Sometimes I try to study and end up writing Stydia one-shots instead. Whoops. This is just a quick fic set after S3 and before S4. As is usual for me, it's dark and ambiguous and confusing, but you might like it anyway. And if you do, please review, and maybe check out some of my other TW stories. Enjoy!
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It's been two months since they defeated the nogitsune, two weeks since he finally asked out the girl of his dreams, and two minutes since his world fell apart. Again.
The ride to the hospital is silent aside from the sound of Stiles tapping his pen against his knee, over and over again, although it stopped giving him comfort about two minutes into the journey because all it does now is remind him that this is real. This is happening. They've already lost Allison and Aiden and now they're about to lose another pack member. Scott's jaw is clenched and he looks like he's trying not to wolf out, but Stiles wouldn't mind if he did because then at least he would be doing something. It doesn't feel right not to be doing anything, to just be sitting here.
Melissa greets them at the desk and directs them down the hall – discreetly, like they're not technically supposed to be here but she's willing to bend the rules for them. Scott thanks his mother and she gives him a quick update, but Stiles doesn't pay attention to that because his mind can't focus on anything except this one goddamn phrase that he would give anything not to be true.
"Come on," Scott says as his mother finishes updating him, "it's down this way."
Stiles falls into step behind his alpha as they make their way down the hospital hall, an eerily and uncomfortably familiar place. He's only been here a couple times since he was here-but-not-here, when the demon was walking around in his skin, and it always looks so different. Security's tightened up, for one thing, because apparently a massacre in the halls was just the push Beacon Hills Memorial needed to install basic security systems and have guards who are actually armed and, what's more, competent.
Even though none of them could possibly know what the nogitsune had made Stiles do he finds himself ducking his head as he passes them, worried as always that some residual darkness still lingers over him, something that sticks to him like supernatural glitter and marks him as dangerous or disturbed. But they let the boys pass, and in a minute they're standing outside of room 190.
There's a chart hanging from the wall, and Stiles lets his eyes skim over it. He looks quickly away after he sees the words possible internal bleeding and patient unconscious on arrival.
"Do you want to go in first?" Scott asks, stepping back respectfully.
Stiles shakes his head, because he knows he should go in first but he can't bring himself to do it. Scott nods, understanding, and steps through; Stiles follows. The room smells like chemicals and looks like it's straight out of a medical textbook; not a scrap of paper is out of place, not a machine out of order, everything nothing less than pristine. It seems fitting, somehow, given the occupant of the room's sole bed.
When he sees her, Stiles' heart constricts, and he hears again the words Scott had relayed over the phone. Lydia's in the hospital. Malia found her unconscious. We don't know what happened. It seems to be a recurring theme in their lives, not knowing what happened. And even when they do know what's happening it never seems to help because by the time they come up with a plan it's always stopped happening or moved onto something else, so they're always at least eleven steps behind at any given time.
Case in point, the nogitsune.
Supplementary evidence, Lydia.
Because she's lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to so many machines that just looking at the wires makes Stiles dizzy, and this is all his fault because he should have listened to her. He could have stopped this.
Scott makes a sound that's a cross between a whimper and a sob, coming to a stop at the foot of the bed. His heart breaking, Stiles steps up beside him.
"I can't believe we're back here again," Scott says.
The last time Lydia was like this, it was because Peter had left her for dead on a lacrosse field. That had been bad enough, but now it's so much worse.
Stiles finds the world shrinking, closing in around him until he can't breathe. But it's not a panic attack this time; it's just the weight of what he's done and what he failed to do, the weight of the knowledge that he could have (should have) stopped this. Ignoring Scott, he sinks into the only chair beside the bed. He wants to take one of her hands in his but the one closest to him has a saline drip in it, so he just clasps his hands in his lap and forces himself to look at her face. Pale, washed out, lifeless.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and he thinks he hears Scott whimper again. But Stiles' eyes stay on Lydia, on his girlfriend (and god he'll never get sick of calling her that), on the love of his life, and that's the exact moment that his heart snaps in half. "I should have listened to you," he says quietly, feeling shards of his heart stabbing into his chest and wishing he could use them to stab whoever did this to her. "But I'm listening now."
