Author's Note: This idea has been floating around in my head for ages now. Set post "Orphan" but no spoilers past that episode. Please enjoy!

"And I don't know how

I can do without

I just need you now."

—Lady Antebellum, "Need You Now"

The voices were relentless.

Whispering constantly in the back of her mind, she couldn't seem to shake them ever since Meredith had died. Perhaps this was a sign of her powers growing stronger; perhaps, it was a sign of her guilt over the role she played in the whole matter. Her nights were plagued with nightmares of Meredith's lifeless eyes staring back at her while the voices spoke over each other, growing louder and louder in their intensity. She would spend what felt like an eternity, listening and staring into Meredith's eyes until finally, the banshee would sit up and with her head lopsided, Meredith would tell her,

"Lydia, you and I," She would begin in a singsong voice. "We're one in the same."

Then, Lydia would wake and face the harsh light of day.

And the whispers were still there.

"And if we look at this equation, we see that we must—"

Lydia tried to focus on the equation on the board, forcing her mind to embrace the stability that chemistry held. Unlike the rest of her life, chemistry was a subject that she could handle. The laws of chemistry remained the same and that gave her a sense of control and relief.

Aside from the voices.

Even now, as she worked on balancing the equation, she could hear them, clawing at the recesses of her mind, wanting to overtake her. Her hand shook as she wrote the equation out and the teacher's voice seemed to fade, as if someone had turned down the volume.

Lydia.

She froze, but quickly forced herself to work on the equation, to attempt to find solace in it.

Lydia, you cannot escape your fate.

Her grip on the pencil tightened.

Lydia, you cannot escape us.

"Stop." She muttered, eyes screwed shut.

Lydia.

"Please, stop." She growled, voice rising a bit.

Lydia, why fight it?

"Lydia?"

The pencil snapped in half and she met the perplexed gaze of her teacher.

"Lydia?" Her teacher questioned softly. "Are you alright?"

She could feel the eyes of the class on her and a headache began to build within her.

"Fine." She lied. "I'm fine."

And the voices just laughed.

There were moments when the voices overtook her.

The world seemed to dim and there was nothing but the voices and the being known as Lydia Martin ceased to exist. Her mind went blank and she'd sit for hours at a time until she'd snap out of it and find that the night had vanished and she'd had to go to school.

These episodes terrified her, especially since they seemed to grow in frequency. One night a month turned into two, then four, then six, until she seemed to have them nearly every other day.

She wanted to tell the pack, to get the support she knew they would give her, but with the deadpool, and the stress that everyone seemed to be under, she couldn't bring herself to do it. This was her problem and she alone would handle it.

If only you knew how, Lydia.

The taunt cut deep, but she steeled herself against it.

Lydia Martin did not give up.

She would fight this and she would win.

Banshees live alone. Banshees die alone.

She sat at the lunch table, her hands shaking as she moved to take a bite of her sandwich. Around her, the pack joked and talked—rare moments like these were ones to be treasured, especially in the light of what was happening with the deadpool—but as hard as she tried, Lydia couldn't listen.

You're a banshee, Lydia.

The headache was building up again.

You'll live alone. You'll die alone.

Across from the table, she met Stiles' gaze and she could see the confusion in his expression. He leaned over to Scott, saying something that Lydia could not hear over the din.

And when you die, it will only be when you've had enough.

Scott faced her and opened his mouth. She couldn't hear what came out. Her sandwich fell to the floor, her hands were shaking so. The pain in her mind grew to becoming nearly excruciating.

And then, and only then Lydia, will you get the silence you crave.

The pain exploded, blinding her, and she could feel herself listing to the side and was seemingly powerless to stop it. She was going to fall to the floor, here in the lunchroom, and the old Lydia Martin would've cringed at such an embarrassing thing, though she had to admit that the peacefulness of unconsciousness did seem appealing.

Hands caught her before she could fall and instantly, the aching dulled and the voices were silent.

"I've got you." Stiles held her securely in his grip, the rest of the pack hovering by her, concerned. "You okay?"

She could feel herself crying, the relief was so overwhelming.

"Lydia?" Kira knelt down, her face swimming into view. She placed a warm hand on her skin and she nearly jumped at the touch. The kitsune grimaced as she began to rub comforting circles on Lydia's arm. "You're freezing."

"I know." Stiles murmured and it occurred to her that she was still in his grasp, her head resting on his chest as his arms rubbed hers, trying to generate heat from friction. "Lydia? Do you need to see a nurse?"

"No." She managed to ground out. Though she wanted to stay in his arms, she could see the way Malia was eyeing her—distrust and concern fighting for dominance in her gaze. She could tell the were-coyote was battling against her natural instincts to reclaim what was hers—

Stiles.

The ache grew sharper the moment she pushed herself from Stiles' grip.

"Hey," His hand slipped into hers, as natural as breathing, and the ache subsided once more. "C'mon, let's go to the nurse."

Though she wanted to protest—she wasn't some damsel in distress—she hadn't the strength to make it on her own and the bed in the nurse's office sounded more and more appealing.

"Can you walk?" Malia now stood on the other side of her, looping an arm around her back. It was clear that her concern for a member of her pack had beaten her primal instincts. With a kind gaze, she smiled softly at the banshee before helping her stand upright.

