THIS IS SO LONG HOLY SHIT
anyway this all started bc of one fucking gifset im a mess
notes: all human, suicidal thoughts cw, gun cw, blood mention
disclaimed
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"Do you ever regret it?" Lydia asks, pinning your hands above your head, hovering over you with a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Regret me?" She brings her hips down into yours, grinding against you—you think you might actually see God.
Your answer gets lost in a moan, your hips bucking up to meet hers. "Lydia, god, no, no," you manage to groan, arching into the bed with your eyes screwed shut. You haven't thought about your badge in weeks—haven't looked back at Beacon Hills since you left, under cover of night, Lydia giggling in the passenger seat beside you, money in the backseat.
You just—
there are parts of you that are screaming, that detest what you're doing—
but small parts. Parts you can silence with kisses and hands fisted in sheets and trembling fingers and Lydia.
You're twenty seven, a fugitive, and you're okay.
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"United National just got hit," Scott barks, running into the bullpen just as you step off the elevator, and you're kind of sad because you really wanted to eat your lunch, but also, like—
bank robbery.
It's the third hit this month—same couple to boot. The press labeled them the Brazen Bandits—some asshole tried to call them the new Bonnie and Clyde, but as their body count is at a total of zero, the station nixed that real quick. But—
brazen, in that they waltz in daylight, no cover of night to hide them. You kind of have their bodies memorized. The man—tall and pale and all long limbs, gangly. His hair is dark, his shoulders slumped, but from all the footage you have from security cameras, he treats the captives well, doesn't wave his gun around much.
The woman is shorter, softer—red hair and good posture, always, and you have to kind of admire how she manages to keep a gun pressed to the teller's back and follow them in that high of heels. She's feral, nearly predatory, but she never presses the gun too hard, never threatens her captives, never takes the safety off.
The last teller you interviewed called her lovely. You kind of have to agree, honestly.
Point is, though—they've still hit three of the biggest banks in the county and it would be great for the department to catch them. You drop your lunch on your desk and grab your secondary out of the locked bottom drawer, following Scott into the elevator.
Before the doors slide shut, you see the bullpen in chaos—people running to ringing phones, grabbing their gear and going for the stairs.
The doors close.
You steel yourself.
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Three million. They took three million.
"Jesus fucking—," you hiss, looking at the open vault in front of you. Scott's back out front, barking out orders to his officers, but he finishes that and then comes to join you.
"Half is in gold. The rest is in the wind."
"Gold? The fuck can they do with gold?"
He rubs the back of his neck wearily, grumbles, "Melt it down. Make unlabeled ores and sell them."
"But that—you need—."
"A decent background in chemistry. At the very least, it narrows our pool of suspects."
"So, from all the brunet men and redheaded women in the country, to all the brunet men and redheaded women with a high school level of understanding of chemistry."
Scott groans, fisting his hands and rubbing at his eyes. "That is…that's how it looks, Allison."
You let out a breath. "Cool."
You interview the tellers, all three of them, and all three of them give you vastly different descriptions of the woman they saw. At this point, you have about seven sketches on the woman, all kind of vastly different. Some describe her as blonde, others as auburn, some as a redhead. Some give her a dainty nose, some a snub.
It's—you're so frustrated. Literally so frustrated. You just—
you want one lead. Just one. Maybe, like, some pathological note with cut out magazine letters. Just—just one.
After the crime scene is taped off, analyzed (no fingerprints, no hairs, nothing), you and Scott ride back to the station in a bitter silence, both of you feeling the sword hanging above your heads, heavy as always. It's no secret that there are people just itching to kick you both down, that view you both as too young to take on the responsibility of protecting the town.
But you've done good up until now, until these robberies, and you refuse to let this be what takes you down. When you get back to the station, you stop him before he turns off the engine, reaching across the console to rub Scott's arm.
"We'll get them, yeah?"
He flexes his hands around the wheel, tendons taut across his arms. "Yeah," he asserts, gruff and angry and tired, and you feel the same, feel exhaustion in your bones.
You haven't had a full night of sleep since that first night, since that first call came in. You're just so tired. Just so fucking tired.
And you, you realize, getting out of the car and slamming the door behind you with a force that rocks the body—
you are so angry.
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You haven't told Scott this—have avoided it with a passion, but the truth is this: you're a little obsessed.
You kind of have a crime board set up in your living room, in front of the big windows that face the street. You've made copies of all the paperwork, all the sketches and interviews, have red yarn stretching across and things circled and crossed out and underlined. You're a messy investigator, you know; you need to have your entire thought process in physical form, tangible in front of you, and this is how you need to work.
There's this—this need inside of you to solve this, outside of the threat of being fired, outside of just being a cop. It's dangerous, you know that as well, but you're kind of obsessed with the woman. There's something about her—something graceful and lethal, something unnatural about her that tugs at something deep inside you. You want a face to put with the figure.
Sleep never comes easily to you, and the board gives you something to do during your nights, when you toss and turn and spend nights trying hard to not think about your family and failing.
Running has always been your go-to but Beacon Hills is where you have put down roots. You can't just run when the nightmares start, can't just disappear like you normally do, like you have.
So you work.
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If Scott has questions about the sudden stack of new notes on your desk, he doesn't ask them, and for that you're forever grateful. There aren't any easy answers, you've learned, but your work is good, your theories sound.
You've narrowed the pool of suspects, the only problem now just to find a connection between the right pair, but the right pair seems like an unreachable dream, the green light to your Gatsby.
There are seven empty coffee cups on your desk and your hands shake; Scott shoots you a concerned look around noon, when you pass on lunch and instead make your way to the break room for more coffee. You should maybe get help.
You've literally not worked any new cases—not for lack of trying, but Beacon Hills is startlingly quiet, as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see how the Brazen Bandits pull it off. You're kind of waiting to see how they pull it off, too.
You work until it's dark, until your body aches with exhaustion. Scott doesn't leave, but he naps in his office around four, his eyes drooping enough that you take the file out of his hands and usher him onto his couch.
The station is quiet in the middle of the night you've learned, the only sound beside your breathing and Scott's snores being the ticking of the clock that hangs over booking.
You stare at the woman in the photograph and try not to find the rabbit hole.