The only response is the gentle beeping of the machines, the pounding of Stiles' heart, and Lydia's slow breathing.
He's listening now, but it's too late.
He's always too late.
/
It's been almost twenty four hours, and Lydia has shown no sign of improvement. But her condition isn't deteriorating either, which Melissa keeps gently pointing out with a don't lose hope look, a look that Stiles is all-too-familiar with and still can't stand. He'd had hope, after all, he'd even believed that this time it was going to be different, that maybe they were going to be okay. And look where that had gotten them.
Scott comes by every now and then to make sure he's eating, but Stiles can barely even stomach the thought of food. A couple times he wants to ask Scott to stay, but he knows the alpha has other things to do – homework to write, a pack to keep track of, new evils to hunt down. He understands, he does. He just hates it.
There's nothing to do in the hospital room, so Stiles talks. At first it's to himself, to the universe at large, muttering things that don't matter and that no one will hear. But gradually his words become more meaningful, until finally he gives up any casual pretence and shifts in his seat so that he's facing Lydia.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he's lost track of how many times he's said that over the last day. "You came to me for help, and I let you down."
He clears his throat, feeling distinctly foolish, but somehow he has the feeling that she can hear him.
"When you first told me you thought you were possessed, I just… I didn't want to believe it." He pauses, resting his chin in his hands, remembering again the panicked look in her eyes and the note of fear in her voice. "I thought it was just your banshee powers screwing with you again, and I didn't…" The pause is filled by the beeping of machines, which have faded into the background so much that Stiles can't even imagine silence anymore. He takes a deep breath and goes on. "But then it got to you, didn't it? That's why this… That's what did this to you."
For the past day his overriding emotion has been fear, closely follow by guilt, but in a snap these are washed away by something even more dangerous. Anger bubbles up in him until he can't stand it anymore, and he jumps to his feet and slams the chair against the wall. He couldn't help her, he can't save her. He's never been enough for her.
The crash of the chair brings a nurse running, but it's Melissa, and she just wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him to the waiting room. She's muttering nonsense in a way that Stiles supposes is meant to be soothing, and he does start to feel calmer.
"Here you go," she says a moment later, handing him a cup of tea.
It's real tea, too, not the usual vending machine stuff, and he drinks it so quickly it burns his tongue. And somehow, he still feels cold.
Melissa sits beside him, her hand still on his shoulder, as maternal as ever. "Remember when Lydia was here after Peter attacked her?" she asks.
Stiles stiffens, not wanting to be reminded of that horrible night. He nods, slightly, hoping Melissa gets the hint that he doesn't want to talk about it. If this is her idea of a comforting talk, she must not be as intuitive as he'd thought she was.
"She was in worse shape than this," Melissa goes on. "I remember a couple of the doctors saying that she probably wouldn't make it through the night."
This isn't really helping but Melissa's trying her best so Stiles just lets her talk.
"Do you remember how you felt, Stiles? You told me afterward that you'd thought it too." She pauses, waiting for him to look up at her. "You thought she was going to die that night, and what happened instead?"
Stiles swallows, tries to find his voice. "She woke up," he says. "And she became a banshee."
"And she joined Scott's pack and helped you defeat the nogitsune, among about a hundred other things." Melissa waits for Stiles to laugh – such a small, childlike sound – and then she goes on, "Don't underestimate her, Stiles. She may not be a werewolf, but she can hold her own against the best of them."
Before Stiles can thank her (because for what it's worth that was actually a pretty good pep talk), Scott walks through the front doors. Melissa squeezes Stiles' shoulder and then departs, and Scott hurries up to him.
And Stiles knows at once that something's wrong.
"What is it?" he asks, springing to his feet. His legs shudder because he's not used to moving so quickly, but he pays no attention to anything except the pounding of his heart and the look on Scott's face.
Scott jerks his head to indicate that they adjourn to Lydia's room, and Stiles follows. The alpha looks at the fallen chair and then at Stiles, and then with a half-shrug he closes the door.
"What is it?" Stiles asks again. "What's going on?"
Reluctantly, Scott pulls two crumpled envelopes out of the back pocket of his jeans. He hands one to Stiles, who stares at his own name spread across the front in unbearably familiar writing.