"Thank you." She whispered and with Stiles supporting her other side, the trio quickly made their way to the nurse's office.

"Easy." Stiles slowly helped her to the bed and though Lydia wanted to keep her eyes open, to say something about what was going on, she found fatigue claimed her.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Her nightmares were filled with crimson blood and cold, lifeless eyes.

Alison was there—her death being replayed over and over again until all Lydia could do was curl up into a ball and scream for help.

It never came though.

"Lydia?"

She opened her eyes to find herself back in her room, her mother sitting on the edge of her bed, blankets covering her. The warmth comforted her and she wanted to snuggle into it and ease her pain away. The dull ache still persisted in her mind and every jostle of her body seemed to cause it to flare up in protest.

"Lydia?" Her mother tried again, a bit more forcefully. "There you are." The older woman smiled warmly, her hand holding her daughter's. "How are you feeling?"

Awful, almost like she was having a knife driven into her mind ever so slowly.

"Better." She lied.

"Good." Her mother pressed a kiss to Lydia's hand. "I thought you were going to sleep forever."

"Sorry." She muttered. Then, suddenly, "How did I get here?"

"Don't you remember?" She questioned softly. "You decided to take a nap when you got home from school."

"I did?" Her eyebrows rose.

"You left a note on the counter for me." Her mother pointed vaguely behind her.

"Oh."

She made a note to thank her friends for thinking of everything.

"Well, you just rest." Her mother rose from her bed and moved to the door. "This cold seems pretty nasty."

"I will."

The door shut with a thud and Lydia stared upwards at the ceiling.

You're damaged Lydia.

She sucked in a breath, wincing at the pain that flared up.

You're broken.

"Please." Her voice broke as her chest tightened. "Go away."

You'll end up just like Meredith.

That's when Lydia began to cry.

She returned to school the next day, the mysterious episode of pain having passed as suddenly as it came on. It frightened her though, how quickly she went from fully functioning to unconscious.

How easily she could be rendered useless by forces out of her control.

"You're better."

"I am." Lydia greeted Stiles as she opened her locker. Unzipping her bag, she swapped her textbooks, pleased that there was no tremor in her hand, unlike yesterday. And blessedly, the voices had fallen silent.

"So . . ."

"So?" She eyed him, slightly suspicious.

"So, what was that yesterday?" Though he was attempting to act casual, his sharp tone gave him away.

"Nothing."

"Liar." He retorted.

"I was tired." She insisted.

"Right." He scoffed. "And I'm the Benefactor."

She zipped up her bag and slammed her locker shut. Pulling back, she noticed the slight tremor in her hand. The shock only registered on her face for a few seconds before she schooled her expression.

"Look." She breathed. "I'm okay." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Really."

There's a pause as his eyes searched hers for the truth. Whether he saw something in her gaze or whether he chose to accept her lie, she wasn't sure but he finally said,

"Okay."

The voices faded after the incident at school.

Lydia embraced the normalcy, using it to prove not only to the pack, but also herself, that she was fine. That she had whatever it was that kept causing her incidents under control.

The only thing that gave her away was the slight tremor in her hands.

Stiles noticed it; she could tell by the way he casually draped his jacket across her shoulders, thinking she must've been cold. It was a sweet move, though unnecessary as the tremors always persisted.

"You're always shaking." Malia told her one day, coming to sit by her at lunch. The frankness in her voice took Lydia slightly off-guard. "Are you sick or something?"

"No." She took a deliberate bite of her sandwich, hoping the response would be enough to pacify the werecoyote.

"You and Stiles . . ." Malia started, her voice soft, tinged with worry. "He cares about you." Judging by her crestfallen expression, that hadn't been the thing she wanted to say, but for whatever reason, that's what she had decided upon.

"We're friends." Lydia replied, feeling the need to defend herself, though she hadn't been accused directly of anything.

"Yeah." Malia muttered. "Friends."

They spent the rest of the meal in silence.

That night, she dreamt of sprinting from some unknown evil force.

She woke up with a scream when they caught her.

"Lydia Martin?"

She tossed her backpack in her car and turned to see who had called her.

"Yes?" The banshee didn't recognize the freshmen that stood before her, but then again, Lydia had stopped caring about knowing everyone a year ago. Funny, how her priorities had shifted. She didn't even recognize the Lydia from years gone by.

The girl tilted her head to the side, dirty blonde hair tumbling down to touch her pale skin, a twisted grin pulling up her lips.

"I'm going to need you to come with me now."

A glint of metal flashed in the sunlight—a gun, Lydia noted dimly—and she's surprised this hadn't occurred already. Funny, she knew she had been on that list, but it never had actually occurred to her to be worried about being taken.

"You're making a mistake." Lydia hissed, wishing she could call out for help, but there were countless students walking by and she couldn't risk their safety.

"In the car." The younger girl snapped, ruby lips drawn together in a tight line. "Now."

Lydia had no choice but to comply.

Lydia, look at the mess you've gotten yourself into.

She winced as the voices flared up, an ache pooling in her head.

"Drive." The girl ordered, gun pointed at Lydia's head.

With a shaky hand, the banshee turned on the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

You're going to die.

Funny, she thought with a bittersweet smile, that had been the only thing she and the voices had been able to agree on.

Author's Note: This might be a two-shot or maybe longer. We'll see. I hope you enjoyed! Please review if you have a moment.