I've had this idea for a long time, and this isn't really how I envisioned it, but I guess that's the way it goes sometimes. Anyway. I won't give too much away; the story, I hope, explains everything. I don't think there are any warnings beyond my usual 'caution', so without further ado, here you go.
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.
I know that somewhere inside that cold, lifeless exterior there's an actual human soul.
.
So maybe that's an exaggeration, but with his heart of gold and his inexplicable faith in a world that only ever disappoints, the poor kid doesn't even know he's lying.
.
"Stiles, she's a lost cause. Give it up."
"You don't know her like I do, Scotty."
"You've never met her."
A locker slammed shut; an end to the conversation.
Words muttered, out of earshot of the retreating figure:
"You don't know her."
.
They speak for the first time one rainy Tuesday afternoon. He's getting a refill on his prescription for sleeping pills, and she's there doing god knows what, and he's so startled to see her out of school that he flat-out forgets his own name.
There's a spark of recognition in her gaze.
"Cat got your tongue?" she teases, eyes sparkling, foot tapping against the floor, expression quickly fading from amusement to boredom.
"No, I – I mean, yeah, but –"
A staccato rhythm; against the floor; against his ribs; against the walls of his mind.
"Spit it out." The sparkle's gone; the spark flickers out. "I haven't got all day."
"Never mind." He steps aside and she brushes past.
.
For the rest of the day his shoulder tingles where she brushed past it.
Cold, like ice, like stone, like marble.
Cold, like her eyes.
Cold, but she's not.
She's not.
.
"You don't know her."
.
She fades into the background of his life. He keeps an eye on her from a distance, watches her drift through life.
She smiles at the right times, laughs at the perfect pitch, always has the answer in class. But there's something missing.
And Stiles knows he's the one who has to help her find it.
.
"Back off, Stiles. She's not into you."
"She doesn't need to be. I'm not trying to sleep with her, Allison, I just -"
"You just what? Think you can save her?" A snort; folded arms. "She's not a damsel in distress. She doesn't need a hero."
A rebuttal, so quiet it gets lost in the noise of the hall.
"Maybe she just needs a friend."
.
A week. Two. Three. A month. And then it happens.
"I heard you need a partner for the biology project." He leans against her locker, feigning nonchalance, but his hands are in his pockets because he doesn't want her to see how much they're shaking.
"Is that an offer, uh…?"
"Stiles."
She tosses her hair back over her shoulder, looks him up and down, gives half a shrug. "Sure. Meet me in the library after school."
.
It becomes a rhythm, a routine; as casual as breathing but not quite as painless.
Every day after school, they meet in the library and work on their project.
And every time they do, he tries to break through her walls.
.
Sometimes it works.
.
"I mean, I guess I'm kind of afraid of dying, you know? But then again, who isn't?"
Nervous laughter; a quick change in conversation topic. The staccato rhythm's back, a pencil against the desk, an uneasy glint in her eyes.
.
Sometimes it doesn't.
.
"My life is none of your business, Stiles. Let's just get this over with, okay?"
A snort of derision; a firm closing of a textbook. The moment's over and he heaves a sigh, uprights a beaker, and grits his teeth.
.
"I told you, Stiles, I don't know what you're hoping for. She's not the girl you think she is."
"Get off my case, Scott. For the last time, I'm not trying to save her. I just want to help."
"She doesn't need help. And the sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."
.
But she does. And even if no one else will listen, he's not going to give up on her.
.
She's an ice queen in a lonely palace, and he's the one who's going to melt her reservations.
.
She blocks him out, immune to his charms, his humor, his smile. She keeps her walls up, keeps everyone on the other side, but Stiles knows there's something more.
.
But even his optimism begins to fade when weeks pass and she makes no move to open up, to let him in. It's always
"I'm busy today, Stiles."
or
"I just don't feel like it."
And their project comes to an end and so do the long afternoons spent in the library, the shy glances, the tentative laughter. Suddenly it's quiet and Stiles is sitting by himself in the library, opposite an empty chair, a staccato rhythm still dancing in his brain.
.
He keeps waiting, day after day. Sometimes Scott or Allison waits with him, but they're not here to help. With them it's always
"You're wasting your time."
or
"She's not coming. You know that."
or
"For god's sake, leave it alone. This is the third lacrosse practice you've missed this week."
.
By the end of next week he's kicked from the team, but he doesn't care. He just keeps waiting. Open book on the desk; pen clenched in his hand; her heels clicking against the floor of his mind. He waits.
.
She's an ice queen, but one day the sun comes out and everything changes.
.
"Waiting for someone?"
The voice, so close, so clear. Like the moon pushing through the clouds, like a flower forcing its way through the snow.
"I'm waiting for you."
A pause, and then
"Well, now what are you waiting for?"
There's a sparkle in her eyes again, something like melted ice, something almost warm. He feels like he could fall into her eyes and be lost forever, and somehow that doesn't seem like a bad thing.
"Nothing." He gets to his feet, reaches for her hand. "Nothing at all."
Her hand entwines with his and she all but skips from the room, dragging a bewildered boy behind her.
.
The poor kid still has no idea what's happening.
.
It's dark when they burst through the doors and out into the streets, energy crackling around and between them, like lightning about to strike.