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That's a lie.
Rabbit holes are home, are familiar, and all you've ever done is run towards the next one.
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"I think you're not human," Scott says the next morning, setting down a breakfast burrito on your desk. "Did you even sleep last night?"
Like—
half of you thinks you could get away with lying to him, but he's your partner and you need to be honest with him.
"Not really. I dozed around five, I think?" You hope that will placate him; feel the disappointment in your bones when he levels you with a look.
"Allison," he breathes, scratching at the back of his neck. "I'm going to put you on leave if you don't get it together. I need you at your best, yeah?" The words look like they pain him.
Whatever anger you feel at the comment is quashed by his obvious concern for you. So you lie.
"I was going to take tomorrow off, anyway," you smile. "Spa day."
He stares at you. "Awesome. I'll book it for you."
"Oh for christ—Scott, I'm making breakthroughs."
You were a little louder than you meant to be.
The station falls silent.
Scott tugs you into his office and closes the door behind you. "How much have you slept this week?"
You bark out a laugh—you feel so alive but also half dead, at all times, and it's terrible and wonderful and you don't think you actually have any boundaries anymore.
"Allison, I'm worried about you. Are you talking to your dad? Do you do anything outside of work?"
"I'm fine, Scott. Just—I need you to trust me on this. I'm a big girl," you promise. "I can take care of myself."
"But you're not," he bites out. "You're working too hard and not sleeping, and I haven't seen you eat more than one meal a day. This isn't healthy."
"I will—," you scrub your face with your hands. "I'll get it together. Starting tonight."
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Easier said than done.
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They hit Bank of America at ten in the morning. Scott looks like he wants to tell you to go home, but you're his partner and one of the best deputies that Beacon Hills has, so he doesn't argue when you get into the car with him.
There were only two tellers in the bank, and only one of them seems shaken by the encounter.
"They just—," her hands shake. "They just came in and the woman slipped me a note—."
The other teller comes up beside her, wraps an arm around her shoulder. "Therese has been worried that something like this would happen," the second woman explains. "They were actually very polite, really. The woman slipped a note across, requesting five hundred thousand—didn't even show the gun until I said I would call the cops and even then they rarely touched them."
She's the first person that seems somewhat put together; you jump at the opportunity. "Do you think you'd be able to describe the robbers to a sketch artist?"
Therese shakes her head no; the other woman—Anne, her tag reads—nods. "Probably, yeah. I didn't get a super great look at the guy, but I can probably do it for the woman."
Something deep inside you sparks.
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"We have a sketch." You slam said sketch down on Scott's desk, confident for the first time in months. "We have a sketch," you repeat when he doesn't respond.
"Heard you the first time, Al," he sighs, shuffling the papers on his desk and finally meeting your eyes.
"Why aren't you celebrating?"
"We have four sketches. All of them different."
"But Scott," you implore, nearly whining. You inch the paper closer to him. "This one is good. Like, ninety five percent good."
He glances down. "And she doesn't look like any of our suspects."
"So we widen our pool."
"To what, Allison? Everyone in the fucking county?"
You kick the door closed, square your shoulders for a fight. "What do you know that I don't?" you hiss, stalking back to stare down at him.
"I—." Even his shoulders are lying.
"Scott," you prod, uneasy. He's lied to you twice in the entire time you've known him. Once, when you were dating and he had forgotten your anniversary, and now, withholding information about a case that you're sure will end you.
"Just tell me," you plead, because this is big, important, end of all things.
"I think—." He stumbles over his words, looking ashamed. "I think I know who the male robber is."
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It's a long shot. The longest of long shots.
But Scott recognizes the body of the guy; he thinks he's Stiles Stilinski, childhood best friend and son of the ill ex-sheriff. "I didn't—god, I never thought—." In the safety of his office, you lay your hand across his back.
"It's not your fault. No one would have guessed this." There is a part of you that's pissed, that's furious that he kept this from you for so long, but he seems so broken about this, so shell shocked and scared that someone he trusted could have become this. "Here's what we'll do," you tell him firmly, restacking the files he'd pulled from his desk. "You and I will run a side investigation. Make some inquiries, see if he has a partner that matches the woman's description. Then we'll make it official."
Scott nods, holding his head in his hands. "I haven't seen him since we were kids," he moans. "I knew I should have called when his dad got sick."
"Scott, you couldn't have—there was no way you could have known." But now we have a motive. And a suspect. You're giddy at the thought, at being a step closer to arresting the bandits, but you hide it to spare Scott.
"It's going to be okay," you lie.
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You go home.
You don't sleep.
The red woman dances through your mind, her face a messy sketch and nothing more.
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Scott doesn't press the issue of your health, and you don't press the issue of his friend—you greet each other and go in opposite directions, too focused on everything else to notice the cracks in one another.
"I'm taking the afternoon," he tells you, hovering at the edge of your desk awkwardly, around noon. "You're in charge."
You don't say anything, just nod and take your orders in stride, but you think you know where he's going and you want to tell him to stay. But then you would be a hypocrite.
You stay silent, long after Scott walks out the door.
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The next hit is six weeks later.
Wells Fargo, on the edge of town limits. Scott is nowhere to be found, gone on some clandestine meeting with a maybe criminal, but if the bank got hit, then maybe Stiles is innocent. Maybe Scott can get a break, for once.
On your way, the first responder comes over the radio, crackling. "We've—uh. We got an active hostage, two confirmed weapons."
"Shit," you hiss, pulling up behind the line of cop cars, scrambling out and going for your vest, strapping it on as you run forward, joining the line of unis at the front.
"Deputy," one greets, crouching behind the car and gun aimed. "We've got a hostage negotiator talking, but the girl isn't giving in."
"The woman's negotiating?"
"She's the only one there, ma'am."
Oh god. "Where's command?"
He points to a van, a few meters away, and you jog over, already reaching out for hostage line. You've had pretty extensive training in hostage negotiation—before Scott offered you the job at the Sheriff's department, you'd thought you might go into the FBI. Now, you've never been more grateful for closed doors.
"This is the Deputy," you say confidently, taking the phone, steeling yourself. "I've got the authority to grant requests."
"My, my," the woman croons. "Calling in the big dogs."
