A/N: Don't hate me, because I'm only like a season in to The X-Files, but I saw some really cool X-Files/Stydia art by tumblr user vulcains and I had to. I might do more short Stydia AUs because I don't have the motivation for anything longer right now.
Warnings for: pre-Stydia, X-Files AU, mild canon-typical violence.
"Stilinski, we've talked about this," Lydia says, nearing exasperation. "The bite marks on those bodies –,"
"—are from a large canine, probably a wolf!" Stiles interrupts, with a frustrated twitch of his hands. "But there are no wolves in California, Lydia –,"
"Not on a large scale, no, but it could have been transported here and set free, or made it here on its own. That's not out of the realm of possibility."
"But a wolf wouldn't be systematically murdering people throughout the town, Agent Martin," Stiles points out. They've been partners for less than a month, and while Stilinski generally calls her by her first name, he always switches back to calling her 'Agent Martin' when he can tell her patience for his insane theories is growing thin – the way it is right now.
"No, it wouldn't," Lydia has to admit. "But there could be multiple wolves. Maybe they're infected with some kind of disease – rabies or something." She's more than smart enough to know that no such disease could account for this high of a body count without anyone have actually sighted the beast (or beasts), especially since it's struck in crowded places before – but the idea that a supernatural creature might be plaguing the town of Beacon Hills is just ludicrous.
"There is a disease, Agent Martin," Stiles replies, with a fervent glint in his eyes that she might find endearing if he wasn't so wrong. "Lycanthropy."
Lycanthropy. From the Greek, wolf-man. "Werewolves," Lydia says incredulously. "That's your theory."
"Peter Hale," Stilinski says, as if it makes all the sense in the world. "He's a werewolf. You saw the claw marks in the basement of the Hale House yourself. Some old, some recent – he's a werewolf, and this is the town where his family was burned alive, and maybe he's exacting revenge. Or maybe not, maybe he's just out of his mind."
"The only one out of his mind," Lydia says primly, "is you."
Stilinski recoils slightly, eyes widening in surprise and hurt. He has very pretty eyes, Lydia notes, but he's either delusional or joking around, and she can stomach neither under the best of circumstances, much less when she's being forced to sit in a parking lot outside a high school dance because half a dozen panicked citizens had called the local sheriff's department earlier to report sightings of a "monster" lurking in the area. The whole goddamn town is in a state of hysteria and "Spooky" Stiles Stilinski wants to waste time with werewolves. Lydia didn't go through Quantico for this.
"I'm going to search the school grounds again," Lydia says stiffly, reaching for the door handle.
"I'll go with you," Stilinski offers quietly. "It's not safe."
"Don't worry," Lydia replies coolly, hopping out of the car and patting her hand against the gun holstered at her hip. "If I see somebody hairy, I'll shoot first and ask questions later."
To his credit, Stilinski knows when to admit defeat, and he doesn't follow her as she makes her way through the parking lot, past the gym where the booming bass of the latest pop songs threatens to send her right back to her own high school days, and towards the large, dark lacrosse pitch. It's then that she hesitates – Stilinski's right, it's not safe out here – but after a moment she keeps walking. Those calls earlier had probably been nothing more than wishful thinking from citizens of this bleary town hoping for a chance to see the monster that had ripped apart fully grown adults like paper.
The field is dark, the grass thick and dewy under her feet. Lydia's glad for her warm coat, although it isn't the most discreet article of clothing she owns. The yellow letters FBI stamped on the back are like a beacon, visible a mile away even in the darkness.
A moment later she's nearly blinded as the lights surrounding the field flick on, and she lifts a hand to shield her eyes, nearly dropping her flashlight in surprise. Squinting, she can make out a figure in the distance – a male, she thinks, tall and thin, wearing dark colors – but there's something wrong about him, something strange about his gait as he approaches the field. Lydia's eyes are adjusting but she can't quite believe what she's seeing, because suddenly he's not a man anymore at all, he's a monster –
"Agent Martin?" she hears in the distance, and she tears her gaze away from the hulking shape in the distance.
"Stilinski?" she calls back, squinting, and there he is – he's shed his jacket at some point, and his white shirt is almost blinding against the night.
"Agent Martin!" All of a sudden, he's screaming and running, but not away – towards her. "Lydia! Run!"
Oh, Lydia thinks, as something with the strength of a linebacker slams against her and bears her down to the soft grass. Sharp teeth – a wolf's teeth – rip through her clothes even as human hands clutch at her body.
Maybe Spooky Stilinski was right.