Robber or Rapist
These are the first two words that flit through Lydia Martin's mind, when she hears the sound of her bedroom window being opened in the middle of the night, from the outside.
The alarm clock on her nightstand reads 3:57 a.m. in blue neon.
She searches her room quickly for a weapon, and settles on a pair of five-inch black Louboutins she had tossed hastily under her bed, the night before. She's holding a heel high above her head, ready to strike, when the intruder makes his entrance. "I'll scream," she warns, trying desperately to keep the nervous tension out of her voice.
"Oh . . . please don't scream. Because if you scream, that would mean that I'm dying . . . which would probably mean that you are going to kill me, with that crazy high-heeled shoe you are holding over your head. And I would really prefer not to die tonight, thank you very much," the dark figure says, as he tumbles into Lydia's bedroom,
"Stiles?" Lydia interrupts incredulously, flipping on her bedside lamp.
"Hi," he replies sheepishly, as he yanks the hood of his red sweatshirt from his head, revealing a mess of unbrushed bedhead beneath it. "I would have come through the front door, but it's locked."
"Most normal people would take that as a sign to go away," Lydia quips.
"Uh yeah . . . I guess they would," Stiles admits. "The thing is I was up late reading. And I found this thing. And I just . . . well, I really, really wanted to tell you about it. But I know it's late. And . . . um, obviously, you are sleeping. So, I should probably go . . . yeah, I'll go," Stiles rambles nervously, as he turns back toward the window.
As Lydia takes a step toward the window, she gets a closer glimpse at Stiles' eyes, which are bloodshot, and rimmed with dark circles. Instinctively, she places a gentle hand on his cheek, raising his tired eyes to hers. "Stiles, when is the last time you slept?" She inquires, her voice filled more with concern than anger.
Stiles finds himself mesmerized briefly by Lydia's surprise show of affection . . . the softness of her touch . . . the way her long-lashed, intensely intelligent, emerald eyes bore into his own . . . how her distinctive scent of caramel and honey, lightly mixed with sleep, teases his nostrils. He's staring at her pert pink lips, and wondering what it would feel like to kiss them . . .
"Stiles," Lydia repeats again, more insistently, this time.
"Oh . . . right," Stiles replies, blinking rapidly to shake himself out of his trance. "Sleeping . . . umm . . . I probably slept about three days ago . . . maybe four . . . no definitely three . . . maybe three and half. I lose track of time, sometimes. I've been drinking a lot of Red Bull lately. And you know those big two-liter bottles of soda? Yeah, I've pretty much been sucking down on those like they are baby bottles. I could probably go on like this for another week at least," Stiles responds rapid-fire, his left foot tapping up and down frenetically, as he speaks.
Lydia sighs, and leans over to shut her window. "Look, you've already come all the way over here, and interrupted my beauty sleep. So, you might as well tell me what you came to tell me."
"Yeah? OK! Awesome," Stiles responds, rubbing his hands together gleefully like a child. "Lydia . . . I know what you are!" He exclaims triumphantly.
Lydia eyes her partner-in-crime skeptically. "You aren't quoting Twilight again, are you?"
"What?" Stiles argues defensively. "Pshht, no! I never saw Twilight. And I definitely didn't see that third one, where Robert Pattinson eats that baby out of Kristen Stewart's stomach. That's just gross."
Lydia smiles in spite of herself, and shakes her head. She then settles down on the foot of her bed, and waits expectantly for Stiles to get to the point.
"Here, I brought you this," Stiles explains, as he yanks a sheath of papers from his Jansport backpack. "You can keep it, if you want. I have my own copy at home."
Lydia looks down at her hands. "You got me a comic book," she muses dryly. "Stiles, you do realize that this is why you are still single, don't you?"
Stiles grimaces. "Actually Lydia, the reason I'm single is the beautiful girl who was going to give herself to me on her birthday, just so happened to be ripped from her apartment and gutted like a fish, by an evil Druid," he asserts. "Also, because you have terrible taste in men," he adds under his breath.
"I don't have ter . . ." Lydia begins to argue, but then decides to reconsider, "Nevermind, just . . . tell me about the comic book, OK?"
"OK," Stiles agrees, cracking his knuckles, as he tends to do when gearing up for a long speech. "You see, ever since that day when we . . . when I . . . figured out that you weren't psychic, I've been reading up on all these different supernatural beings, trying to figure out which one you are. The problem is, there are SO MANY supernatural creatures with connections to the dead. There are vampires, zombies, Grim Reapers, Sirens, Angels, ghosts . . . obviously, ghost whisperers. But all of them can do certain things that you can't do."
Lydia distractedly examines her nails, wondering if she should try out that new shade of purple she bought at the mall with Allison last weekend. "Stiles, I hope this isn't your idea of a pep talk," she warns.
Stiles ignores her, and forges on. "But that's when I realized I was totally going about this the wrong way. I was comparing you to the wrong kind of superheroes."
"Superheroes?" Lydia repeats, confused.
Stiles nods excitedly. "So, you know how there are certain superheroes that have multiple powers? Like Spiderman can shoot webs from his fingers AND climb up buildings. Superman can fly faster than a speeding bullet, and freeze things with his breath. The Hulk can beat the crap out of people AND is resistant to mind control?"
"I feel like you're talking to me in another language. And I speak seven," Lydia muses.
