A/N: This was written for StydiaWeek over at Tumblr.

Because clearly I have a love of taking my favourite characters and putting them through immense pain.

Just an idea I had of 'What if the Nogitsune hadn't separated itself from Stiles?'


As Mine Eyes Fool Me

.

It doesn't happen quickly, the way it should. It happens too slowly, each pause of a second agonisingly pulled until her body is taught and her throat hurts from the effort of keeping the scream in.

She watches from the floor, her hands coloured with Aiden's blood as Kira's sword goes through his body, her face betraying surprise and panic. He snaps back and gasps, a sneer on his lips only for a second before he falls onto his knees as the sword is pulled clumsily out of him. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembers a book on medical mysteries where one out of every hundred people could survive such a fatal wound to the chest. Surgery is a given but the recovery time differs as to how fast he can be given medical help.

She winces when she hears Scott's voice cry painfully over the silence.

"No!"

He is no longer a wolf, but a boy, when he catches Stiles in his arms, guiding them both gently onto the floor so that he settles his best friend onto his lap with a gentle shake.

She remembers that he had held Allison like this not long before and, surely, the universe can't be so cruel.

"Scott…" Kira's voice breaks, her sword clattering to the floor with a sickening sound, it's blade too red for Lydia to look at. "I didn't… I didn't mean to…"

But his eyes are only for his friend—his brother. Scott's hands clutch him hard, taking all the pain he can as with a blink of an eye, Stiles' eyes clear and he clutches at his best friend's shoulders.

He shakes, he spasms, and he laughs. "I never thought I'd ever be this close to you, buddy."

Scott laughs amidst tears until a trickle of blood is choked out the corner of Stiles' mouth, and his laughter stops abruptly, his face masking with resolve. He makes a move to carry his best friend, but Stiles winces, gasping for breath, his hands clutching Scott tighter. "Don't…"

"I have to get you to the hospital," Scott mumbles, more to himself, sniffing to keep the tears at bay. "I have to—"

"Scott!" Stiles' grip on his t-shirt twists, his words coming out rushed and breathless. "This had to happen. You know that, right?"

Scott shakes his head. "No. You'll be fine. I can get you help."

"I killed people, Scott. I killed…" He takes in a long, painful breath.

Scott shifts his arms under him, his gaze falling on the wound that had punctured his best friend's lung. "We'll fix this," he says softly, over and over, like a chant. "We can fix this."

"Scott… Listen to me," Stiles gasps, the words labouring out of him. His hands clutch at Scott's face, making his friend look at him. Lydia sees the blood leave a trail on Scott's jaw and she feels the sob in her throat. "You've gotta… tell my dad. It's not his… fault, okay?" Scott shakes his head, but Stiles' hold on him tightens. "You gotta tell him… Scott!" His voice becomes fierce, his meaning clear. "He'll blame… himself. You know… he will."

Scott ducks his head out of his friend's grasp, his eyes shadowed with something that Lydia will later recognise as denial. "The hospital is close. I think I can get you to the emergency room."

He tries to lift Stiles once again, but Stiles clutches onto his t-shirt. "Promise me. Scott!" His voice breaks.

"I don't… I can't…"

Stiles shakes him, but his grip is too weak and it seems too flimsy in Lydia's eyes. "You gotta do this… for me," he whispers, tears falling in a steady stream down his cheeks. He smiles then, a sad sort of smile that will haunt Lydia for the rest of her life. "You're… my brother."

Scott doesn't stop the sob choking out of him, his grip tightening around his friend before he suddenly stiffens.

"Stiles…" he says softly, shaking him gently, his voice pleading through his tears. "Stiles… Come on…" He shakes him harder, his voice becoming urgent. "This isn't funny. Stiles!" His grip tightens further as he shakes his friend again, and again, and again. "Stiles. That's enough. Stop that. Stiles!"

But Lydia sees the way his eyes are open, staring into nothing, and she feels her breath quicken and her chest heave because this has to be a nightmare. It can't be real because she can't breathe.

"Stiles…" she hears Scott say over and over, shaking his friend, asking him to wake up through sniffs that remind her that they are still teenagers handling things far beyond them. "I promise I'll watch all the Star Wars movies with you. You want that, right? A marathon at your place? I'll do that. Any day of the week, I'll do that. Stiles!"

But then his head happens to fall to the side, his eyes—cold, lifeless eyes—facing her and something inside her snaps.

She screams.


Some might say she is in a state of numbness. She watches it all with a sense of detachment: the way the paramedics declare the time of death with two fingers to his throat; the way his father kneels at his side, tears gasping through him, his hands pink from how he clutches at his son; the way Scott sits beside her quietly, because she's the only other person who understands the way he feels the loss.

