Hiya wolflets and welcome to Surprise Friday (i.e. the day when I publish a random story I find lying around and try not to dwell on how ridiculous it is that I always have so many plot bunnies).
This is set after 3B and ignores season 4. Usual warning: dark, depressing, etc. Trigger warnings: suicide, underage drinking. Explanatory note: I like experimenting with styles so this might seem a little strange.
As always, reviews and prompts are welcome, and I hope you enjoy the story.
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Oh where do we begin -
the rubble or our sins?
~ Pompeii - Bastille
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It's Kira's idea, but the rest of the pack is quick enough to agree. It's almost been a month since they were last all together, and it seems like it's overdue. The Sheriff and Melissa are out of town (separately, each with a flimsy excuse so that the kids won't clue in to their blatantly obvious relationship) so they decide to have the gathering at Stiles' house the Friday night after they all get back into town.
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Isaac's the first to arrive, fresh from France with a blue silk scarf and Paris lights reflected in his eyes. Scott turns up next, which is just as well because Stiles and Isaac are at each other's throats (no surprises there). Lydia and Malia arrive together a little later, straight from a shopping trip at the mall and arguing about whether strappy sandals are going out of style (Lydia wins – no surprises there either). Kira's the last to show, but the reason soon becomes clear. Surprise at last.
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Stiles lets out a low whistle; Malia looks confused. It's Isaac who reaches for the first bottle, and with a shrug he pours some of it into an empty glass nearby. "What?" he says defensively as he notices the others all looking at him. "Werewolves can't get drunk."
"Well, the rest of us can," Lydia says, a coldness in her voice that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Then she reaches for the bottle, and the party's officially started.
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The night is a series of snapshots.
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Kira and Malia laughing over a joke Stiles just told, while Lydia and Scott pretend it wasn't funny.
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Stiles and Scott arm-wrestling while Malia and Isaac compare their claws.
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Malia and Lydia teaching Kira how to dance, while Scott's cheeks redden and Isaac pours them all more drinks.
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Scott and Kira making googly eyes at each other while Isaac laughs and Lydia and Malia make kissing noises.
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Stiles speaking Polish and Kira speaking Japanese while they pretend to understand each other and the rest of the pack just laughs at them.
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All six of them laughing, talking, drinking, loosening up.
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Being the teenagers they always wanted to be.
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One by one, they leave. Malia's the first to go, claiming a curfew and not wanting to worry her father. Scott drops her home, as much because he needs a break (Stiles, Lydia, and Kira are all singing karaoke by this point) as a subtle sign that nobody in the pack is ever alone. Isaac leaves next, promising to swing by in the morning for breakfast. Scott comes back and drives Kira home, and Stiles and Lydia pretend not to see them making out on the front porch.
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By the time Scott comes back the second time, Lydia's finishing off the last bottle of wine and Stiles is staring at her like he's afraid she's about to bite.
Scott draws him to the side. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Stiles' eyes betray him; his gaze slides back to the strawberry blonde sitting on the couch. "She just, she said some stuff, okay? It doesn't matter."
The alpha turns his attention back to the couch. Lydia tosses the bottle aside and gets shakily to her feet. Scott automatically reaches for her, but she shoves him, her eyes blazing and her heart rate unsteady.
"Get the hell away from me." It's too slurred to be a snarl, but the anger is unmistakeable.
"Okay, you've had a little too much to drink." Scott laughs uneasily, trying to lighten the mood, but Stiles' eyes darken.
"I'm fine," she snaps, but nobody believes it.
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After what they've been through, none of them could ever be fine.
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Between the two of them, they manage to get Lydia up to Stiles' room. She kicks off her shoes and flops onto the bed, fixing them both with a death stare.
"It's your fault," she says simply, and the boys know it's just the alcohol but it still hurts. She doesn't need to say the name for it to be clear who she's talking about. "She's dead because of you."
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After a while the anger abruptly dissipates and she starts crying. Scott's too slow to react, but Stiles is quick; he's at her side in an instant, and she lets herself melt into his embrace, tears washing away the anger and alcohol eliminating her inhibitions. She's raw – vulnerable – broken.
Scott stands in the doorway, unsure of what to do. He wants to take care of his pack, but he feels useless here. Stiles inclines his head slightly; the meaning is clear. Scott nods and, with one last look at the pair of them, withdraws.
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Stiles holds her until she stops crying, until her breathing slows down, until she pulls away and looks him in the eye, wiping the tears from her face. Then, with a sniffle, she curls up in the bed – beside him but not touching – and starts to fade away. But she speaks one more time before she falls asleep.
"It's your fault," she whispers, with venom that the alcohol can't quite dull, "it's your fault she's dead."
Stiles just strokes her hair, unable to come up with a counter argument.