"Ma'am, what can I do to get this over faster?"
"Ma'am? I'm younger than you, ma'am."
Okay.
Well.
You're trying really hard to quash the weird attraction you have to her tone, defiant and dominant and dark, curling into your ear as if she were there, leaning into you.
"I want all cops, gone," she demands. "No one will get hurt. But I want a clean exit."
"What about your partner?" She seems calm enough; you risk the question.
"Oh, honey, I think you're confused. I work alone." She pauses, as if stunned by her own pronunciation. "Do we have a deal, Deputy?"
You look around, look at the cops that answer to you, that will feel the sting of defeat long after this confrontation ends. You hit the shoulder of the woman nearest to you. "How many?" you mouth, jerking your head towards the bank.
"Eight," she whispers. "One kid."
Okay.
"We have a deal. Give me fifteen minutes to clear the area. I want the hostages out, kid first."
"I'll send the kid out now," she murmurs. "Show of good faith."
She doesn't sound reluctant—exactly the opposite, as if she wanted the child out to begin with. As if she never wanted a juvenile hostage.
"Do it," you agree, running a tired hand through your hair. "I'll clear the unis once the kid's with us."
"It's been nice—." Gunfire cuts her off. "Shit," the woman shrieks, screaming out in pain. Another shot.
The unis scramble, ducking behind their cars, drawing their weapons. One man loads a shotgun. You swallow the lump in your throat—try not to picture a child in the crossfire.
"What's happening? Who shot?"
"Goddammit," she hisses. "Goddamn vigilante—."
The line cuts out. Two more shots ring out, and then the lot falls silent. The door to the bank opens. A dozen cops raise their weapons, yourself included, expecting the worst.
"We're the hostages!" the lead man yells, blood staining his shirt. "She's gone!"
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"So, who fired first?" you ask, jogging alongside the stretcher the security guard lies on, moaning over his grazed arm.
"She was going to—the fucking bitch," he hisses, clutching his arm as if he thinks it might fall off. "I had to go for it, you know?"
"Uh—Deputy, we need to get him cleaned up," the EMT says, pushing the stretcher along. "Can we wrap this up?"
"So, you fired first?"
The guard nods, looking proud. You feel sick. You've shot three people, one fatality, and you've not slept well since the first time a bullet you fired hit flesh. It's not something you stomach well.
"We're good," you nod at the EMT.
Let them wheel away with the man that ended the hostage situation with gunfire and left your suspect in the wind.
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The guard saw her going for the kid, you find out. Saw her guns holstered and saw her hand on the little girl's back, steering her towards the door, and he shot at her twice—hit her in the side, grazed the little girl's leg when he shot too low. The woman, according to the other hostages, didn't fire her weapon until she'd shoved the girl behind the nearest desk.
"She was—," the girl's father chokes. "She wasn't going to hurt any of us."
"Yeah," the teller chimes in. "She didn't raise her gun except that once, at the beginning."
Robin Hood of Beacon Hills, you think bitterly. It would be easier if she was bloodthirsty.
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On your way to your car, you bump into a woman that's panting. "The hostages?" she breathes, head ducked low, red hair falling loose around her shoulders. "Are they okay?"
"Uh—yeah, hon. They're fine."
She nods. Presses past you, into the throng behind you. It's not until you're in the car that you notice the smear of blood on your arm. By the time you get back to the crowd, it's smaller, disbanded—
and the woman is gone.
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You keep this from Scott.
Swallow all your secrets whole until you're choking on them, but it's better than dragging him out to sea with you. When he comes into the station, in plain clothes and looking tired, you tell him this—
"Shots fired, but no hostages with major injuries."
"We got DNA?" he asks, rubbing his eyes and slumping against the wall. The other officers shoot him looks, but he remains slouched. You want to tell him to stand tall; be the sheriff that people want him to be. But he is young—you are young. Too young for this all.
"Uh—yeah," you say, sliding him the folder. "She's not in the system."
"We sure it's her?"
"The—uh. The guy wasn't there."
He doesn't say anything after that; just spins on his heel and stalks into his office. He closes the blinds, locks the door behind him. It's not an irrational reaction, you think.
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Someone anonymously sinks five million into a new pediatric care wing at Beacon Hill General. When the press picks up the story, you know you're screwed.
No one wants to arrest benevolent criminals.
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It's late. Raining.
You think that you should maybe kill yourself, to keep up the family tradition. You leave your gun loaded, on the dresser, just to remind yourself of your options. And then your door is open and there's three whole people in the entire world that actually have a key to your home—you, Scott, and your father. And since your father is in France, currently—
Scott knocks on the doorway to your bedroom. You look from your laptop, from your research and notes. He looks wrecked—tired and young and old, his face streaked with tears.
"I, uh—," he scratches at the back of his neck. The folder in his other hand is suspiciously thin. Suspicious in general. "I followed Stiles. After—." He coughs. "Anyway. I followed him."
He drops the file on your bed, shoves it towards you. The edge of a glossy photograph peeks out, a flick of red hair apparent. "Shit, you—," you gasp, hand over mouth. "You got them together?"
The first picture is blurry, but you see their backs, their hair—undeniably the couple in the security footage. You move to the second photo, of their faces. The sketch was perfect—nearly identical to the real life face you see in front of you.
"The woman—I don't know—she was moving slow. Injured, probably."
Shot, you want to say. Scott swallows a sob.
"I think," you begin slowly. "I think it's time we end the side investigation." He takes a breath, wraps his arms around himself, like he's holding jagged edges together.
If you were better, you would comfort him.
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"I think we need to talk," you begin sweetly, smiling at the woman in front of you. "Sort this whole mess out."
The woman—Lydia Martin, one part of the Brazen Bandits, tilts her head and smiles back, all teeth and red lipstick. "What mess, Deputy?"
God, okay. This is going to be infuriating.
Stilinski was equally coy, and you and Scott have already screamed about this in the break room, Scott nearing the dangerous edge of tears.
You lay the bank statements in front of her, the stills from the security footage. You point to the woman in the picture. "That's you, Ms. Martin. You've had large sums of money dumped into an off-shore account over the past six months, which is, funny enough, exactly when the bank robberies started."
