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The darkness swallowed up every one of Stiles' senses. He fumbled in the dim, dank cellar, blind but not aimless. He could feel her – he couldn't explain it, but Stiles felt Lydia, like a humming under his skin, running through his blood. His hands shook as he squeezed down his nerves, ignoring Theo's pathetic attempts at conversation as they hit another dead end. Stiles let out a loud groan, slamming the palm of his hand into the piping along the stone wall. Theo didn't speak, but turned, walking down another hallway, his ear to the pipe. Stiles sucked in a breath and followed. From somewhere deeper in the tunnels, Lydia screamed, but it was different; tortured and ultimate – Stiles didn't know how he knew this, the pressure in his head made it hard to concentrate and he swallowed down the metallic taste in the back of his mouth.
Once the ringing in his ears subsided, Stiles looked at Theo. "Did you get a location this time?" he asked, scornful.
Theo shot Stiles a cold look, shaking his head. "She's getting stronger." he looked down at the dirty cement ground. "Lydia doesn't have much time."
"Always helpful." Stiles muttered, rubbing his neck. He wouldn't let the boy know how deep those words hit him – like an icy knife to the chest, Stiles ached all over.
Something like concern crossed Theo's face, "Maybe you should stay back."
Stiles glared, "Excuse me?"
"Her screams are affecting you. More than me. "
"I'm fine." Stiles scoffed, pushing ahead of Theo. He hit into the boy's shoulder, walking in the direction he hoped Lydia was.
The tunnel grew darker. No longer did Stiles notices drain grates above, carved into the ceiling. They were about a mile under Eichen House now, and he couldn't understand how Valack carried Lydia that quick through the maze.
"You're not going to find her. Not without me." Theo yelled from behind. Stiles ignored him, his jaw tensed, blocking the doubt out.
He'd find her, Stiles knew he would. He wasn't that timid boy any longer, the one who asked for help because he couldn't compete. He always found Lydia, even when she didn't want to be, even when it was impossible. They found each other. Stiles guessed it had to do with knowing her, and he did know her. She didn't want her friends there, risking their lives for her. But, what else was Stiles going to do? With all that emotion inside him filling every pore, he'd explode. He'd break down from the anxiety or scream along with Lydia from it.
"Stiles?" Theo spoke again, closer this time. Stiles turned, glaring at Theo.
Theo smirked. "It's this way," he said, pointing at an opening Stiles missed.
Stiles adjusted the collar of his flannel shirt, walking ahead of Theo, a grimace for thanks. They walked in silence. Theo trailed a finger along the rusted piping and Stiles concentrated on breathing in and out. Deeper under the asylum now, Stiles noticed locked doors without lights. They entered some kind of medieval torture chamber masked as a hospital. Stiles swallowed down a gasp, peeking into each dirty window. Different scenes popped into Stiles' mind, poor souls trapped in each room, tortured and maimed. A shiver went down Stiles' spine, a noose hung from the rafters of one room, cobwebs sparkled within the opening. He wondered how long ago it was used. Tools hung on rusted screws against a wall, something like a dated chainsaw and a leather whip caught Stiles' attention. He gulped, looking at the dirty ground instead.
"I think it's cute how much you like her." Theo said, throwing a halfhearted glance at the doors on the right.
Stiles froze. He watched Theo sneak a look at him. "Sorry," the boy said with a laugh. "Is it a secret?"
"Okay," Stiles said in a quiet, strained voice. He placed his hands in his pockets, because Theo's stolid face was testing his patients. "I know you're not so good at making friends as you are minions, but this is not the time to screw with me, okay?"
Theo raises his hands in defense, "I get it." he said, a calm quality in his tone, like he was trying to appeal to Stiles' better nature. "But, I was there in third grade." he added with a shrug, "I think you missed your chance."
Laughing, but not with humor, Stiles stepped around Theo, ignoring all the dark doors in the hallway. Theo didn't know anything, he was, as usual, just trying to piss Stiles off. Stiles wasn't searching under all of Beacon Hills because he had a crush on Lydia Martin. Not anymore. What Stiles felt ran deeper, Lydia was a part of him. He didn't expect someone who killed their own sister to understand love, and Stiles was not going to be the one to explain it to him. His head jerked up, a clank in the distant caught his attention, and he ran without thinking towards it. Stiles couldn't hear Theo behind him, and he really didn't care if he lost the chimera. A small archway, that he would have ignored if it wasn't for the crude light-bulbs on the ceiling, gave Stiles a renewed hope. If he held his breath, he could hear Dr. Valack talking in a soft voice. Stiles made it to the only door in the hall, looking through the textured glass window, seeing Lydia on a dentist-like chair. His heart dropped to his stomach as he thrashed against the door, screaming her name like a prayer and a curse. He knew that it was the end, that if that man touched her, he'd lose her. He wasn't sure what surged through him, Stiles wasn't a banshee, but he could sense her death like he could feel his hand sting from punching the door.
Theo was at his side, a surprised look in his eyes. "You found her." he said, in a breathless whisper as he hit into the door next to Stiles. Theo wasn't strong enough to break through, and Stiles watched in horror, still screaming her name, as the Doctor closed in on Lydia.