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His dad always said he'd make a good lawyer, but even he can't argue with the truth.
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In the space of a week, Lydia disappears. She still shows up at school, even makes appearances at pack meetings every now and then, and some people even go so far as to assume she's okay. Scott and Stiles know better; they know she's gone. And if they can't bring her back to them, they know they're going to lose her forever.
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The day after the incident at Stiles' house, Lydia won't look anyone in the eye.
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Three days afterward, she stops sitting with them at lunch.
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A week later, she doesn't show up for school.
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Scott and Stiles turn up to her house after school, and Mrs Martin lets them in with a relieved smile. "She's upstairs," she says softly, "feeling a little under the weather. She'll be happy to see you two -"
She's not.
Scott walks into the room first, and she throws her pillow at him. His werewolf reflexes kick in and he ducks; Stiles gets a face full of feathers.
"Good to see you too, Lyds," he murmurs, clutching the flower-patterned pillow.
"Get out," she growls, glaring at both of them.
There are few things that can make a true alpha werewolf quail, but Lydia Martin happens to be one of them.
They leave without another word.
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"Hey, it's Lydia Martin. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message after the -"
Beep.
"Hi Lyds, it's Stiles. I haven't seen you in a couple days and I'm starting to get worried. Give me a call back, okay?"
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"… so leave a message after the -"
Beep.
"Lydia, it's Scott. Where are you? We're starting to get really worried. Call me back as soon as you can."
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Beep.
"Lyds, please. Call me back. You're scaring me."
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"Please, Lydia. Come back to us."
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"Please."
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It's Deaton who comes up with the idea. Scott's hesitant, but Stiles embraces the theory.
"She's possessed."
Of course. It's the only explanation. Something's trapped inside her, causing her to lash out, forcing her to push them away. She's trying to keep them safe; she's trying not to get them involved. She's trying to protect them.
It's their turn to repay the favor.
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Wolfsbane flies into the air and mistletoe litters the ground. Lydia stands in the middle of the chalk-drawn circle, her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes.
"What the hell are you doing?" she snaps.
Scott shrugs helplessly; Stiles darts a look at Deaton.
"We're testing you for signs of possession," the vet explains, unapologetic but starting to look worried.
Her eyes narrow. "And?"
"And," he says slowly, slightly apologetic now, "it would appear that we were wrong."
Lydia huffs and steps from the circle, dusting wolfsbane from her shoulders. "Next time you tell me there's an emergency," she says with deadly calm, "it had better be more important than a sudden desire to shower me in magic herbs."
She strides from the room, leaving behind a heavy silence.
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The silence continues for another week. Lydia comes back to school, but she won't talk to any of the pack. And gradually they stop talking to her. Isaac and Malia, who were never that close to her anyway, stop approaching her after a couple days. Kira gives up next, but only when Lydia actually shoves her against a locker and tells her to leave her alone. Scott and Stiles don't give up, but they keep their distance. Lydia makes that easy enough for them to do.
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"It's a ghost."
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"A poltergeist."
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"A curse."
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"Her powers."
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The theories come thick and fast, but none of them pan out. Lydia keeps pushing them away, and even when she's right next to them it feels like she's a thousand miles away. It's been a month since that night at Stiles' house, since she'd accused them of being responsible for Allison's death, and she hasn't voluntarily spoken a word to them since.
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"Do you want to invite Lydia over for dinner tonight?"
"I told you, Dad, she's not talking to me anymore."
"Is she – is she okay?"
"No."
"Do you know what's wrong with her?"
"No."
"Can you help?"
"… no."
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"Scott, I don't know what to tell you."
"Just tell me what you found out."
"Doctor-patient confidentiality. You know I can't -"
"Please, Mom."
"… okay. Medically, Lydia Martin is fine."
"Oh."
"Isn't that what you wanted to hear?"
"… no."
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There's nothing any of them can do. Scott even calls a pack meeting, but no brilliant ideas come of it. Even the parents are clueless; it's way out of their realms of experience.
"She's a teenage girl who lost her best friend," Melissa says patiently, "she's allowed to be a little moody."
"And she's also a banshee," the Sheriff adds, with a quick look at his son for confirmation that he got her supernatural diagnosis correct, "so she's going to need some time to get through it."
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They give her time.
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She uses it to buy a bottle of vodka and steal her mother's sleeping pills.
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Stiles is the one who finds her. He'd finally screwed up enough courage to visit her, but he can't even open the door to her bedroom. It's jamming, like there's something just inside the door. Finally he manages to shove his way inside, and he sees Lydia spreadeagled on the floor in front of him.
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He breaks.
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The doctor looks younger than the panicked teens crowding around him.
"It'll be touch and go for a while, but we're cautiously optimistic."
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"There appear to be no signs of internal damage, despite – well, despite what happened."
