Author's Note: I've been writing and rewriting this in my head all day and for that reason it turned out horrid (in my opinion). Posting it anyway. Spoilers for the episode De-Void, Lydia centric. Probably got some tense changes that I screwed up because I started writing this in present tense and then switched. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything.

Stiles was paralyzed on the couch, Peter was on his way, Scott and Deaton were muttering between themselves in the kitchen while Ms. McCall paced through the various rooms. Lydia felt like she was losing her mind all over again, fingers tapping against the kitchen counter as her heart pounded and refused to slow down. She hated feeling this way, unhinged and desperate and dirty. She hated how she felt like a monster, this sick sixth sense her banshee side has given her, this awful talent to hear buzzing flies and find corpses. Stiles had seemed like a corpse when she and Aiden had tumbled out of the car and for a moment she had felt a disgusting sort of hope that maybe Stiles was dead and this whole nightmare would be over. If he was dead he wouldn't have to be trapped inside his own head, helpless and hurting.

If Stiles had been dead he wouldn't have to deal with the aftermath of someone else living inside your head, a feeling Lydia knew all too well. She stilled her fingers forcefully against the kitchen counter and then moved from the room, the hushed sound of Scott and Deaton's muttering not helping the tension strung throughout her body any. She stalked into the living room, but the sight of Stiles on the couch, head tipped back, someone else staring out of his eyes turned her stomach. She took the stairs up to Scott's bedroom two at a time, her heartbeat echoing in her ears, before tucking herself against the foot of his bed, arms around her knees. She closed her eyes and breathed, but the curl of the nogistune's smirk across Stiles' lips wouldn't leave her alone and so she reached for her phone. It was tucked inside her bra, no pockets her current dress, and she skipped around on the home screen indecisively.

Nearly a minute later the message she never meant to send was gone and out of her hands. She glanced at the clock beside Scott's bed, momentarily forgetting the clock on her home screen, and did the math quickly in her head. It was past midnight there and the chance of him being awake was less than 20%. The chance that he was awake and signed into the IM app on the phone was less than 15% and the chance that he even had the app still installed was a bit greater than any of the other chances, he was notoriously lazy bout clearly out the apps on his phone, and that was only if he still had the same phone as he had when he left, he'd left the country the chance of him having the same phone was even less than all the others, why in the world would he-

Her phone beeped quietly in the silence, making her squeak. She dropped the phone as if it had come alive and it sat on the floor for a minute before she steeled herself and picked it up.

Do you ever feel like you have no idea who you are or what you're supposed to do and that somehow without you realizing it you've become this kind of monstrous thing to the point where you can't image how anyone can stand to look at you because you feel like the world's pressing in and it's all your fault?

Yes, was his answer, simple and precise. A few seconds later he elaborated. The first time I felt like that I was naked in a warehouse and you were holding my house key, but it's a feeling I've grown used to over the months. She hadn't spoken to him since he'd left without a word to her and she hated how much his fucking response calmed her down. For the first time since she'd pulled into that parking lot and found Stiles her heart started to calm down. It didn't matter for a moment that Peter fucking Hale was on his way, probably to twist her arm behind her back and play with her mind again, it didn't matter that Stiles wasn't Stiles, and it didn't matter that Allison wasn't answering her phone, because Jackson fucking Whittmore had answered her IM message.

She went to type something back, something like I hate you or How dare you walk away from this town, from your alpha, from your friends, from me but she didn't get the chance. Jackson's message popped up, stilling her fingers over the keyboard as if she had been frozen in time.

I don't know what kind of fucked up shit you're into in that hellhole of a town, babe, but if it's bad… If it's bad like the kanima was… Fuck, I don't know, I'll steal a fucking plane or something.

The pricking heat in the corner of her eyes doubled and her vision wobbled and blurred. She closed her eyes, dropped her phone into her lap, and pressed her forehead against her knees. Breathing took everything out of her, making her feel hollow and brittle, but in a way she was used to. Her relationship with Jackson had always been about power, appearance, and playing a role, but somewhere along the way, under the masks and behind the world's back, they had created a little niche for each other. It didn't matter that the last time she'd seen him she'd shouted and throw her high heeled shoe at his head and it didn't matter that he hadn't told her he was leaving town. It was selfish and childish and probably stupid, but the fact that he was willing to fly across the ocean, that he was worried about her at all…

Aiden probably wouldn't have answered the text in such a way. She wasn't sure if Aiden could step far enough away from his actions and realize that he was a monster, a murdered, a complete and utter psychopath. A smile crept across her lips and Lydia threw strength from that thought, the thought that there was someone out in the world who was worried about her, who cared enough to answer a text in the middle of the night to reassure her that she wasn't alone in her awful feelings. Stiles would have answered the text, but she wasn't sure she could ever send a text like that out of the blue to Stiles, especially if they had parted in the way Jackson and her had.

Jackson Whittmore still cared about her and as long as Jackson Whittmore still cared about her Lydia Martin could do anything. She heard the front door open from beneath her, Scott calling her name, and she scooped up her phone, tucking it back in her bra. She silenced it as an afterthought, the message unanswered, and tipped her head up high like she used to when facing down the dance committee, back when she had the time and sanity to care about school dances. She marched proudly down the stairs, heart rate calm and steady, like the eye of the storm.

Halfway round the world Jackson Whittmore glanced at his phone, but the IM message was still unanswered. Nearly a half hour later Jackson dozed off, phone still in hand as he waited for her to message him back, completely unaware that the situation in Beacon Hills had completely and utterly surpassed 0-kanima scale Jackson had assumed they were working on.