A/N: Hello! This is my first Teen Wolf fic, and it revolves around our favorite Jeep-driving hyperative spaz and our green-eyed, redheaded genius! MEGA STYDIA SHIPPER OVER HERE
I guess this is set sometime in Season 3 after Lydia finds out what she really is. (WARNING= if you haven't watched up til there yet, there will be spoilers about Lydia!) This can also be set in Season 4.
Oh, also, Malia is weirdly missing from this story ahaha. I don't know why, I just didn't feel like creating a backstory to explain her absence so you're free to use your imagination! (;
But in this fic, I guess you should just kinda assume she's not with Stiles haha idk
ENJOY! x
"Medicine cabinet, top shelf," Lydia Martin's voice came out muffled, her face buried in a pillow. When she lifted her aching head out of the small dent, she found her bedroom empty, the door left wide open.
"Stiles?" she called out weakly to the missing boy. No response. She moaned and dropped her face onto the cool material of her pillowcase again. Almost immediately, said missing boy reappeared—a glass of water in one hand and a couple of pills cupped in the other.
"Found 'em," Stiles Stilinski sat down on the edge of the queen-sized bed, waiting for the strawberry blonde to drag herself up into a sitting position.
Lydia leaned her head against the headboard with a grunt, brushing away the long strands of hair that stuck to her clammy neck. She felt terrible. Every movement sent a fresh wave of nausea coursing through her stomach and her usually glowing pink skin was now pale and peaky, all because of one massive headache.
"Thanks," Lydia took the Tylenol and wondered bitterly why on earth her body chose this day to be unwell—she had a ton of stuff to do!
Stiles set the empty cup beside the stack of thick encyclopedias on the bedside table.
"You sure you're okay?" he eyed the pale girl in front of him cautiously. "I mean, please tell me this isn't another supernatural-y banshee thing, Lydia—because I don't think my fragile human ass can handle it, okay? I told you, I'm taking a break from all that stuff." she knew he was joking, but the uncertainty was evident in his voice.
"I'm literally on my deathbed right now and you're worried about your fragile human ass?" Lydia rolled her eyes, only wishing a second later she hadn't—it did nothing except intensify the burning ache behind her eyes. She sighed and rubbed her temples. "I'm sure it's just a 24-hour thing. Or maybe I'm coming down with something."
"Get some rest and we'll see," Stiles nodded, getting up. He helped her get settled into bed, draping a thin silk blanket over her legs after she complained she felt too hot to be tucked under her thick comforter. He refilled her glass of water, checked her temperature (no fever), made sure there was a box of tissues nearby in case she started getting the sniffles, and rummaged in her purse for her phone, in which he placed on the bedside table.
"Are you gonna stay?" Lydia mumbled after she was finally comfortable, an arm draped over her closed eyelids.
"I told Scott I was going over to his to study," Stiles scratched the back of his neck, then quickly added, "But I can stay if you want."
"Oh. You should go, then. Don't wanna keep the big bad wolf waiting." the redhead stifled a yawn.
"Really, I can stay. Scott will understand."
"You don't have to," she waved a manicured hand in his direction, perfect pink ovals glinting at him. "I'm kinda feeling better already. I'll be fine."
"Well… okay, if you're sure," he hesitated. She did look slightly better. "Do you need anything else before I leave? Any errands you want done?" he gestured towards her weak figure. "You don't look very capable in your current state of, uh… unfortunate bedriddenness.
"Maybe I can help water plants or wash dishes or something." Stiles offered.
"We got maids for that, Stiles," Lydia pointed out with a tiny grin, then paused. "There's one thing, though… I haven't walked Prada in days. Maybe you can help walk her?"
"Sure," he flashed her his goofy grin, his brown puppy dog eyes as eager as ever.
"Great! I think she's in the kitchen," her eyes lit up. She scrutinunised him for a few seconds, then nodded in satisfaction. "You're taking the pink collar and leash."
Stiles blinked. He looked down at himself disbelievingly. He had on a pinkish-reddish flannel shirt over a plain white T-shirt and jeans. He looked back up at an innocent-looking Lydia.
"What?"
"Did you seriously just analyse my outfit to match your dog's collar and leash?"