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"It's a miracle."
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"It's a spell." Deaton looks at Stiles and Scott, his gaze flicking between them like he's wondering whether he can trust them.
A week ago this would have been good news, but now it falls short. Lydia hasn't woken up yet; it's been almost two days, and she's still not awake.
"Why would someone cast a spell on her?" Scott asks, his eyes glowing red for a second in anger.
Stiles is reminded of the anger he'd seen in Lydia's eyes.
The red string that had held them together.
The fire in her heart.
The dying flames.
"More importantly," he says, "what can we do to save her?"
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"This doesn't feel right."
"We've done it before."
"It still doesn't feel right."
The door creaks open and Scott and Stiles slip inside. It's after hours, but Mrs McCall had given them her access card. Lydia is still unconscious, looking like she's on death's door. Well, she's the one who knocked.
"Deaton said to look for a talisman," Stiles reminds his friend. "Some kind of object that could have been infused with -"
"Got it," Scott announces, holding up a necklace. It's a faded gold, with a small sapphire that's clouded over with dirt. "Now what?"
Stiles takes it from him, tucks it into his pocket. "Now we take it to Deaton and hope to God we're not too late."
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"This is definitely it." Deaton holds the necklace up to the light, squinting his eyes and surveying it carefully. He sets it down on the counter. "I can use this to track down the witch who cast the spell on her."
Scott nods, his fingers curled around the edge of the counter. "What can we do?"
"You need to watch over Lydia," he instructs.
"Why?"
"Because," he says, still looking at the enchanted necklace, "if this spell is what I think it is, it's not going to stop until it reaches its end goal."
"Which is?"
"Killing Lydia."
Scott leaves claw marks in the counter, eyes flashing red and heart beating fast.
They get to the hospital just in time.
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"I have to do this," Lydia argues, meeting their eyes for the first time in weeks.
They're not sure where this is coming from – whether it's her or the spell – but it doesn't matter.
"Just put down the blade, Lyds," Stiles says soothingly.
She snorts. "You can't make me."
But Scott can. He grabs it from her before she's realized what's happening.
"It didn't work," Lydia says, a growl that turns into a wail. "I need to – I have to end it -"
"No, you don't," Scott says gently. "We're right here, Lydia. We're not going to leave you alone. We're going to help you."
She fixes her gaze on him. "Like you helped Allison?"
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For the next hour she hurls accusations and insults at them while they try to stop her from ending her life.
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"If you'd been strong enough to resist the nogitsune, this never would have happened."
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"If Allison hadn't met you, she'd still be alive."
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"I wish I'd never met either of you."
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"I hate you."
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Her words shake with anger; her eyes blaze with sincerity.
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Suddenly it stops.
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Her body goes limp.
Her eyes slowly close.
The air gets cold.
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Deaton calls to say it's over.
Lydia doesn't wake up.
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When the smoke clears, they're surprised to find that they're all alive. This time. Lydia wakes up the next day, and Scott and Stiles go to visit her in the hospital.
"I'm sorry for everything," she says, looking like a broken china doll in her hospital-white robe. "It wasn't me – I didn't mean any of it."
Stiles holds her hand; Scott rests a hand on her shoulder.
"I know," Stiles says.
"It's okay," Scott adds.
It's not.
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Two days after the spell ends, Stiles and Scott go to visit Deaton. He's surprised to see them, but he welcomes them warmly enough.
"How is Lydia doing?" he asks over cups of camomile tea.
"She's fine," Stiles says. The anger's faded from her eyes, but so has the light; she's like a dead girl walking, and now he almost wishes she wouldn't meet his eyes. "I think she's past the worst of it."
"Good, good." Deaton takes a sip. "So what brings you boys here?"
"We want…" Scott pauses, glancing at Stiles. "We want to know exactly what happened. With the spell and all."
Deaton tips his head, knowing there's more than that, but he tells them the story.
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"There was another banshee in Beacon Hills – who happened to be a very powerful witch as well. She saw Lydia as a threat."
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"The spell was simple but powerful – it would cause Lydia to withdraw, cutting off her avenues of support, until she had nowhere left to turn."
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"Then it would break her down, turn her emotions against her, use them to tear her apart. Until it reached a point where it was overwhelming."
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"She would feel like there were no other options."
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"The spell would only end with her death."
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"Her suicide."
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Silence follows his story, until Stiles clears his throat. "The spell – how long ago did it start?"
Deaton considers for a moment. "About six weeks ago, if I did the math correctly."
"Thanks, doc."
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Stiles and Scott leave the clinic together. Once they're in Stiles' jeep, they pause.
"Six weeks," Scott says. He takes a deep breath. "When was that party at your house?"
Stiles hesitates. "Seven weeks ago."
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They decide not to mention it again.
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