But lightning never strikes twice, and Stiles isn't going to waste his one chance with the girl of his dreams.
"You waited for me." She smiles sideways at him, their hands swinging back and forth, still entwined.
"I…"
Lydia leans over, kisses his cheek, lingers for a moment. Then she pulls back, glances up at the star-spangled sky, and she smiles.
"It's beautiful tonight," she says, nostalgic for times long past, feelings half-forgotten.
"Yeah, it is." But he's not looking at the sky.
.
Still dazzled, Stiles follows Lydia through the streets. Even when she leads him down a dark alley, even when she lets go of his hand, even when she grins a wicked grin, he doesn't turn away.
"Stay there," Lydia says, and in the darkness Stiles can barely make out her eyes, her blood-red lips. "This will only hurt a bit."
Stiles tenses.
A thud, as he backs up against the wall; click-click-click on the concrete as she approaches; a hiss; a shout; and then it's over.
.
"Kid? You hear me? Are you okay? Are – you – okay?"
.
Words in a vacuum; no light in the tunnel; anger, bitter disappointment, a stabbing pain.
"Fine," he murmurs, staring at the spot she disappeared.
Hands latch onto his arms, drag him backwards, out of the alley.
The streetlight hits him and he blinks, dazed, and turns to face the one holding him.
"Mr Argent?"
"We need to get you out of here, kid."
.
No arguments; just confusion.
.
"What happened?" Words falling into the space between them, the hum of an engine almost whisking them away.
"Lydia Martin -" Cut off; lip-biting, eyes-narrowed uneasiness. "She's dangerous, Stiles. You need to stay away from her.
.
"You don't know her."
.
She doesn't show up for school the next day.
"I haven't heard from her. She usually calls me if she's going to skip class." Allison runs a hand through her hair, sighs, shifts her feet.
Silence.
.
She doesn't show up all the next week, either.
"I know you think you're in love with her, but you don't know her, Stiles." Scott leans against the locker, fiddles with his lacrosse jersey, lowers his eyes.
Silence.
.
And then a single voice.
"You waited for me."
.
She's standing in his doorway, hair falling down her back in ripples, eyes alight with desire, dress cut short and buttons almost undone.
He scrambles upright, glances at the clock. Three am. The witching hour. Moonlight glides in through the window, hitting her at oblique angles, giving her an otherworldly glow.
"Where have you been?" He shuffles over to make room for her on his bed.
She sits down, light as a butterfly, ethereal as starlight. "I've been away." Her cautious voice fills the cracks in his life, slips into his blood, impossible to dislodge. "And I need to leave again."
Panic takes him over. Breathing stops; hands shake; heart shudders.
"But this time you're coming with me." Not an offer; an order.
.
By morning they're gone.
.
By night he's almost dead.
.
The world is blood red, slashes of color in the darkness.
Her voice washes over him, not comforting but commanding.
"Stay still. Just stay still. It will only hurt a bit…"
.
And even through it all, even as she sucks the life right out of him, he wants to save her.
.
But with each drop of blood a hint of the magic fades, until he realizes the spell he's been under. But it's too late.
.
A minute passes. Two. Three. And then it happens.
.
"Get the hell away from him." An inhuman growl; hackles up; claws out. Scott stands in the alley, Allison behind him, Mr Argent behind her.
Lydia spins around to face them, her lips stained with Stiles' blood. "He's mine," she hisses.
A snap; a whoosh; a shriek.
She falls to the ground, blood soaking the front of her dress, a silver arrow sticking up from her chest. It rises with her last breath, and then everything in her goes limp.
It's over.
.
"Stiles?"
.
"Stiles!"
.
"Stiles, come on. Talk to me -"
.
"Look at me, Stiles. Stay with me -"
.
"Don't you dare die on me now, Stiles."
.
A week passes. Another. Another.
.
Stiles sits up in bed, head spinning, heart pounding.
"Welcome back." Scott smiles, an apology in his eyes, a promise caught in his throat.
"How long was I out?"
"Three weeks."
"And Lydia?"
"She's dead."
A beat passes.
"Oh." Stiles blinks once, exhales sharply, and then slumps back against the pillow.
.
Another week passes.
.
"So Lydia was a vampire, huh?" Stiles asks, picking at his sandwich, tapping the fingers of his other hand against the cold metal of the cafeteria table.
"Who'd have thought?" Allison bites into an apple, juice trickling down her chin.
"Lucky we got there in time," Scott adds, taking a gulp of water. He's out of breath from the latest lacrosse practice, but in a minute he'll be fine.
Stiles can't say the same for himself.
"Well. Thanks."
They smile at him, and he smiles back.
.
The first girl he ever loved, and she was just out for his blood.
The spell has faded now, but his feelings haven't.
.
He shouldn't love her; it goes against all logic, all reason.
He should let her go, should acknowledge that she's gone for good.
.
But he can't.
He won't.
.
Because for just a split second, when she asked him to run away with her, he'd seen it.
Behind the coldness in her eyes, despite the blood on her hands, he'd seen it.
A spark of something, just a flicker, a glimpse, of something brighter.
Something beyond the cold, lifeless exterior.
Inside, she had been alive.
.
(Even if she had
never been
human.)
.
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This is a completed one-shot and will not be continued. If you enjoyed it, why not leave a review? I'd love to hear from you!