Scott is contemplating eating a banana when he hears someone knock at the door. He goes into the front hall and opens it to find a wide-eyed and worried-looking Lydia Martin. Actually, worried is a huge understatement. She looks scared out of her mind.
"Lydia!" Scott quickly reaches out to touch her arm and guide her inside. She is trembling. "What's going on? Tell me, please."
Lydia swallows hard before she ducks her head and wraps her arms around herself. She's gotten terribly thin, even frail, and her skin is unhealthily pale. The shadows under her eyes look like bruises. "Um. I, um. The voices don't go away," her voice takes on a hysterical edge, "I can't make them go away! I can't sleep at night and I can't focus and," she swallows, "recently they've started telling me…things. Things that I should do, because I'm – I'm," the girl gasps for breath, sinking to her knees, "I'm no good to anyone and nobody wants me around, I should just fade away and leave you all better off." Lydia looks up at him, her dull eyes swimming with tears. "And I've started wondering if they're right."
Scott immediately drops to the floor in front of her and grips the sobbing banshee's shoulders tightly. "Lydia, listen to me," he says as calmly as possible – so, not very. "They are wrong. I want you around, Kira wants you around – Liam had a huge crush on you at first, you know that?" She nods and would have smiled if she wasn't so broken down. "You help us so much, we'd never have solved the deadpool without you."
She sniffles. "The deadpool was a joke. There were barely even four assassins who ever came after us."
The werewolf snorts. "Okay, yeah, in retrospect, pretty lame. But still. You were the one who got through to Meredith, you were the one who figured out how to stop the machine." Stiles had been the one to carry out her instructions. He swallows. "Have you talked to Stiles about any of this? Your banshee problems?" His best friend has always been the only one really capable of helping Lydia when it came to her unruly, indefinable powers.
Lydia actually starts laughing, though it is completely mirthless and rather hysterical. "I haven't talked to Stiles in almost two months! I don't think he's so much as looked at me! He's way too busy playing with his pet coyote."
Grimacing, Scott averts his gaze. Perhaps he should be upset by how Lydia refers to Malia, but it's something of an apt description. Stiles is still the only pack member Malia maintains any true loyalty towards, his own alpha status notwithstanding, and from what Scott has heard and seen, their relationship is more like she is his pet or his babysitting charge instead of his girlfriend.
Plus, he is far more concerned with how quickly and radically his two friends have drifted apart. Although, if Lydia is jealous of Malia, that might have something to do with it…
"Lydia," he asks softly, "are you in love with him?"
The banshee just looks at him like he is an idiot, the classic Lydia expression breaking through her anguish. "Of course I am." She laughs miserably again. "Just in time for him to have moved on completely."
Scott knows that can't be the case, but he still leans forward impulsively and grabs Lydia in a tight hug. She doesn't hug him back, but seems to just sag against him, the hysteria and accompanying energy leaving her.
"I'm tired, Scott," she mumbles. He feels almost sick to his stomach, furious with himself. And honestly more than a little furious with Stiles.
"I know," he says as soothingly as possible, rubbing her back gently. "I'm so sorry I haven't noticed you were struggling sooner." Haven't noticed that she and his best friend are practically living on different planes of existence.
"It's okay." Of course Lydia will never hold it against him. Over the past year, she's become one of the most caring and selfless people Scott has ever known. This has only increased since the loss of Allison. He wonders if on some level Lydia is trying to live up to the example set by the huntress, who gave her life to save her friends. The thought just makes him squeeze Lydia a little tighter before finally letting go, only to pick her up in his arms. He notices with some anxiety that even without his werewolf powers, she'd barely weigh a thing.
"Scott, what're you doing?" she protests half-heartedly.
"You are going to take a nap." Scott carries her into the living room and gently lays her down on the couch. "My mom should be home in just a little while. But I have to go take care of something, okay?"
"Okay," she says faintly, sinking into the cushions. "You take care of...everybody...don't you?"