She gave him a duh look. "Stiles, I can't release you and my dog into the public looking like a walking fashion disaster, okay? Prada happens to have a very high reputation in this town, and I'm not going to let you ruin it. You're going with pink." She insisted. "It even matches your skin tone."
"Lydia." his tone incredulous. "I love you and all, but you could've warned me this morning to put on a dark-colored shirt so I don't have to end up looking like a total sissy walking your dog! Because I now realize the fact that I clearly picked the wrong day to wear a pink shirt."
Lydia narrowed her eyes. "One, it's not like I knew I was going to get this headache and eventually ask you to help walk my dog, and two, I'm not psychic, Stiles. I'm a banshee. I'm only capable of predicting death."
"I'm pretty sure making a straight guy walk a dog using pink equipment falls under the category of death, Lydia."
"No."
"No?"
"No, pink it is."
Stiles snorted a laugh, crossing his arms. "Forget it, okay? Walking your dog—yes! Pink leash—No."
"How do you put up with this? How?" Stiles looked down hopelessly at the black-and-white dog trotting a few feet in front of him on the sidewalk, a long pink leash linked between them and the end wrapped around Stiles's wrist. Prada ignored the boy and continued sniffing at things.
Just moments before, Stiles had determinedly stood in front of the large mahogany cupboard next to the Martins' front door, giving himself a full-on pep-talk in his head. So what if the leash Lydia had ordered him to use was pink? It was a just another colour, for God's sake—skinny pieces of leather dyed pink, how bad could it be? No, Stiles Stilinski shall not succumb to gender and color stereotyping. He was going to endure this like a man!
Of course, that was all before he pulled open the cupboard door to see various leash sets hanging from golden hooks in the back. There were a few blue ones, one yellow one, two green ones, and only one pink one. Just one! Stiles felt his heart sink.
It was the girliest thing he'd ever had the misfortune to lay his eyes on—pastel pink straps, white stitching along the edges, sparkling rows of pink and red rhinestones on every inch of the horrible thing. It even spelled out PRADA at the front of the collar in the same jewels, except were white and twice the size of the pink and red ones.
There were also a few heart-shaped charms dangling just below Prada's name with matching little silver bells. And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, Stiles realised the whole thing glittered. Yep. It actually freaking glittered.
That was why five minutes later, Stiles found himself trudging his way towards the Beacon Hills dog park, trying not to blush to death under the amused gazes thrown at him from random passersby, hoping he wouldn't bump into anyone he knew.
He groaned inwardly again and wondered for the ninth time why didn't he just grab one of Lydia's blue leash sets (they rest had rhinestones as well, but at least they didn't look like a unicorn had thrown up on them) and just tell Lydia he'd used the pink one. But of course, that would mean lying to her, and Stiles knew, no matter what, he wouldn't do that.
"Hey, hey, stop that," Stiles complained loudly over the papillon's excited barks. She was lunging forward excitedly, sniffing hyperactively at everything and making Stiles having to jog to keep up. He gave the leash a few sharp tugs. "Stop that! No, bad dog!"
Stiles finally realised what was making the dog so enthusiastic; it was a squirrel. The little brown ball of fur was scampering up the sidewalk up ahead in a blur, darting under benches and around trees and over pavement cracks so quickly he was beginning to get suspicious.
Either there are such things as were-squirrels or that thing's on steroids.
Prada went nuts. She barked and yanked and pulled against the resistance of the leash, making a huge commotion.
"God, will you quit that? It's just a freaking squirrel," Stiles cried and tightened his grip on the leash, knowing full well Lydia would kill him if her dog got lost under his care. The barks were getting louder and more persistent, each lunge getting stronger. Desperation leaked into his voice. "Stop stop stop I'll get you a toy squirrel just—"
Oh holy crap no.
The papillon's little head slipped right out of the collar, the sparkly leash dropping to the ground with a musical tinkling of bells
Prada ran.
"Stop, Prada," Stiles croaked ten minutes later. He knew he was on the verge of completely passing out. He was lightheaded and white spots danced in his vision. His lungs felt like they were on fire from lack of oxygen and his legs were burning from exhaustion.