She screamed back, Stiles staggered, losing his breath and his mind all at once, as he slammed against the opposite wall from the force of Lydia. His mouth gaped open, Theo was slow to try the door handle, Stiles pushed it open without another thought. He ran to Lydia, something liquid sticking to his sneaker. "Lydia!" he breathed, her face in his hands, her sweaty hair and wavering eyes the most beautiful sight he had ever known. She smiled, despite the pain, despite the voices ringing in her ears, both amazed and not surprised to see him standing there, rubbing warmth into her cheeks.
"You came back," she whispered, her eyes wide and filled with relief, despite the pain she must've been in.
"We're getting you out of here." he answered.
There were a million things Stiles wanted to say instead. A million moments like this flashed before him, moments that he let slip away, too afraid or too unsure to convey just how important Lydia was to him. He opened his mouth, plucking the wires off her temples, and realized she already knew. "It's too dangerous." she answered, and in their world, that was as good a confession as any.
Time moved impossibly quick and regrettably slow. Stiles felt Lydia squeeze his shirt, hobbling along, forcing herself to keep up. The dark corridor blurred in and out of focus for Stiles – transforming into a school hallway, as their situations reversed, back into the musky tunnel where he kept a good hold on Lydia, and the direction they were heading. She collapsed, screamed for him to run, desperate to save Stiles, even if it killed her.
The jeep jerked and veered, sending the passengers bobbling in their seats. Stiles did his best to hold Lydia down. One arm wrapped around her, her forehead resting against his neck. She must've felt his pulse, speeding with adrenaline and fear. Stiles barked botched directions to Scott, who couldn't drive stick, and it quite possibly could save their lives. Lydia held her breath, holding in the screams desperate to tear from her soul. He held her face, promising she'd make it, promising she'd be okay. The look she returned was unsettling, especially when she whispered that he wouldn't, before her fingertips grazed his cheek, and the hurt in her eyes darkened, showing Stiles what she did to him. He squeezed her hand, his blood seeping into his palm, struggling to tell Lydia, it didn't matter.
Deaton ran around his office, pulling some bottles and a syringe from a shelf as Scott and Stiles placed Lydia on the cold, metal table. She withered as the boys struggled to hold her down, she shook against Stiles' hands, he could feel the power and turmoil jumping under his skin. She let out small whimpers, almost musical, that shook the clinic to it's foundation. Deaton filled the hole in her head with mistletoe, Stiles' heart in his throat, as she broke from their hold, and screamed. Without Parrish there to muffle the blow, the building shook again, sending the men around her stumbling, unable to hold their ground. The windows that traced the perimeter, cracked and broke, sending sharp shards of glass into the room, like rabid, blood thirsty crows. Stiles threw himself on top of Lydia, shielding her from the cutting bits that threatened to tear skin.
Breathing heavy, Stiles pulled away, looking at Lydia's slack face. Her skin pale, eyes closed, sparse glass remained on her eyelids and cheek. Stiles wiped them away with care, cupping her neck, trepidation hitting him like a burning floodlight on the lacrosse field. He shook Lydia, the same million conversations they'd never have thick on his tongue while the only thing that came out was her name. Stiles could taste the tension and despair in the air, a hint of bleach and lemon followed, as he trailed his shaking, useless hands through her hair, over her face, his eyes filling with tears, clouding his faith. Scott let out a long, slow sigh and Deaton threw the metal syringe somewhere, falling with a clink against grits of glass. Stiles leaned closer to Lydia, she wasn't breathing. He whispered encouragement, telling her to open her eyes – begging her to come back. He gripped her so tight, he feared he might break her. He wouldn't look away, but his insides tightened, her cold skin alarming, her still body a lifeline to Stiles. He prayed, let her wake up, take him instead. He begged and begged, let her live, because he couldn't without her there – he'd lose his mind.
There was a long pause, Deaton closed his eyes, Scott fought hard not to cry, and Stiles, he squeezed Lydia, as if it could pour life back into her. He let in a shaky breath. It caught in his throat, once Lydia did the same. His eyes widened, blinking back tears as another slow moment went by, before she opened her eyes.
"You're okay," he whispered, relief and emotion too complicated to describe lacing his words.
Her mother rushed in, cradling Lydia, whispering and sobbing her love, as Lydia said they saved her. Stiles couldn't take his eyes off her, she looked exhausted and frail, paler than a ghost, but alive. She snuggled into her mother's embrace, looking at Stiles for a time before smiling. "Stiles saved me."
Stiles froze. His father's words came back to him, that saving someone could save himself. He hadn't thought about Donovan and what happened to him since he realized Lydia was in danger. He smiled back, and not just for soothing his guilt, but because Lydia was looking at him, and knew, for the first time, all he ever tried to do was help her, because he cared about her. The smile she gave him made Stiles question if he had ever properly received a smile. Lydia reinvented what the simple gesture meant to him. He couldn't explain how – which was a theme of the night, but saving Lydia didn't mean rescuing her from Eichen House, it meant bringing her back to life. He could feel it, when he looked in her eyes, when he touched her hand before she left with Natalie, when he fell asleep that night and saw only her face, Stiles knew that he brought her back, because they were tethered together. And everything else would figure itself out.