She glances at the photos, smirks. "I know that redheads are rare, but we're not extinct. That's not me." Lydia slides the photos back over the table, leaning back and dropping her hands to her lap, holding eye contact. "I'm a well paid consultant," she explains, glancing at the statements next. "What I do with my money is my own business."
"Not when your money is connected to ten robberies in the last six months," you frown, leaning back as well.
"Is this police harassment, Deputy, or do you have any actual proof?"
Fucking fine, then. You lean forward, lacing your fingers in front of you.
Get ready to play.
"I'm giving you an out, Lydia. Your partner? Stiles? He'll sell you out in a heartbeat at the first sign of a deal. Send him up the river first."
"What the hell is a Stiles?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow. You have one trick left—your big guns, your Trojan Horse.
You slide Scott's pictures over to her, flipping them over one by one. She stills. Cocks and eyebrow as she inspects the images. "Is it a crime to have company for an evening?" she asks, voice low.
"It is when you match a sketch provided by a witness."
"Eye witness is unreliable. I'm sure you know that." She hesitates for a beat. And then—"Am I under arrest, Deputy? I have a meeting in twenty minutes."
You want to scream. You want to kiss her. You might be dying a little bit inside. "You've been able to leave this entire time," you smile, gathering your papers up. "We may have more questions, so stay in town."
Lydia stands, smoothing out her skirt against her thighs, and you try not to notice the flare of her hips, the hint of lace above her blouse, try and remember that she is a criminal and you are a cop and that the table between you is as wide and unforgiving as the Atlantic.
But suddenly she's very close to you, her perfume heady and sweet, making your head light, and she grins at you, glittering and brilliant. "I hope to see you again, Deputy. Under, ah—better circumstances."
She winks at you then, turning on her heel and sauntering out, hips swinging and jesus, Allison, do not look at a criminal's ass.
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You call them in for a line up, two days later. The teller—Anne is twitching, fidgeting. She's already fingered the wrong man, for Stilinski. But if you can get Lydia—
"I really—," she tugs at the hem of her blouse. "I really don't think I'll be able to."
"Whatever you can do is fantastic," you assure her, nodding to Scott, who buzzes over. Boyd raises the blinds to the line up, stepping back out of view once the window's clear.
"Number six," Anne squeaks immediately, too fast, and you know. Number six—Officer Reyes steps forward when Scott calls her, looking every bit the criminal she's been assigned to play.
Lydia Martin's lawyer grins. "We're done here, Sheriff."
Scott knocks on the glass, shoulders slumping.
You wonder how much they paid her.
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Scott tells you to drop the bone. You don't.
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It takes about three days of following her before you work up the nerve to slip into her regular coffee shop, seven minutes after she walks in. It's a busy workday morning, and in her time, she's only worked her way up about a quarter of the way through the line.
She shifts her weight relentlessly, tapping away at her phone while she shuffles forward with the flow of the line, hair thrown over her shoulder, the line of her neck long and elegant.
Your life kind of sucks. Just a little bit.
The guy behind you coughs, and you startle, realizing that a gap has formed between you and the couple in front of you, so you step forward quickly, wanting your cover back as quickly as you'd lost it.
Lydia Martin looks around, lips quirking up a little, color flawless. You hide your face by looking at the travel mugs on sale, scrutinizing them with a passion you never thought you had.
It takes thirty minutes when you're already running late, but eventually Lydia places and receives her order, some complicated machiatto, but she tips outrageously well, waving to the barista on her way out. You duck your head, looking at some locally sourced coffee beans that are ridiculously out of your price range.
You count to sixty twice, shuffling forward a few inches more, before you groan and make some motions about being late for work and you walk out, pacing your steps so you appear normal. Average.
Lydia Martin is leaning against your unmarked when the sunlight hits you. "Deputy Argent," she sings. "What a surprise to see you."
You freeze. "Ms. Martin," you murmur, trying to figure out a way around her.
"What? No coffee?" She raises her hands, holding a second cup that you hadn't noticed when she left. "Good think I bought two."
You eye the cup suspiciously.
"Oh, just take it, you dumbass." She pushes it into your hands, suddenly in your space when you don't remember seeing her lean away from your car. "I haven't laced it with anything."
You take a sip carefully, watching her the entire time.
"I didn't know if you were lactose intolerant or something," she tells you. "So it's just a soy latte."
"Thanks," you mumble, though you don't think she cares one way or another if you appreciate the drink. You stand in an awkward silence for several minutes as she studies you. And then—
"Come with me."
In some small, distant part, you remember that you are the cop and she is a bank robber, even if you can't necessarily prove it. You should have the power.
But when she starts to walk away, you can do nothing but follow.
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"I've half a mind to sue for harassment."
You try and hide the fear that bubbles to the surface—you are in the wrong here. Completely so, and there's no way to work around that. She wasn't identified by the witness, there wasn't any real evidence linking her to the crime, and you stalking her isn't exactly model police work.
You're sitting a little ways away from civilization, at a picnic area on an edge of the preserve that you knew realistically existed, but had never actually seen. Lydia sits across from you, fingers laced, and she's studying you like you're a particularly interesting animal in the zoo.
"I won't, though," she promises carefully, twirling a lock of red hair. She doesn't look at all like someone that was just shot in the side. Maybe she's not. Maybe neither of them are who you think they are.
You repeat this, over and over, until you work up your nerve.
"Are these better circumstances?" you ask quietly, studying your hands because you are weak, small. Asking things of people you shouldn't even know. Being in places where you shouldn't be.
When you look up, she's grinning, blinding.
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So—
uh.
Making out with a maybe criminal in the back of her car isn't your best move. But you were talking, awkwardly inching near dangerous territory, and you think, a little bitterly, of the times that Scott rolled in late to the station, smelling of unfamiliar cologne, and why can't you be a little reckless? You've spent your whole life being careful, being the opposite of your danger loving family, so maybe this is your rebellious stage, this is your pot smoking poet or your motorcycle ripped jeans. Just maybe a little more.
Lydia's hand slips up your shirt, stroking at the edge of your hip in broad, gentle moves, waiting, and she's sucking at the side of your neck in a way that will surely mark, at least for a few hours.
