Author's Note: Here's the beginning to my first potentially multi-chapter Stydia story. I want to go through the stages of their grieving process together. Let me know if you think I should continue! Reviews are so loved, as always.


Stages

He feels weird around her. Well, he feels weird around everyone. But especially her. She had lost a boyfriend and a best friend within a 48 hour time period and the only person to blame had his face. This body had kidnapped her, hissed horrible things in her ear, made her fear for her own life and everyone she cared for. This body had hurt her. Maybe weird wasn't the right word.

There was no right word.

He doesn't know what to expect when he goes over to her house, but he's still Stiles and he needs to see her. He's shuffling at the door, hands in his pockets. Mrs. Martin smiles at him tiredly, as though completely unsurprised to see him. Which makes sense. She doesn't know that his hands had destroyed Lydia Martin's life.

"She's upstairs, honey," Mrs. Martin says as he tries to stutter out a greeting. He's surprised as he's let into their home by the sounds of a vacuum coming from Lydia's bedroom.

The sight of Lydia, her back to him, aggressively vacuuming her floor makes him stop in the doorway and assess. Her room is nearly spotless – he hasn't seen it many times, but it's cleaner than he's ever witnessed. Her astounding collection of clothes is neat and organized in her closet, color coded to perfection. Her bulletin boards, once cluttered with photos, are completely blank. Then he notices the boxes stacked neatly against the nearest wall. He chances a look inside the first, Lydia still completely oblivious to his presence.

It's all photographs. He can see Alison Argent smiling up at him, her cheek pressed against Lydia's. He can see Aiden, arm slung around a smirking Lydia's shoulders. He can see himself in a more candid shot – Lydia's facing the camera, obviously in mid conversation with whoever snapped the photo. And he is sitting next her, looking at her like she was the center of the universe. He can't help but reach inside and pick that one out. The realization that this had once hung in her room makes his eyes sting.

The sound of the vacuum cuts off abruptly and he's looking up to find Lydia Martin staring at him. She's in one of her classic floral dresses, though its look a little looser than he remembered. Her feet are bare, one foot tapping nervously.

"Stiles," she breathes. She steps forward eagerly, and then falters. He can see that her hands are shaking slightly, twisting the cord of the vacuum around in her fingers. He finds that he can't move forward either – he didn't know guilt and sadness could be so stifling.

This used to be so easy. What was happening to them?

Lydia seems to snap out of her uncertainty, eyes shining slightly manically as she attempts a smile. It's not even close to realistic, but Stiles finds that his breath still catches regardless.

"Sorry, you caught me during the middle of spring cleaning. I figured it was time to go through some of my stuff. We'll be applying to college soon, and then I'll be moving out and I won't need most of this stuff. So why not start now, you know? I feel like it's just a good time to start."

She's rambling, and he registers that she's trying to justify to him what she's doing and that hey, rambling used to be his thing. She's standing more like Lydia now, hands folded primly in front of her, back straight and eyes daring him to tell her that she's not perfectly fine.

"You won't need the pictures?" Stiles questions, feeling at a loss. She wasn't fine; he could see that quite clearly. Neither of them was fine.

"Oh, um, those. I just thought…" she's trailing off, curling in on herself as her eyes find the floor, all sense of bravado and denial gone. "They are just hard to look at, you know?"

He's nodding at that, though he knows she can't see him. He knows. He's considered taking his down as well. He understands the desire to push it all away, put it on a box, and forget what he's lost. But he just can't bring himself to do it – between all the horrible memories, there are some damn good ones. And he can't let Lydia forget that.

This thought propels him forward, still holding the image of the two of them during better days. Her eyes are tracking his movements a little warily. Stiles offers her the photo, leaving a few feet between them. He doesn't want to push her, doesn't want to rush her. Slowly, she's reaching out too, taking the picture from his hands, eyes softening at the look on his face – both back then and right now.

"Don't throw them away." He's not pleading with her, trying his best to keep his voice firm and level. "Don't throw away the good stuff because of the bad, Lyds." He just wants her to know that these memories – the ones frozen in time – will be the best defense she has against the heartache.

Lydia seems to hear his words slowly, and then she's launching herself at him, her curls right under his chin, hands pressing between his shoulder blades. His hands are immediately grabbing her back, winding around her waist, holding her close. Her voice is small, reverberating slightly against his chest, so unlike her normal self that it makes his heart ache.

"Will you help me?"

...

Stiles and Lydia stand shoulder to shoulder, placing each and every photograph from her boxes back where they belong. Sometimes he gets the placement wrong and she's good-naturedly swatting his clumsy hands away, pressing the pictures in place herself. They don't speak, and it's good. It's okay. It's simple work that gives them pause occasionally. The last photo is the hardest, but maybe the best.

Alison is sitting in between them on Scott's living room couch. Her curly brown hair is wild and long, her eyes bright, her smile beautiful. Her head is leaning on Lydia's shoulder, her opposite arm wound around Stiles' neck. Scott is lounging behind them, striking a signature ridiculous pose.

He realizes suddenly that he's crying. He glances sideways at Lydia and notices the tears streaming down her face too. They both stare at the bulletin board for a long minute, eyes glancing over tokens of lives ended much too soon. He's startled by a nudge against his shoulder. Stiles Stilinski looks down into the face of Lydia Martin, tears still lingering on her pale cheeks.

"Hey," she says, as though this is the first time they've spoken.

"Hey," he says back, because maybe it is. Maybe this is a fresh start. Maybe they're going to be okay.