a/n: Hello, again! I seem to be overcome with Stydia/Martinski feels, and cannot escape inspiration for stories. For those of you who read she thinks she could get used to it, be aware that I'm making it into a two or three-shot (haven't decided which yet, but I have started writing another part to it). I hope you like this one!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or any of the dialogue I've borrowed!
It's dark.
It's dark and overwhelming and so fucking cold, and Stiles thinks it would be easier to just let himself drift away. Every time he moves, small, needle-like pains sear through him, and even though he knows where the nematode is now, even though he knows that was the reason he agreed to do this, it doesn't seem like its that important for him to go back anymore.
He could simply stay here; he could let Scott and Allison save the world. They would—he knows they would. He knows they would be able to save his father, and everyone important to him would be okay, regardless of whatever he did.
Something stabs him in the palm, but he's too tired to see what it is.
And then, he hears a noise.
It's a voice, breaking through the crushing silence to say: "Stiles."
And he knows that voice; he would know that voice anywhere.
Lydia, he wants to say, but his voice won't work.
"Stiles, look at me."
Her voice is calm, imploring, and she sounds like she's right there—
He opens his eyes.
Everything is white, except for Lydia—who is standing there in beautiful shades of strawberry blonde hair and green eyes and pale periwinkle dresses.
He feels his breath whoosh out of him as she crosses her arms over her chest and her high-heeled foot taps impatiently. "Well?" she asks, quirking a perfect eyebrow. "Are you going to keep me waiting all day?"
"Lydia," he rasps out. The effort feels like it saps all the energy he has left.
Her face softens; her arms fall back to her sides. "Stiles, come on."
Somehow he finds the strength to say: "I c—can't."
"Why not?"
"Too cold—hurts—"
And then she's walking towards him, and kneeling in front of him, the sweet scent of her flowery perfume washes over him and kick-starts his heart up a notch. "Think about something else—anything else," she says.
He gives her this look that says, Like what? and even though he didn't say anything, she seems to understand him.
"Happy things," she suggests. "Good things. Friends. Family..."
There's a stab in his palm again (it feels like something pierces the skin) and then Lydia's hands are covering his, prying his fingers open, and revealing a burnished Sherriff's badge.
"Dad," he croaks out. And a sense of panic swirls through him because what if Scott can't get there in time? Shouldn't Stiles be doing everything in his power to help Scott and save his father—and isn't that the problem?
He has no power left.
He's just a kid—a scrawny, human kid, and he has no strength left in him, no way to fight against the supernatural world.
He tries, though.
He tries as hard as he can to push away the cold and stand up and leave this place behind. He lets out a hoarse, pained yell when he can't stand up, and the force it took to barely move a foot leaves him shaking and panting and scared out of his mind.
"Lydia—"
"Stiles, look at me," she says again. Her hands find his face, and they are warm and lovely against his freezing skin. "Look at me—shh, Stiles," her whispers ghost over his face and he feels himself relax.
She's so beautiful when she's this close to his face; he wants to kiss her—he feels like he should kiss her, but he doesn't have enough power to do it.
"I can't," he tells her again, but this time he means it. "I can't do it."
"Stiles," she warns—and is he imagining it, or is her voice shaking slightly? "If you don't come with me, you're going to die."
"I don't care." Her hands fall away from his face. "I can't help anyone."
"You don't care about getting hurt," she says numbly. Her green eyes are roving over his face, like they're trying to memorize him.
"No."
"No," she agrees. "No, you never have. But you know how I'll feel?" He shakes his head. "I'll be devastated."
He lets out a shaky breath. "Lydia—"
"Death doesn't happen to you, Stiles," she says sharply. "It happens to everyone around you, okay?"
Her words bring images to his eyes—white hot and painful images—of Scott, wolfing out in mindless anger and grief; of Derek, trying to deal with the guilt of losing another innocent person; of Lydia, sobbing all alone in the front seat of her car; of his father, destroyed in his sadness and drinking himself to death…
Lydia's right.
Of course she's right; she's always right.
"But—I can't—"
"I'll help you," she says softly. She stands up then, and he knows that she means business. "I'll help you Stiles. I can pull you back."
He blinks up at her, feeling vulnerable and nervous, but also a little comforted. "You can?"
She smiles at him. It's positively blinding. "Of course I can," she says brightly, with a flip of her hair over her shoulder. "I'm Lydia Martin."
Her hand reaches out to his, and before he can even think about it, his hand is moving towards hers, like she's some kind of magnetic being, pulling him towards her, pulling him out of this hell—
And then he's actually breaking through the surface of the ice-water, gasping in breaths of stale, veterinarian air, and the first thing he sees is Lydia's face.
His phone buzzes hours later, right as he's about to fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
He almost ignores it, but he's never been very good at ignoring Lydia Martin—especially when her name is flashing across his phone's screen.
16 hours is a long time without oxygen, her text message reads. You sure you don't have any brain damage?
He rolls his eyes. No more than usual.
Ten minutes pass, and by that time he's already fallen back into a sort of half-sleep state where he's too tired to move, but can still hear the reassuring sounds of his father watching a baseball game downstairs. He's just about given up on getting a reply from her, when the sudden vibrations from his phone against his hand make him jerk into alertness. He blinks blearily down at the screen.
For a while I was scared you weren't coming back.
He stares at the words for a moment or two, a mixture of disbelief and affection coursing through his veins. He wishes that Lydia was here, in his room, so he could hug her or touch her or see her or something.
I'll always come back for you, Lydia, he types—and though it's almost unbearably cheesy, it's not even a lie.
Her reply comes much quicker this time.
You're an idiot.
But he knows Lydia well enough now to know that she's a sucker for cheesy stuff like that, and that she was probably smiling (at least a little bit) when she sent her message.
Sure enough, seconds later, his phone buzzes again.
:)
He falls asleep happy for the first time since school started.