He tries his best. But he's been failing Lydia recently, he knows that now. And yet Scott has only allowed himself to neglect the banshee because he's always believed there is a certain sarcasm-spewing human taking care of her more attentively than he ever could.
Now it turns out he was wrong, and this could have disastrous results if it didn't get solved – immediately.
Lydia had fallen asleep just seconds ago, but she is already making sounds of distress, whimpers and murmurs as she attempts to reason with the dead. Scott covers her with a blanket and leaves a note for his mother. He hates to leave her like this, but he needs to go see Stiles.
They are going to have words.
.
.
Scott takes his bike to his best friend's house, the anger still simmering in his mind. How could Stiles have abandoned Lydia like this? It didn't even make sense.
Only the jeep is parked in the driveway, so he doesn't bother with the door, quickly scaling the side of the house.
Stiles startles badly when he comes through his bedroom window, nearly toppling out of his computer chair while his long arms flail around. "Whoa, Scotty! You couldn't have just used the door?" He shakes his head. "What's up? You've got your serious face on."
He is glad to note that Malia isn't hanging out in Stiles' room with him, as she so often does – that was probably yet another reason why Lydia hadn't sought him out.
"This is serious," Scott says in a low voice. "I was just talking with Lydia, she came to my house. And she's – she's in a bad way, man."
His best friend looks away. "How do you mean?"
"I mean she had a breakdown in my front hallway, Stiles!"
Stiles looks back up at him then, like a deer in headlights. "A break – a breakdown?"
"Yes," Scott grinds out. "She can't stop hearing the voices and they're driving her out of her mind, dude. She says she can't sleep at night and Jesus, she looks like it. And she's really thin and pale and she – she was crying on my floor!" He takes a deep breath. "And she told me the voices have been telling her to – to kill herself, I think. That nobody needs her, or wants her." He can't help wincing at the mere idea.
Stiles lurches to his feet immediately. "What," he says in a flat voice.
He just continues, "And she said that she's starting to think they're right."
"No." Stiles holds his head in his hands. "No. No, no, no, no, no." He pants slightly. "She was supposed to be okay. Oh, god, she was supposed to be better off without me."
Scott sighs. He'd wondered as much. "Well, now she's thinking the entire world might be better off without her." He levels his gaze at his best friend. "She says you haven't so much as talked in almost two months. You haven't even looked at her. What the fuck happened, man?"
Stiles sinks down on his bed, tugging at his hair. He finally lifts his head to look at his best friend. "I couldn't handle it. After the Nogitsune, I couldn't handle feeling – feeling anything. And God fucking knows I felt more around Lydia than anyone. So I just… I turned it off. I shut down emotionally as much as I could. And I started avoiding her so she wouldn't turn me back on." He swallows wetly. "That was pretty fucking selfish of me, actually. I started dating Malia because I don't have to deal with feeling anything. All I gotta do is help her with math and make out sometimes. And I'll admit I was concerned about maintaining her loyalty to the pack, cuz we need the extra supernatural brawn, y'know?
"But even now I've gotten better I haven't gone back to Lydia. I thought she'd be fine without me, she didn't really need me, I mean," he laughs shakily, "it was my face that killed her best friend, right? She'd be better off if I just left her alone."
Scott sits down beside him and they both stared at his bedroom carpet for a while. "Well," says Scott eventually, "you were pretty damn wrong about that."
"Apparently," Stiles says, his usual sarcasm coming out utterly black.
"Especially since she's in love with you – she told me so herself this afternoon."
Stiles just sits there blinking at him for a good two minutes. Then he jumps to his feet. "She's still at your house?"
"Yeah, I made her take a nap on my couch. My mom should be home with her by now." He stands up as well.
"Okay." Stiles grabs his car keys off his dresser. "I'll be right there. I just gotta go solve a problem first."
Scott smiles at him bemusedly. "Are you going to go dump Malia?"
"Yep."
.
.
