Click.

The shutter of his camera blinks at his push of the button and with a reassuring whir it's ready to take the next photograph. Stiles Stilinski loves photography for the pure simplicity it affords, find the right angle, the right lighting and you could capture anything you liked in that little lens. He had always preferred to observe than to participate and hiding behind his camera allowed him the anonymity he so desired.

Until now.

It was rare that the subject of his photography wasn't Spider-Man, a task which proved difficult at the best of times and on occasion could be kind of painful. However, when your high school principal asks you, a teenage boy, to take pictures of the girls' netball team for the school paper – you do it, no questions asked.

It only becomes awkward when the head of the netball squad – also known as the indefinable Lydia Martin and the girl you've loved for half your life – insists on provocatively posing into the camera.

With Lydia's usually pristine strawberry blonde locks falling from their ties and her red bee-stung lips pouting into the lens, Stiles shifts uncomfortably, an action which doesn't go unnoticed by the rest of the girls. Their laughter peals around him and Lydia looks straight at him and grins. Unbeknownst to most of the team he snaps a shot of their mirth and declares it the best photograph he's taken.

As he brings the camera down from his face, he feels both Lydia's gaze and the heat rise in his cheeks.

Raising her voice she calls cheekily, 'I'm sorry Mr. Photographer. I'll behave.'

'I – uh, it's okay, I think we're done here,' Stiles lifts his camera in a kind of salute and heads towards the door.

Nobody stops him.

Little did Stiles know that a certain redhead was watching him leave, head tilted to one side with a curious expression on her face.

He threw himself down on his bed with such force that he bounced a few inches off the mattress. He hated making a fool of himself and even more so because Lydia had been there to witness his embarrassment.

Lydia Martin – she was captain of the netball squad, star of every production produced by his school and the smartest person in science class. She was everything and she knew it. There was only one thing missing; something which she'd had when Stiles had first met her, back in middle school - a softer side. He knew it was something that hadn't disappeared completely, he even saw it occasionally. Jackson had only made it worse, thank God he moved to England, Stiles groaned internally, rubbing his face and sitting up.

Walking over to his closet and throwing open the doors, he grins at what he finds there, his red and blue suit peeks out from between the layers of plaid. Reaching over to his bedside table and flicking on the police scanner which sits there, Stiles pulls his shirt over his head.

It is with a graceful ease that he swings though the streets of New York City and if he's being completely honest, it's a technique that took him a while to master. It had been over a year since Stiles had received 'the bite,' and a year since his Uncle had died. John Stilinski had been like a father to him and it was through both his actions while alive and the circumstances of his death that Stiles had learned to take responsibility for his actions.

A crackle interrupts his thoughts and Stiles turns his attention to the earphone embedded in his suit, sown into the fabric right over his ear.

We've got a 417 at a restaurant on West 23rd street. Suspect is considered dangerous - approach with caution.

Stiles swings in a U-turn knowing that, luckily, 23rd is only a couple of blocks from his current location.

'Did you even make a reservation?' he says, popping up behind the gentleman in the mask, 'you know, in a place like this it's always best to phone ahead.'

By the time the police get there Spider-Man has not only retrieved the gun from the idiot wielding it but the suspect in question has gotten a bit tangled up – in his web!

Stiles watches from the rooftop across the street as the cop cars come careening down the street, blue flashes lighting up the sides of buildings as they pass. And behind the mask, he smiles.

'A girl named Lydia Martin called to see you.'

Stiles spit out the juice he was drinking from the carton. Luckily most of it landed in the sink he was standing next to.

'What did you just say?' he spluttered in the direction of his Aunt Melissa.

'Lydia – she called to see you last night whilst you were out doing God-knows-what. She seems like a nice girl.'

By this point Stiles had already dismissed the idea, the girl who had owned his heart since third grade, voluntarily coming to his house. Definitely not.

All the same he felt the nerves kick in as he entered the school doors and saw her standing only a short distance down the hall. What if it had been her, after all?

But - as she had done since they started high school - she ignored him as if it were any other day and continued flirting with the latest bit of boy-candy she was wearing on her arm.

Clearly his Aunt Melissa had been wrong about Lydia's appearance at 20 Ingram Street.

It wasn't until after lunchtime, when they had physics together that Stiles noticed her staring at him. When he caught her she let out a little giggle at his expression, which he had to admit, probably did look slightly gormless.

Stiles spends the rest of the lesson trying to ignore her gaze and when the lesson ends and there is a crush to get out of the small classroom door he feels a delicate hand on his arm. He turns to see Lydia Martin who in the midst of the crowd, stands on her tip-toes to whisper into his ear, 'I want to see those pictures, make sure you're home tonight.'

Stiles manages a stuttered, 'okay,' before the crowd swallows her.

Holy shit, Lydia Martin was in his room, not only that but she was naked aside from her underwear.

'Face it Tiger, you hit the jackpot!' Lydia laughs at his stunned expression.

Stiles blinks, still not entirely sure how this had happened.

'These aren't bad,' Lydia smiles at the computer screen and clicks out of the folder containing the pictures of the netball team. She stops as she spots something on the screen, moving her mouse to hover over it. Double-clicking, Lydia makes all the photos of Spider-man he's ever taken appear on screen.

'You took these?' She gapes at a particularly detailed close up.

He nods and without taking her eyes off the screen she says, 'Stiles, these are really good.'

'So, do you, like, know him?'

'Well… I don't know, he seems to like me,' it's the best explanation he can come up with without a suspicious pause.

Lydia hesitates for only a microsecond before she stands and turns to him with a fierce look in her eyes and a wicked smile on her lips.

'I want you to photograph me,' she says, as if daring him to say no.

'What?' He replies, doubtful that he's heard her properly.

'I want you to take some photographs of me.'

He had, not being able to resist Lydia Martin and her emerald eyes and her mane of red hair. And that was fine, when he had just been taking head shots, but then she had started stripping out of her high-waisted skirt and before Stiles could ask what she's doing she's lying on his bed in just her underwear.

'What are you waiting for, Stiles?' she sounded bored, frustrated by his apparent lack of ability to grasp the situation.

'You want me to take photos of you – like this?' he gestured with his hand, sweeping through the air above the length of her body without his eyes ever leaving hers.

'Obviously.'

'Why?' Stiles asked, genuinely curious.

'Oh Stiles, just stop asking questions. It will be fun.'

He eventually acquiesced and she was right – it was fun. She was a good subject and Stiles found it interesting to photograph something new, finding angles where the light bounced off her curves just so. She was beautiful – on more than one occasion she took Stiles' breath away – and she knew just how to play the camera too, knew just how to give just enough sex appeal without going overboard.

Then, once it was over, Lydia all but begged Stiles to put the photos onto his computer straight away so she could look at them. It was her delighted squeal and the kiss she planted on his cheek that made it all worth it.

'I'm sick of the one dimensional boys that hang around me,' Lydia says as she's leaving and if Stiles didn't know any better, he would have said that she almost sounded hesitant.

He hardly knows what to say to her, so he doesn't say anything at all.

'Can I come back next week?' She asks and there's a hopeful edge to her voice that Stiles just can't miss. It seems as if his years of being a wallflower have finally come to something useful.

Stiles thinks of all the ways he could reply to this question. He could tell her that he would never say no to Lydia Martin, he could tell her that he'll be busy – of course she doesn't have to know that it's because he's needed out on the streets, to fight the good fight. He could ask her why, if she's been happy enough to avoid him for so long, she is so interested in stopping now. But he doesn't say any of those things. Instead he just says one word.

'Yes.'