You rock your hips up, hitting hers in a way that sends a jolt straight through you, and she stops abruptly, stills her hands and murmurs against you skin, "Is this okay?"
You think about the ethics, which is really killing any mood you may have been feeling, and Lydia seems to catch on, nipping at your ear. "I meant this," she says, leaning away. "Dumbass."
There's no way you could actually make real words come out of your mouth, so you nod and nod again, nod until she's smiling and leaning back in, warm hands returning to your touch starved skin.
Your hands are going wild, uncontrollable—one on the back of her head, tangled in her hair and trying fruitlessly to pull her closer to you; the other goes from her hip to her waist to her breast, and she gasps when you squeeze experimentally. She moves back to your lips, kissing you sloppily before she leans back, smirking at you. Her car is small, and she's very near straddling you, thighs bracketing yours. Her skirt is rucked up to her hips, nearly, her thighs pale and smooth and lovely around you.
"Harder," she pants. "Be harder." You dig your fingers into the flesh of her hip, hard enough to bruise, lean up to bite her neck. "Good, baby," she drops her forehead to yours, breathing hard.
You lean in to kiss her again, angry and vicious and seeking approval—god, all you want is to do well. When your hands make a path up her body again, skating over her sides, she hisses for a minute when you skim over her belly, and you think you feel a bandage, but then her tongue is in your mouth and she rolls her hips into yours, sending heat to your core, nearly as much from the sight of her undulating above you as it is from the friction. Bandage—
what bandage?
"I know what I like," she breathes, helping you as you fumble with the buttons of her shirt. "But what are your limits?"
This is honestly—
you just want some relief, but she keep stopping to check with you in a way that's achingly sweet, especially since you're currently parked in a nature preserve, only a little off the main road through it, making out with a maybe bank robber, so you tongue the bite you just left on her shoulder and pull away a little, just enough to think clearer.
"No spanking," you say, blushing beet red. You half expect her to laugh. She doesn't. Just nods seriously, holding eye contact even when you try to look away. "No marks where they can be seen." Her eyes dart to the hickey on your neck. A flash of an apology flares in her eyes, but you dig your fingers into her hip a little, dig in your nails. "It's fine."
Lydia inspects her work for a second, before telling you to ice it when you get home.
"Is that it?" she murmurs finally.
"I—ah. I think so." She stares at you, and it takes you a moment to realize what she's waiting for. "Yes. Those are my limits."
"Safe word?"
"Copper."
She smirks at you. "Funny."
She shrugs off her blouse, and her bra is black lace, sheer—stark against the white of her breasts.
You want to hate her.
She doesn't let you.
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.
.
If Scott notices anything odd about you when you walk in after lunch, smiling and guilty and definitely smelling of another woman's perfume, he doesn't say anything. In fact—
neither of you say anything, anymore.
.
.
.
Lydia comes by your apartment a few weeks later.
"How did you—?"
"Quit geotagging your Instagram," she states, brushing past you, into your home. "You'd make a terrible criminal."
She glances around, inspecting, judging. You were literally eating ramen. Fuck. You sort of start to rush around, shoving magazines into neat piles, as if that could maybe convince her that you have your life together.
"Don't worry about it," Lydia rolls her eyes. "You're twenty."
"Six," you correct. "Twenty six."
"Good. So you're legal."
It's your turn to roll your eyes, now, finally stilling. You shove one last piece of mail into a bowl on the kitchen counter and come to face her.
"I brought wine." She raises the bottle. Then a bag. "And Thai."
"Uh—plates are in the top cabinet." She glances through to your kitchen, eyes the high counters. Kicks off her heels.
"Looks like you'll have to do the presentation work," she grins, sauntering into the other room and setting the food and wine on the counter. She hops up, settles next to them, watches you as you gather plates, silver; you pick your good wine glasses. You're trying to impress her. Why are you trying to impress her?
"French is usually my seduction food of choice, but Marie's was busy. The wine's French, though."
You nearly drop the plates, which would suck, since they were your mother's and you would probably cry if they broke, which would kind of defeat the seduction that's apparently happening. But—you're being reckless. So, what the hell?
"Well," you breathe, rooting around in the drawer nearest to you for a bottle opener. "We should definitely open the wine, then."
.
.
.
You're not entirely sure how this is real life. But there's an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table and Lydia Martin, who's definitely a bank robber, is topless on your couch.
"Here's the thing, Deputy," she smiles, dimples deep and adorable. "We shouldn't be talking, let alone doing this."
She raises her arms above her head, clasps her hands. Stretches, arches. You're so screwed.
"But I like you. And you seem to like me too."
"I—um. Yeah."
"Fantastic. Come here."
And it's definitely her—
definitely the woman you spoke with on the phone, outside of Wells Fargo, because the tone is the same. Dominant. Seductive. Hypnotic. You crawl over and she pulls you down, down, down.
.
.
.
Work was long—boring. There haven't been any more robberies and you want to believe that that's because of you, because of Scott, because of whatever you've each built with these people, tugging at their hearts when they look at their guns, their check books.
But even if it isn't because of you, because of the way you've mapped her body out beneath your fingertips, Lydia's still made it a habit to see you nearly every day, made it her business to know when you get off work and what your favorite type of pie is from the diner over on Third.
When you get home, her car is parked in the space next to yours like it always is now, and she's there, arguing with someone on the phone. She glances at you when you shut your door, looks away when you smile at her. You swear you saw tears.
The thought worries you a little, as you find something to do with your hands while you wait, rifling through your purse awkwardly, waiting for her to finish. You don't feel like it would be right to leave, not when Lydia's visibly upset—
because, no matter what this actually is, you think that you care about her, that she cares about you.
And she looks so small, shoulders shaking a little, and you can't make out the words she's yelling, but you think you hear mom and please, and your heart twists. So you wait for her, try hard not to look at her, try hard to give her this moment.
A dog barks, somewhere down the road. You thumb through your emails—pass over the growing thread from your father. The subject line reads Christmas, and you know that if you open it then you'll cry, too.
You see movement over the edge of your phone; when you look up, Lydia is dabbing at her makeup with a tissue, taking shuddering breaths, shoulders shaking still. Finally, she gets out of the car, comes around to where you stand, and it's sort of instinctual, sort of immediate—
you open your arms and she trips into them, holding onto your coat and burying her face into your neck.
