stiles hand tugs on her shoulder, trying to stop her, but nothing matters but the voice and she has to find her, has to follow it. She walks, following the voice, listening as it gets louder and louder.
They find Kira 20 minutes later, in the woods, bloodied and bruised, but going to be okay.
And the voices fade back to a whisper.
Meredith's death hangs over her, dragging her down so deep into despair and guilt that Lydia doesn't know which way is up anywhere. She's responsible—it wasn't your fault, Lydia, how could you have known?—and it's killing her inside, the more she thinks about how she pushed the other banshee over the edge. How could she be so cruel, pushing Meredith like that? What had she been thinking?
Stiles seems to always be by her side now, sitting next to her at the lunch table, walking her to class, even showing up at her house with old 90's romantic comedies that he proceeds to watch with her on her couch until she's numb to the grief and can finally fall asleep.
This pattern continues for days.
"I killed her." She blurts out in the middle of Sleepless in Seattle. "I pushed her and now, she's dead."
"You didn't." He insists, voice rising. "Meredith—"
"You don't understand!" Lydia snaps, anger rushing through her veins and it feels good to finally experience something other than the bitterness of grief. "I was warned that she was fragile and I still got frustrated and I yelled at her and now she's dead!"
"Lydia, breathe." Stiles soothes, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder and there's something about the contact that instantly stills the fury within her. His eyes meet hers and she sees something in his gaze, something that reminds her that she isn't alone, that he and the pack are there for her.
But it isn't just the pack, she realizes, it's him. He's there for her, he's her anchor and she can finally comprehend that now because she feels that deep connection between them. Just like she knows she would do anything for him and maybe it could be love one day, if they want it to be, but it's a bond that they will share forever.
And it scares her.
People around her die and if Stiles were to perish, she would never recover—could never recover—because he means everything to her. He's the one she goes to when she needs help, he's the one who gives her a few precious moments to let her guard down and just be Lydia Martin, rookie banshee, super smart student and deep down, a girl terrified of being left alone.
With him, she belongs.
"Lydia, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me."
Stiles stubbornly sits on her bed and she makes a mental note to remind her mom not to let anyone up to her room anymore. He folds his arms across his chest, childlike and she stifles a chuckle because of it.
"There it is." He tells her warmly, a grin alighting on his face. "There's the smile third grade me fell in love with."
"Stiles—" She starts, then sighs, because she isn't sure how to explain this to him.
He sits there and she realizes that he is prepared to stay there for as long as it takes and she both loves him for it as well as hates him.
"I'm going to go crazy one day." She admits softly. It's the one thought that's been haunting her waking hours constantly. The fear that she'll end up like Meredith, lifeless eyes forever starting upwards at a blank ceiling.
"Why do you think that?" Stiles challenges.
"Because the voices are getting worse." She replies quietly, coming to sit on the bed beside him. His hand immediately finds hers and she draws strength from it. It anchors her in this storm of emotions and keeps her grounded.
"Lydia, you're not going crazy." He informs her.
"You don't know that." She dismisses, shaking her head.
"I know you." Stiles interjects, facing her. "You never give up. You always make your own solution."
"And what if there is no other way!" She snaps, voice rising in anger. "What if the only thing I'm good at is finding dead bodies and screaming whenever I lose someone close to me?" She feels a hot tear snake down her cheek and she wipes it away because no, she's not going to lose it now. She won't be some crying damsel in distress waiting for someone to come and save the day.
"Lydia—"
"I'm going to be just like Meredith and I won't be able to tell what's real and I'll—" She sucks in the air, greedily, hungrily and it seems to do no good because she can't breathe and she's shaking and her vision is blacking out.
And that's when his lips crash onto hers.
Everything stops. The fear, the panic, the anger and all that matters is this kiss, this connection to someone that she cares about.
He pulls back and she lets out a shaky breath.
"Why?" She breathes.
"Someone once told me that kissing someone during a panic attack causes them to hold their breath." He smiles sheepishly at her and she laughs.
God help her, she laughs. It's the first time she's done that in weeks and soon, he's laughing too and it's not about the kiss or the possibility of them becoming something more. It's not about the dead pool or the voices or the fear the she'll go crazy.
It's just her sharing a moment with her friend.
The following week at school, Lydia Martin saunters down the hall, dressed to kill, ready to ace her three midterms and kick some supernatural butt.
"What got into her?" Malia mutters, perplexed as the strawberry blonde heads to her locker.
"I don't know." Kira confesses, relieved. "But I'm glad."
"Yeah," Stiles adds, his eyes never leaving her. "It's about time."
And as she glances up and waves, he grins.
Lydia Martin is back.
Author's Note: This turned more into a Lydia-centric piece than a Stydia piece, but I'm happy with how it turned out. Hope you are too! Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!