Two blocks (and counting) from Lydia's house, and he still hadn't caught the mongrel yet. Stiles was pretty sure if he had to run another block, he would literally drop dead and die, right then and there.
Stiles gritted his teeth and kept running and swearing and panting and chasing and chanting in his head. Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.
Fortunately, soon after, Prada came to a halt at the base of an oak tree at the end of the street, where the squirrel had taken refuge in.
Not so fortunately, however, Stiles was so focused on getting hold of the dog before she sprinted off again that he didn't even notice the huge pothole in the sidewalk. Or the puddle of muddy rainwater in it. He ran forward, completely oblivious, gasping for air, then tripped, stumbled, flung out his arms to break the fall, leant to the left and then crashed.
Right on his ankle.
"CRAP. Oh my g-ow. Ow ow ow oh God ow. OW." Stiles grabbed at his injured foot, the excruciating pain shooting through it at sudden the movement. He groaned, biting down on his lip as tears automatically welled in his eyes. Ahaha. Great. That hurts.
He leaned back on his hands, glaring at his outreached legs and soaked clothes. He had no idea how to get up without causing another wave of pain. There was nothing near enough to hold onto. He moaned in misery. "This sucks so, so bad."
Something wet nudged into his shoulder. Prada stood panting next to him, tongue out, looking up at him with huge dark eyes. He glared. "Oh, so now you decide to come back to me?"
Grudgingly, Stiles slipped the collar back onto the dog, this time making sure he tightened it around her furry little neck. Then he went back to moping, still stretched out in the middle of the sidewalk, leash gripped in his hand. The street was empty. He looked at the content dog. "Now what do I do?"
Just then, his phone rang. It was his favourite redhead.
"Hey," Lydia said. "Where the hell are you? It's been more than an hour. I said take Prada to the park, Stiles, not China."
"Yeah, I think your dog and I kind of switched roles for a bit," Stiles's reply was flat and miserable.
"What?"
Stiles groaned again, pressing the pads of his fingers into his throbbing forehead. "I just… I tripped and sprained my ankle, and now it hurts really bad and I also kinda fell in this puddle and now I can't really move and… it's a long story." he finished pathetically.
"Wait. You tripped?" Lydia exclaimed. "Are you okay? Is Prada? How did you even… God, Stiles. Look, where are you? I'm coming to get you."
"Two blocks down from yours," he mumbled, then it hit him that she was sick. His next words were rushed. "Lydia it's okay, I'll ask Scott—" But she'd already hung up.
After dropping off Prada at the Martins', Lydia drove Stiles home.
Stiles's busted ankle hung over the edge of his bed in mid-air, swollen and turning three shades of purple, although it didn't look bad enough that he needed to pay a visit to Scott's mom. He looked a hot mess; his dark hair stood in clumps, matted to his forehead with sweat and dirt. Scrapes, cuts and bruises littered his grimy skin, his shirt and jeans filthy in places from the dirty rainwater he fell into.
As for his mental state, his whole body screamed with exhaustion and it was mostly just pain, pain and more pain everywhere.
"Thanks for driving me home, Lyds," Stiles' lips curved into an embarrassed smile. He had told her the hold story in her car on the ride home and she had thanked him for walking Prada, and guiltily apologized that it had ended up a disaster.
He gestured out the darkening window to his friend. "You should probably take off, though… It's getting pretty dark out."
"Stiles. Shut up. You took care of me today, alright? And I'm all better now." the banshee made her way across the room and began rummaging in his closet, pulling out various items of clothing. "Now it's my turn to take care of you." she announced promptly and turned, a bundle of fresh clothes in her arms. She dropped a T-shirt, a pair of boxers and sweatpants onto the bed.
"My dad will be home soon; he'll help sort me out," he gestured to himself, shaking his head. He gave her an encouraging nod. "You should go home. Get started on your homework and stuff. I'll be fine."
I'll be fine. She couldn't help but smile. Those were the exact same words she said to him earlier that afternoon. "Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"Stop talking." she shot him a look and marched over to him and helped him gently to his feet. When he didn't protest, she patted his arm. "Go shower, I'll bring a chair in for you so you don't have to stand." she wrinkled her nose. "You smell awful, Stilinski."