"I'm fine," she breathes. "I'm fine." She repeats it like a mantra, like it's the only think holding her together, and maybe it is.
It's dangerous, holding her out in the open like this, where anyone can see you, where anyone can recognize her, recognize you. But she is fragile, frail—the first time you've ever linked those words to Lydia Martin. You want to tell her that she'll be okay, but you hate those words when someone tells them to you; they don't seem right, either, not when you have no idea what's wrong, if you can even help her.
You stand in the cold for what feels like ages, watching as frost gathers in her hair. Finally, she murmurs against the exposed skin of your neck, "It's fucking freezing."
You laugh. Help her with the bags in the passenger seat and keep in step beside her, into the lobby, the elevator.
You carry on as if you hadn't just seen her crying in her car—nudge her hip when you're in the door of your apartment and ask, "How do you plan on seducing me tonight?"
"I'm going for emotional vulnerability," she grins, gesturing to her ruined makeup. You lean in to kiss her, soft and slow, the night stretching out before you. When you pull away, Lydia seems calmer, settled.
She smiles serenely at you. "You're wonderful," she tells you, startlingly earnest. "I don't know why you like me." Lydia sighs. Pulls away to go open the wine. From the kitchen, you hear her mutter, "My mother doesn't even like me."
You're not sure what to say to her, what words can make her feel better. Your own mother died when you were sixteen—left you and your father drowning in your grief. And even when you aren't speaking, you've never doubted his care, his love, his relentless attempts at reconciliation.
You want to comfort her, but you're not sure if she's yours to comfort.
.
.
.
When you come into the station this morning, you have a motive for the robberies and the guilt that comes with the knowledge. Lydia had told you in the early morning light—told you about her parents' divorce, told about the debt that had buried her and her mother, told you about the mortgage, the uncertainty that tainted her life.
Pair that with Stilinski's father, and you have a case.
You also have trust to shatter, Lydia and Scott's both.
You finally understand the myth of Atlas, of taking on a weight so vast and resenting it.
.
.
.
You don't tell Scott what you know, even when he asks if there've been any new leads. He doesn't sound enthusiastic about it, sounds hesitant and dreading the answer, so you smile and tell him that there haven't been any, and that things have carried on as per usual.
He straightens. Nods.
You both carry your secrets in closed hands.
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.
.
The biggest bank in the county gets hit. You send a string of texts to Lydia, begging her to say it wasn't her, asking where she is, asking for anything. You wait for hours, spend your time at the crime scene, pretending that you don't see the same desperation in Scott, pretend you don't see him staring at his phone for a good five minutes, as if he could will a text to appear.
You try and pretend that you're not doing the same thing.
If the unis notice, they don't say anything.
There's not much to do at the scene—there was only one teller on duty and his statement has been taken time and time again until it's practically burned into your brain. But the scene is better than going back to the station, facing the truth that sits plainly in front of you. So you bustle.
Give out orders that have already been given, take statements that have already been taken, review security footage that has already been reviewed, your mind wandering to the body that you've got nearly memorized.
It ends too soon, your work over and nothing to show for it except for a heavy feeling in your chest, your stomach. You ride back with Scott, silent and desperate in your own minds. He would be the only one to potentially understand your fight, your struggle, but there's something too quiet about your affair, something too close to your heart to be shared.
So you stay quiet through the day, until quitting time comes 'round. Scott catches your elbow as you pass him, coat in hand, and offers, "Drinks?"
You nearly refuse, nearly offer a halfhearted excuse, but Scott releases you, drags a tired hand through his own hair. "Al—," he sighs. "We need to talk."
"I—I know," you tell him placating. "Rain check? I have plans."
He stares at you—you hope that he thinks that you mean you have tickets to a play or something. Hope that he assumes you're the same you that you've always been. Hope that you are.
"Fine. Later."
You nod shortly before bundling up and shuffling out into the biting cold. You try not to think about Lydia waiting for you at your apartment. Worse yet, you try not to think about the other option—her, absent. Too busy counting her newly stolen money to see you.
The drive home has never seemed so long.
.
.
.
She's sitting on the front step, shivering even in her winter coat as the rain starts to come down around her and you've never been so relieved.
"Oh my god," you nearly yell, piling out of your car quickly, fumbling for your keys. "How long have you been waiting?"
When you reach her, she latches onto you immediately, tucking her cold face into your neck and making you jump. "Twenty minutes. You're late."
"Work ran late," you tell her, ignoring the biting suspicion that she knows exactly why you're late. That she's manipulating you. She probably is, if you're honest with yourself.
But then she mumbles into your skin, "You're so fucking warm," and tucks her hands into your open coat, along your sides. She's so small, then—small and shivering, curled around you in the bright light of your lobby, utterly unafraid of who may see. You wrap your arms around her, letting whatever soft, small spark that lights up within you take hold.
"I'll make you tea," you offer, guiding her towards the elevator, letting her shuffle backwards so she doesn't have to pull away.
"Tea," she parrots, finally pulling away from you once the doors slide shut. "Tea sounds great."
Your apartment is on the tenth floor. You ride in silence and try and hide your blush when she slips an arm around your waist casually. You try and be angry. Try and be the cop.
"I didn't pick up dinner," she tells you. "Or wine."
"S'fine if you're okay with pancakes and apple juice."
Lydia tugs your keys out of your hand when the elevator opens, leans up to kiss you hard on the cheek before she dances ahead, opening your door and slipping inside. "I'm stealing some of your clothes," she calls as you close the door behind you, dropping your things onto the armchair. You kick off your boots.
"There's some clean pajamas in the top drawer," you answer back, padding into the kitchen to grab what you need for food. It's startlingly domestic. If this were a normal relationship, you wouldn't be terrified by the prospect—it's been nearly eight months, around the time that this would be normal. But this isn't normal, will never be normal.
You ignore the thought as best you can. When Lydia reappears, she's taken off her makeup and is wearing a ridiculous pair of snowman pajamas, her hair tied up lazily.
"I also used some of your makeup remover," she grins cheekily. You don't really respond, just keep on what you're doing—combining ingredients and mixing, dusting the excess powder from the mix to the floor messily. Lydia hops up onto the cleanest counter available, to the left of you.