Stiles grumbles in frustration. "Lydia we saw the new Spiderman movie together! Don't pretend you know nothing about superheroes."
"Yeah, but that was only because I think Andrew Garfield is hot," Lydia retorts stubbornly. "It's not like I was actually paying attention."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Anyway, that's just one type of superhero. The other type are X-Men. Most of the X-Men only have one, specific, ability, because they are mutants. And until Professor Xavier teaches them to harness and make the best of that ability, it tends to cause them more problems than anything else . . . like you. You, Lydia are basically one of the X-Men," Stiles concludes.
Lydia opens her mouth to argue, but Stiles issues a pre-emptive strike. "No, Lydia! I'm not calling you a mutant! I'm just . . . would you read the damn cover of the comic book already?"
"Banshee," Lydia replies obediently, as she skeptically scans the artistic rendering on the cover of the comic book.
"It's actually pretty amazing that I had a couple copies of this laying around. It's not a particularly popular character within the Marvel Universe. Any guesses as to why?" Stiles probes pointedly.
Lydia holds the magazine up to the light, and scrunches up her nose, in a way that Stiles finds particularly adorable. She then casually traces her thumb across the colorful drawing of the ginger headed superhero, in the blue unitard, with his trademark black and orange stripe circular cape fanning out around him. "Because he's kind of scrawny, and a hideous dresser?" Lydia offers.
Stiles laughs, briefly wondering whether Lydia would make the same assessment about him. "No . . . because he's a man," the teen explains, as he extracts a weathered-looking brown book from his backpack. "You see real banshees aren't goofy guys in blue unitards. They are women . . . beautiful women of Irish descent, with long red hair, and green eyes. Women like this," he offers, settling down on the bed next to Lydia, as he opens the book to a page he's marked with a yellow Post-it note, and gently places it in her lap. "Women like you," he concludes, his voice so low as to almost be a whisper.
Stiles watches Lydia's lips move, as she silently reads the description of Banshees in the Encyclopedia of the Supernatural that Stiles filched from the school library, a week ago. "It all makes sense," she says in a voice that's oddly flat and emotionless. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before."
Lydia gently closes the book, and places it on the bed behind her. Then, she puts her face in her hands and begins to quietly cry.
Stiles scoots closer to the redhead, as he places a comforting hand on her back. "Lydia?" He asks tentatively.
"I don't want this," Lydia says tearfully, unable to bring herself to look at Stiles. "I mean, is this what my life is going to be like from now on? Destined to find dead bodies, without being able to do anything to stop them from being killed? What kind of gift is that? I'm just a freak, who screams all the time."
Stiles shakes his head insistently. "You are not a freak. You are a strong, intelligent woman, with an amazing connection . . . not just to the dead . . . but to living people, who are in pain. Lydia, don't you see? All this time, we assumed you started screaming after someone already died. But you didn't. Your screams predicted their deaths. That means, if you harness your powers, you can stop them from happening! You are the key to defeating the Darach."
Lydia looks blinkingly up at Stiles, as if she's seeing him for the first time. "You're right," she says. "Thank you."
Then, she leans forward and presses her lips against his forehead. "You know, sometimes I think I don't deserve you, Stiles Stilinski," she whispers into his baby soft skin.
The sudden movement causes her royal blue nightie to dip a bit lower on her chest, revealing the soft downy cleavage beneath . . .
Lydia watches with amusement as a blush of red creeps across Stiles neck, and up his cheeks. She also notices that his right hand has suspiciously moved from her back to his lap, as if hiding something. "Uh, yeah, anytime," he insists awkwardly, as he moves from the bed, making sure to keep his hands firmly in front of him. "So, now that we've solved the mystery of your life. I should probably let you get some sleep."
"Wait," Lydia calls after him.
Stiles turns back toward her.
"It's late. You might as well stay," Lydia offers.
Stiles stares uncomfortably at the floor. "Nah, I'd probably just keep you up . . . You know, since I drank all that Red Bull . . ."
Lydia shrugs. "It's Saturday. It's not like there's school tomorrow. And honestly, I'd prefer not to be alone right now," she admits, as she crawls back under the covers, and pats the empty space next to her. "Come on. Get in. You can read to me from that lame comic book you brought over."
"Are you sure?" Stiles asks shyly, rocking back and forth on his heels a bit, as he speaks.
Lydia nods, scooting over. Stiles then kicks off his shoes, and climbs into bed next to her, comic book in hand. As he reads aloud, Lydia rests her head on Stiles' chest, and begins tracing lazy circles across his right arm with delicate fingertips. The softness of the bed, coupled with the soporific effect of Lydia's touch is almost immediate. The harder Stiles tries to focus on the words on the page, the more muddled they become. There seems to be a heaviness in his head that wasn't there before. By page 4, his eye lids begin to droop closed. And he lets them.
Lydia smiles up at the sleeping teen, and leans across him to turn off her bedside lamp. In the darkness, the banshee allows her muscles to relax, as she snuggles in closer to Stiles' red hoodie. Breathing in, she inhales his unique, Stiles-like, scent. It smells like home. As Lydia's eyes flutter closed, she tries to remember a time when she felt this safe and secure. She comes up empty.
Stiles and Lydia both sleep better that night than they have in months. And that is truly something . . .