She shakes her head stiffly with every question she is asked and let the paramedics clean her hands with a washcloth because the blood is hardening under her fingernails.

For the first time in her life she doesn't know the answer to the question, "What now?"


The first time she sees him is in the hospital. She hadn't noticed the deep gash on her leg or the scratches across her arms and cheek. They apply the numbing agent, which she doesn't feel before they lead her to sit outside next to Scott. He stays silent, staring at his shoes until his father happens to walk by.

They look at each other, a silent war going on between them as the Agent continues on by without a word. Lydia can't help but notice his blackening eye.

"What happened?" she asks softly, not expecting a reply.

Scott's voice is thick as he whispers, "He said he was sorry." She watches as he flexes his fingers before they form into a fist. "I didn't want to hear it."

They sit in silence for a moment before they call, "Mr McCall." They should know by now that he never gets hurt, she thinks.

The hallway is white and empty, the smell of disinfectant strong, so she closes her eyes and exhales slowly to calm her nerves.

When she does open her eyes, she frowns at the sneakers she sees before her. Their familiarity gnaws at her as she raises her gaze past the jeans, the t-shirt and the anxiously bouncing leg to feel her heart stutter.

He sits before her in the chair opposite the hall, his hands held together and his head bowed low in what she recognised as his worried expression. He looks around, eyes darting up and down the hall with so much nervous energy that her heart aches. She doesn't notice that her nails are digging into the leather seat under her as the tears stream down her face.

"Lydia?"

Her eyes snap up to look at Scott before they land on the chair once again; the clearly very empty chair before her.

"You okay?"

She twitches before she takes a deep breath to steady her nerves. "I'm fine."

The truth is that she is not fine. She is most certainly not fine.


She watches as Scott clutches his mother and cries, Lydia's own eyes brimming with tears as she sees the way Melissa McCall is shedding tears for Stiles as if he was her own son. "He's gone," he sobs into her shoulder, every bit the boy rather than an Alpha with his own pack. "He's really gone."

A movement in the corner of Lydia's eye makes her think she saw those same sneakers go around the corner a moment ago, but all she sees is an empty hall, so she places the thought at the back of her mind.


She sees him again a few hours after, when she's sitting alone in the car. She watches her mother leave her to get her something to eat and she exhales slowly, letting her head rest against the glass of the car as her breath fogs the window. Her finger traces an imaginary curve that dips and moves until it forms a circle.

Through her drawn image she sees the dark hair of someone walking back and forth. Rubbing away the rest of the mist, she sees his form, nervously walking up and down a few feet away, turning his back on her with every twist of his heel. His arms are moving animatedly, as if he is practicing a speech or trying to convince someone of something. When she finally sees his face her heartbeat slams to a stop.

Her fingers shake as she tries and fails to open the car door. She watches keenly, keeping her eyes on him as her fingers miss the lock, pull against the handle wrong and she slams her palms against the door with utter frustration. With a sob she finally throws open the door and runs out only to stop a few feet after when she finds herself standing in an empty parking lot.

She turns around, her breath caught tight in her throat as she looks for him.

But, there is no trace of him. No proof that he was even here.

"Lydia? What are you doing? Did something happen?"

Lydia doesn't even bother trying to look strong. The moment she hears her mother's voice she runs to her and cries against her shoulder. Her mother drops the bag of food to pull her close, shushing her in a way that reminds her of her childhood. It's the first time in a long time her mother hugs her so tightly.


She spends Allison's funeral gripping Isaac and Scott tightly with each hand, standing tall and proud with tears streaking down her face while the two boys break beside her. She can be their anchor, she thinks, as she says goodbye to the best friend she had ever had the only way she knows how.

She spends Stiles' funeral watching him run around in circles, laughing with his fist in the air as if he has just scored a goal, his image fading before her eyes fall onto the coffin as it is lowered into the ground and covered in dirt.

She thinks that she's never seen Scott so broken, and never felt it so tangibly that her heart hurt.


He's in her bedroom come morning and she doesn't understand why. She sits cowering against the headboard, her arms around her knees as she watches him walk around her bedroom with a skip in his step. He cocks his head to the side, bends down, stares at something and moves on. He's looking at things that aren't there, passing things that are without a glance.

She's shivering so badly with fear that her teeth hurt.

She feels a scream building in her chest, one so powerful that it might end her voice, but her fear keeps it in check as she watches him. Tears build in her eyes and she buries her face against her knees.

"Please go away," she whispers. "Please go away."

She can't look at him. He can't be here because he's gone and it hurts every cell in her body just to think of it.

"Please…" she pleads with a broken voice. "Please."