"What's wrong?" she asks, and you nearly cry, because she sounds genuinely concerned, and god, can all of this really just be a con? Can she really be that good?
"Tell me it wasn't you," you demand, not stopping; you think you might be taking out you're frustrations on the batter.
"Allison, I think we're better when we don't talk about work."
"I just—I need you to lie to me, okay?" you finally drop the whisk, turn around to face her. You stare at each other for a moment—a heavy one, weighing on you both.
"What will make you hate me less?" she asks. "Long term."
It's answer enough. You pick what's more important.
The space between you takes only a few seconds to cross, and her bruising kiss is well worth the time. Her hands snake under your shirt, ankles locking against the small of your back, pulling you in, to her.
The batter gets forgotten.
.
.
.
"Fuck, baby," Lydia breathes, pushing you off of her and rolling away. She's exquisite in the moonlight, breasts heaving as she comes down, and you think you might be stupidly, foolishly halfway in love with her.
She's already made you come twice, but something about her makes you ache again, makes you insatiable and relentless, always in a state of frustration, and it's fantastic and terrible, and you feel so guilty, thinking about how you're going against everything you've ever believed in, ever worked for.
She rolls into a sitting position, then stands, pale and silver in the dim light that the streetlight gives out, and she steps into her underwear quickly, pulling on the same sleep shirt, and something about the way that she looks in your clothes makes you take a beat, makes you hazy.
It takes you a moment to realize that she's walking towards the balcony, a newfound cigarette packet in her hand. She pauses by the door, looks over her shoulder and smirks at you.
"You mind?" She lifts the pack, nods to it. You don't trust yourself with words, so you shake your head quickly, rolling out of bed to follow. It's dark out, the streets empty and so you follow her example, pulling on underwear and an old tee, and padding out to stand with her.
It's cold out, but the intimacy between you is strange, unsteady, so you keep to the other side of the balcony, arms crossed over your chest. The smoke curls off her lips intoxicatingly—you know it's bad, for you, for her, that it's toxic and deadly. But it's hypnotic.
It's quiet, so you murmur, "Smoking kills, you know," already regretting the words as soon as they leave your mouth. Her lips, kiss swollen, quirk up, but she doesn't look at you.
"Quitting does too." She sounds regretful, bitter; her words light but her tone heavy. She looks young and old, her face unlined but eyes dark, and you nearly want to go to her. Hold her.
Instead, she says, "I didn't start out in this for fun." She takes a drag and lets it blow out slowly.
"Lydia, you shouldn't be telling me this," you whisper, eyes wide, regretting everything you've said to bring you here. It's your duty as an officer of the law to report crimes. The cop in you is screaming out, screaming for justice, for law.
"Consider it my confession, Deputy." She snuffs out her cigarette on the railing, drops it to the floor. She kisses you then, crossing the space between you quickly and leaning up, bruising force behind it. "Just save the cuffs until morning, hm?" she breathes against your lips, eyes closed softly.
You study her face, so close to yours—her lashes, stark against her pale cheeks, freckles you've never noticed before, scattered across her nose. You lean your forehead against hers.
"Start at the beginning."
.
.
.
"How exactly did you get this?" Scott asks, staring down in disbelief at the signed confession in front of him, implicating Stiles and outlining each and every crime. You'd deleted the portions about her mother, Stiles's father. Deleted the bits that could cost them their homes, Stilinski's treatments.
You fidget nervously, avoid his eyes. "It showed up on my doorstep." She told me between orgasms so good that I cried. "I guess she had a change of heart." She wants to stop running.
Scott eyes you critically and you still, meet his gaze head on and steel your jaw.
"Should I bring them in?"
"Uh—," he looks down at the packet of papers. "Yeah. Bring 'em in."
.
.
.
In the court room, she's stoic and lovely, hands still in front of her. Her lawyer is good—so very, very good, but Lydia is tired of lying and running and she's made it certain that she won't ever have the ability to run again.
Stiles is arraigned separately, and you know Scott is there, just as you sit in the first row at hers.
It's unspoken, the problem you both face, of having half fallen for a criminal, no possible future ahead of you. Lydia was thorough in her confession, making it unsinkable, and you curse her for it now, listening to the prosecution drone on about her crimes against the town.
Her attorney tries to paint Stiles as the mastermind, and you know that his is trying to do the same with her, but they're of equal genius, equally good at what they did and there is no way to divide the blame but equally.
"Ms. Martin is an obvious flight risk," the prosecutor states, looking livid, hands in the air. "She has an active passport, no ties to the community beyond her collaborator, nearly unlimited funds, and a job that she can easily walk away from."
"With all due respect," her lawyer cuts in. "Ms. Martin's mother lives in Beacon Hills, and she has several colleagues and friends that would testify to her devotion to her."
The lack of her mother's presence is blatantly apparent.
But the judge is a soft one—one that you've resented for letting off some of your toughest cases. He bangs his gavel. "Bail will be set at five hundred thousand—," the crowd buzzes, enraged. "And with that," the judge growls. "Court is dismissed."
.
.
.
Lydia had told you where to find the deed in her house, but you linger, fascinated. You've never seen where she lives, never seen the small house near the edge of town, and you think you understand now.
Your apartment is messy, but it is undeniably a home—you've left your mark throughout the small space, left pieces of clothes and mail and lists tacked onto a corkboard by the door.
But Lydia's house is devoid—
empty in a way that makes you ache.
You find the wall safe, tucked behind a landscape painting that's frame is probably more expensive that your car. You grab the deed; avoid looking at the stacks of cash, the jewelry.
She has to have known that you'd see. Has to have trusted you enough to do this anyway.
Your throat feels thick.
.
.
.
Lydia seems surprised to see you in the waiting area. "I thought you would have left," she digs through the plastic bag of her stuff, comes up with her phone that's definitely dead.
"I thought you would have been glad to see me."
She waits until you're out the door, in the parking lot before throw her arms around your neck, tucking her face against you. "I'm very happy to see you," she promises breathily, tangling her hand in your hair.
You wrap your arms around her, anchor her to you and try and memorize how she feels, how she smells, like soap and sweat and underlying lavender. If she goes away, you won't be able to hold her, to touch her, for what could be thirty years.