"How are you so pro at this?"
"I took First Aid training a few summers ago," Lydia shrugged, flushing slightly. "Here, this helps keep some of the pressure off," Lydia folded a pillow in half and then slid it under Stiles's injured foot so it was raised. "You're supposed to alternate ice and heat packs every 20 minutes. Ice helps with swelling, while heat circulates your blood better so it won't hurt as much." she went on, grabbing an ice pack and gently lying it over the swollen area on his ankle.
The relief was instantaneous. Stiles let out a content sigh. "That feels a million times better already, Lyd. Thanks."
She returned the smile.
Stiles was all showered and clean, dressed in fresh clothes, and was in his nice warm bed that had never felt so cozy in his life. He suddenly felt kind of sleepy, but wanted to keep talking.
"You hungry?" Lydia beat him to it.
"A little," he admitted. "You?"
Lydia nodded. "You have anything to make sandwiches with?"
"We got some ham slices. And cheese, I think." Stiles said. "Which totally reminds me how I need to go grocery shopping again."
"I highly doubt it'll be happening anytime soon," the strawberry blonde smirked, eying his injury.
"Rude," Stiles groaned. "You don't make fun of a person's disability."
While she busied herself in the kitchen whipping up snacks, Stiles sent a quick apology to Scott saying he wouldn't be able to go study with him. Stiles also included a brief summary of the day's events, minus the gory details, of course.
Scott texted back a worried and amused reply, telling his friend to rest up and cheekily adding that he should take advantage of the moment to spend time and "bond" with Lydia.
Stiles rolled his eyes, replying with a oh hardy har har before tossing his phone aside. His cheeks felt warm.
A little while later, Lydia came back, bearing diagonally cut ham-cheese-and-mayo sandwiches on a plate and a heat pack for Stiles, in which she quickly switched with the ice one. Then the pair sat on Stiles' bed and devoured the food while engaging in their usual banter and chatter while dropping bread crumbs all over the place.
Neither of the pair would admit it out loud, of course, but they were certainly thinking it. Due to somehow always ending up being partners-in-crime in the world of supernatural business, Stiles and Lydia have gotten close; really close. They were easily considered best friends now, and were grateful for small moments in life like this, where they could just hang out and enjoy each other's presence.
These sort of moments brought a sense of normality into their lives, and they both cherished them immensely.
"What time is it," Lydia mumbled after a lull in their conversation. Her eyes felt droopy and she realised she had slid down from her sitting position and was now lying flat on her back, her soft strawberry blonde curls fanned over the pillows. She groggily shifted onto her side to see Stiles asleep.
She lifted her head slightly, yawning, and nudged the boy beside her. "Stiles? Stiles, what time is it?"
Stiles opened one eye groggily, shifting slightly so he now faced Lydia. His speech slurred with sleep, "Mmm I dunno… about 6pm? You should… really get home."
"Mm hmm…" Lydia's head drooped, dropping right onto Stiles's shoulder. Her eyes drifted close. "Soft," she murmured, stupid with sleep, and automatically nuzzled her body closer into the radiating heat of the boy beside her. She threw one arm over his torso, breathing in his sweet, soapy scent wafting off his skin.
Warmth. So… very warm. Stiles stirred slightly, only to snuggle even closer into the ginger-haired girl beside him. Murmuring in his sleep, his arms immediately slipped around the redhead's tiny shoulders and pulled her close to him. He nuzzled his chin against the top of her hair, her head resting gently on his chest. The red flyaway strands tickled his skin.
The heat pack fell to the floor.
"Need to mmm... walk... Prada again..." Stiles mumbled in his slumber, his mouth curving into a goofy smile.
Some time later, still in his uniform, Sheriff Stilinski knocked and opened the door to ask what his son wanted for dinner. He was very much surprised to find the two teenagers fast asleep in each other's arms with peaceful smiles written on their faces.
A/N TWO: YAAY tell me your thoughts! Did you enjoy it or nah? Did the sentence structures sound weird? Grammar mistakes? Did I stay in character? Tips to write better? CRITICISM MOST WELCOME, GUYS—don't be a silent reader!