She raises her head to see him sitting on her desk, eyes sunken in as he looks to the side. His shoulders are slumped and the sunrise seems to brighten his appearance as it falls through the window.

He shrugs lightly and says, "Yeah, I can't sleep without my pillow."

She screams.


She stops going to school for as long as she can because no one sits in his chair out of respect. And every time she looks over at it, she sees him tapping his pencil on the table with an unimaginative tune, his head bobbing as if he has no care in the world.

It distracts her. Every movement calls to her. It makes her want to scream.


She doesn't tell her mother; she doesn't tell anyone.

She doesn't tell them how she sees him standing around her, his nervous energy distracting her as she tries to go about her work. She doesn't tell them how he whispers, "You're beautiful, you don't need so much makeup," when she sits in front of a mirror to apply concealer under her eyes.

She doesn't tell them that she sees the way he stiffens when someone mentions him around her or the way he smiles sadly when Scott happens to say he's doing all right.

She doesn't tell them that before she goes to sleep at night, she hears the way he sighs heavily and says, "I love you, Lydia. I don't why it took me so long to say it—"

She screws her eyes shut, and throws a pillow over her head, but his voice sounds too close to ignore, anyway.

Every day is a battle for her sanity and every day she feels like she's losing her mind little by little.

It's not until his fingers brush against her arm, causing a cold shiver to wrack her body, does she finally lose her sanity completely.


It's Scott who holds her down, his hands like iron against her arms as she squirms and trembles on the metal table at the vet's.

"Please… " She sobs, because she can't do this anymore. She can't see him. "Make it stop."

"What happened?" Deaton asks quietly, his voice usually calm has an edge to it.

"I don't know. She suddenly screamed and collapsed during class. I thought you would know what this is."

"Please…" she can't help but sob. "Make it stop."

"Make what stop?" Deaton asks patiently. "Lydia? Make what stop?"

She doesn't say it at first, her tears running rampant as she eyes Scott with panicked eyes. She can't tell him, of all people. She can't see the hope in his eyes. She bites her lip and shakes her head from side to side. Deaton seems to understand.

"Scott, there is a vial out in front with a blue liquid. Bring that to me."

Scott hesitates for a moment before he leaves. Deaton faces her once again.

"What are you not telling us, Lydia?"

"Stiles," she finally moans in a whisper. "I see Stiles everywhere."

His brow furrows. "Do you see him now?"

She turns her head to the right only to see him leaning against the wall, his eyes studying her with worry. She nods slowly as she turns to face Deaton.

Deaton follows her gaze and his brows furrow further. "How long have you been seeing him?"

"I don't know… Weeks." She gasps as she tries to sit up, but with a firm hand he holds her down.

"I think I can help you," he says softly, just as Scott returns with a vial of blue liquid in his hands. "It's up to you whether you want it."


"I don't understand…" Scott looks between them with confusion. "He's here?"

Deaton nods. "Part of him. We all leave a trace when we die. Supernatural beings, such as yourselves, leave a bigger presence than others."

"But, Stiles was human."

"Stiles was possessed by a Nogitsune when he died. He was still very much… supernatural."

"Okay, but what does that mean?"

"It means that Lydia has a decision to make."

At the sound of her name she looks up from the floor to see them both looking at her.

Deaton's smile is gentle. "You're his anchor to the world of the living. You were his anchor before he died, and even more so now. That's why you can see him. As a Banshee you can hear the voices of the dead, but because of your connection to Stiles you can see his echo."

She tries to ignore the way Scott flinches right next to her, running her tongue over her chapped lips. "Echo?"

"His presence," Deaton says. "What he did when he was alive."

"What happens when you break this connection?" Scott asks. "Is it dangerous?"

"No, not at all. It just means that he will go where he needs to go."

"Where is that?"

Deaton pauses, his next words cautious. "What happens after death is something that will always remain a mystery until our time comes, I fear."

"If I do this," Lydia asks softly, her eyes falling on Stiles. "I'll stop seeing him?"

"That's the hope," Dean says carefully. When she says nothing more, he finally asks her, "Is something wrong?"

"What if…?" she stops when she sees the way Stiles' eyes widen as if he knows what she is about to say.

"What if…?" Deaton says, encouraging her.

"What if it's not just an echo?" She watches as Stiles' gaze narrows with warning, a quick shake of his head showing her that her suspicions just might be right. "What if he's really here?"

Deaton shares a look with Scott, his face marring with confusion. "It's not… impossible."

"What does that mean?" Scott asks cautiously.

Lydia recognises Scott's expression immediately, his face open after weeks of being closed by grief. She recognises the hope so deeply that she feels it to.

"It means," Deaton says, "I can work with that."

TBC