Stiles should probably earn some "Jerk of the Year" award for that. He'd gone to Malia's house, bluntly and quickly ended their pseudo-relationship of four months, and went right back out again, on his way to see another girl. Sensitivity and tenderness, and compassion, and actual passion, and emotions in general had never really factored into his relationship with Malia, like he'd told Scott. It was mostly restricted to making out and trying to do math homework and eat with a knife and fork. So maybe he could have handled that more kindly, but he didn't. Welp. He's got way bigger priorities right now.
He speeds over to the McCalls' house where Lydia is. Scott opens the door right as he is scrambling out of the jeep and ushered him quickly inside.
"She's still asleep on the couch," his best friend tells him in a low voice.
The two of them creep into the living room where the banshee lay. Stiles goes over and quietly drops to his knees so he's eye-level with Lydia. He scans her face – Scott was right, it's clear that she's barely slept, or eaten, and is really not alright in any way. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to swallow the horrible guilt that wells up in him.
"…Stiles?"
His eyes open again and are met with Lydia's jade green irises. They aren't as bright or as piercing as they should be.
"Hey, Lyds," Stiles whispers. His fingers creep up onto the couch involuntarily, aching to stroke her face and just make all the obvious pain disappear.
"What are you doing here?" she mumbles, and he inhales sharply.
"You needed me," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry I haven't been here, Lydia. It… I'm not gonna try and make excuses. But you've got me back now and I'll never leave again, okay?"
"Okay." Lydia nods rapidly – or as rapidly as she can when she is so debilitated and exhausted.
Stiles gives into his gnawing desire and reaches up to cup her cheek, tucking a piece of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear and caressing her too-prominent cheekbone with his thumb. She makes a soft noise, and her own hand comes up to hold his there. Not that she needs to. Her eyes slide shut again, and his chest aches painfully.
"Stiles, can you - ." It sounds like every word is hurting her. "Can you – come here and – ?"
Somehow he knows what she wants and he doesn't hesitate. Stiles crawls up onto the couch and wraps himself around her. She feels tiny in his arms. He would do anything to protect her from the rest of the world, the pain and tragedy that had haunted them all but her especially.
Lydia melts like butter against him, burying her face in his plaid shirt and sighing deeply. "I missed you," she mumbles. "Where did you go? Did I do something?"
He feels like something is choking him. "No, no, Lyds, God, no. It's my fault. I was running away from everything that makes me feel too much. And nobody makes me feel as much as you do, Lydia Martin."
"So technically I did do something."
Stiles just chuckles brokenly. "I missed you too. God, I missed you."
"But you've come back to me now," she says tentatively.
"And I'm never leaving again," he promises. "I'll be here to help you cope with all the banshee problems, and – and, Lydia, of course I want you. I need you, I really do. If I allowed myself to actually think about my life, being without you was torture."
"Okay," Lydia whispers. She doesn't sound convinced, and his heart seizes in his chest. He squeezes her tighter almost involuntarily.
"You'll see," he tells her softly. "You've got me by the roots, Lyds."
She hums happily. "It's been so long since I heard you call me that. I never mentioned, but I kind of love it."
"I kind of love you," he mumbles against her hair without thinking, and immediately freezes.
But he feels her huge smile against his chest. "Only kind of?"
"Just a little," he teases gently. "Really, though. Lydia, I love you. That's," he swallows, "that's why I was avoiding you like a moron. I couldn't deal with my emotions, and nothing evokes them like you do."
"I see," Lydia murmurs. "I love you too." His fingers twitch against her back. "Can you deal with that?"
"I could give it a shot," he deadpans. She smacks his arm, light as a bird's wing. Stiles just holds her closer in response.
"Stiles," she says a few quiet, warm moments later. "They're gone."
"What are?" he asks a bit worriedly.
"The voices." Lydia sounds far away. "I can't hear them anymore. You made them go away." She sighs and relaxes even more deeply into the couch, and into him. "…Thank you."
Stiles presses a tender kiss to her head. "Any time."