When you start to pull away, Lydia tightens her hold on your coat. "Can I stay with you?" she murmurs, and you think about her empty house, her cold bed.
"Yeah, baby," you kiss the side of her head. "Yeah, of course you can."
That might be when you decide to run.
.
.
.
Lydia comes out of her house with a small bag thrown over her shoulder. You'd thought about it while she was inside, and when she opens the door, you raise your eyebrows.
"Maybe pack a little more," you suggest. She tilts her head, questioning, leaning into the open door. "And you should probably grab the money, too."
"Deputy Argent," she gasps, and a thrill rolls through you. Lydia throws her bag into the seat. "I'm sure you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting—," you flex your fingers around the wheel. "I'm suggesting that you should be prepared."
"Whatever you say, Ally," Lydia winks, whipping around and sashaying away, swinging her hips in a wide arc. The night seems safe, protective; endless and unsuspecting.
You left your letter of resignation on Scott's desk this morning while he was still out, probably brokering a deal for Stiles, and there is a small part of you that regrets not saying goodbye, not wrapping up loose ends.
You'd not had any real ties to Beacon Hills, really, outside of the station, outside of Scott, but—
you had some casual friends you hung out with after yoga on Saturdays, a girl from your kickboxing class that you used to get drinks with. You feel like you owe them an explanation, but you're not sure you could put one into words.
Ten minutes later, Lydia reappears, another bag in her hands, grinning at you like you hung the moon and stars. You reach over, sling the duffel into the backseat to make space for her in the seat beside you.
Lydia nears the car; opens the door to the back and throws her second bag in. She climbs in beside you, leans over to kiss your cheek. "Ready Thelma?" she murmurs into your ear, fingers curling at the nape of your neck.
You don't know if you've ever been so sure about something in your life.
.
.
.
She has three different IDs, three different passports.
"Is Lydia even your real name?" you elbow her side gently.
"Does it matter?" She raises her eyebrows, voice smooth. You study her for a minute, take in the planes and curves of her face that you've mapped out before, and decide.
"No," you decide, kissing the corner of her mouth and feeling her lips quirk up, warming you.
Your apartment feels strange, now that you're leaving. You make your decisions on what's important enough to take—your mother's jewelry, the last family portrait you ever took. Your father's watch, your aunt's pendant. All you have left.
You pack your bag quickly, Lydia helping by rifling through your underwear drawer and throwing the ones she likes the most at you with a wink.
"I'm packing for practicality," you admonish, folding a sweater and shoving it into your bag.
"I'm being practical," she says cheekily, sticking out her tongue. "We're probably going to have to hole up in some seedy motel, not be able to leave the room for a while…" She picks up a sheer pair and gives you an approving look.
"There's a matching bra," you smirk. "In the next drawer over."
Lydia's cheeks pink and you feel a flare of pride take hold in your chest at getting the better of her in this moment. She seems almost shy when she opens the drawer to the right, sending you furtive looks over her shoulder in between shuffling your bras around until she finds the pair to the panties. She pads over when your back is turned, reaching around you to drop the set into your bag.
"You should definitely bring those," she breathes.
You twist to kiss her; hum, "M'kay," against her lips.
When she pulls away, looking pleased, you turn back, miss the change on her face. A moment later, she sounds unsteady—unsure. "Are you sure about this?" she asks, and you can practically see her twisting her fingers. "You can back out now,"she promises.
"Lydia," you turn. Tug her hands away from her chest. "I already quit my job so I don't really have a choice." You grin, make it obvious that you're joking since her expression remains worried, serious.
Lydia huffs out a laugh in response; the tension dissolves enough that you don't feel guilty dropping her hands and returning to your packing.
"You know that dress you have?" Lydia starts, moving around behind you, to your closet, you think. "The blue one? With the—."
"Back left." You hear some more rustling, and then the dress gets thrown in as well.
"You should probably bring a bikini, too," Lydia advises, arms snaking around your waist.
"Where do you think we're going?" you smile, leaning back into her touch.
"Somewhere warm," she murmurs into your shoulder. "Tropical. I'm obviously a beach bunny."
"Hate to break it to you, babe," your smile widens when she shivers at the pet name. "We're probably going to Canada for a while."
Or France, you realize. Your father's voicemails have been getting sadder, his emails bouncing back and forth from one sentences to paragraphs, and he would hide you in an instant, would set you up in an apartment in the city, or a cottage in the countryside.
You think about France, with Lydia. Market trips and long weekends on the coast. No one knowing your names or your crimes, your pasts or what you're leaving behind.
You throw in your last pair of jeans. Zip up your bag and push it further up the bed before you turn out of Lydia's arm. You sit on the edge of the bed, tug her to stand between your legs.
"How would you feel about France, actually?"
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.
.
When you land, it's dark—you think it's probably six in the morning.
Lydia's been sleeping on your shoulder, but when you touch down, she jerks awake. She swipes at her chin, at the little line of drool that's dried, and grimaces apologetically. "Sorry," she mumbles sleepily, reaching across you to fumble for the window shade, eyes widening in excitement. The early signs of the sun are beginning to creep over the horizon, pink and gentle.
The few people on your flight begin to wake, grumbling and moving in their seats as you pull into the gate. Lydia takes your hand and finally gets her wits about her, whispering, "You just popped my international cherry."
If you weren't blushing so hard, you'd scoff. Instead, you mumble, "You'll love France," playing with her fingers on the armrest between you. "It's a beautiful country."
She leans her head against your shoulder again. Twines her fingers with yours. "I'm sure it is," she says quietly, as if she could not care less about the country she's about to take up residence in for the foreseeable future. She probably doesn't.
You regret not saying goodbye to Scott; not offering him an explanation or the chance to do the same as you are now—running away, forgetting responsibilities. You're not sure if he would have agreed, anyway, too tied to the town he grew up in to ever cut ties the way you have. The guilt, though, weighs heavily on you.
And then—
the sun breaks over the horizon; blinding and new, promising, if nothing else, the surety of it setting again in the evening. Lydia twists up to press a gentle kiss to your jaw.
You think you'll be okay.
.
.
.
fin