"Where did you get this?" he asks, his thumb brushing over the i, the only non-capital letter his name and Lydia's have in common.
"I went to her room to see if I could, you know, pick up on anything," Scott explains. "There were no other scents there – just her and the pack – but I found two letters. One for you and one for me."
Stiles looks up. "Have you read yours?"
Scott nods. "And I think you should read yours."
Halfway through opening the envelope, Stiles stops. He taps his finger against the envelope, thinking it through, hoping he's wrong. "If she wrote these to us," he says slowly, "then does that mean…"
He leaves the sentence hanging, but Scott sees where it's going. "Yeah," the werewolf says, "I think it means she did this to herself."
/
It's been a hour and a half, and Stiles has finally convinced himself to read the letter. Scott is at the nurse's station talking to his mom, and Stiles is still in Lydia's room. He's curled up in the only chair, listening to her faint but rhythmic breathing, and he can't put it off any longer.
Dearest Stiles.
His grip on the letter tightens and he forces himself to read on.
You're reading this, which means it worked. I know it doesn't look like it, but I swear it did. This is how it was meant to happen.
Nothing about this is right. This can't be what she wanted to happen, because they were finally happy and it was supposed to last. Stiles tries to swallow his rising panic.
There wasn't much of a choice, and there wasn't much time. Otherwise I would have told you.
They're always running out of time, always running on empty, and one of these days he would love to get a full night's sleep. One of these days, he'd like to be happy.
Okay, that's a lie. I wouldn't have told you, because you would have tried to stop me. And I couldn't let that happen, because this was the only way I could stop it.
Lydia had once told him that he was the only person who always believed in her, but that was a lie too. He'd thought she was the kanima, he'd thought she was working with the darach. He's always wanted to believe her, but some part of him was never sure that 60% good would be enough.
I found out what the demon was. There's a book on the chair in my room. The page is marked. There's a spell you need to do – the instructions are all there.
He should have believed her; he shouldn't have left her alone. Because she did this to herself and they may just be a banshee and a human but they still have a pack, and they should never have to be alone.
The demon is trying to take control now; I can feel it. The only way to stop it is… god, I don't know how to say this. Stiles, the only way I can stop it is to
Stiles skims over the words because no, it's not true, Lydia wouldn't do that. She's the girl with a plan, with a smile, with a well-timed insult, and there is no way in hell she would do that to herself.
I'm so, so sorry, and I understand if you hate me. I would too. But Stiles, there's still something you need to do. And there's something you need to know.
The writing here is smudged, like she was crying, and it's shaky like her hand was trembling. Stiles doesn't want to picture her writing it, but he can't help it. And it all just makes this so much worse (as if it wasn't bad enough).
I'm going to wake up – or at least, my body is. But it's not going to be me. The demon's going to wake up, and it's going to use my body. But you have to understand – it's not me anymore. I'm already gone.
Gone. Dead and gone, like Allison and Aiden and everyone else they've lost along the way. Clenching his hand into a fist, Stiles reads on; not because he wants to, but because he owes her that much at least.
You need to do the spell, and that will kill the demon. Then you can… Then you guys will be okay. I promise.
Promises don't seem to mean much anymore these days. A bitter feeling swirls around in Stiles' heart, and his vision starts to blur. He's not sure if it's panic or despair, but he doesn't suppose it matters.
I love you, Stiles. And I'm sorry.
All my love,
Lydia.
There's a lipstick stain near her name, like she kissed the paper, and Stiles rests his finger on that because it might be the closest thing they'll ever have to a last kiss. Then he carefully folds the letter and puts it back in his pocket, and goes out to meet his alpha.
They have work to do.
/
It's been six minutes since they did the spell, and nothing's happened. Stiles looks at Scott, who looks at Lydia, who's still unconscious. Scott checks the book, double-checking, and yes, they did everything right. Apparently Scott's letter had mostly been about how grateful Lydia was to him, and how thankful she was to have met him. But she gave Stiles the real information, the task of defeating the demon, and if he wasn't so furious with her he would probably be flattered.
"Maybe she -" Scott starts to say, but his words are cut off by a sudden movement.
Both boys turn to stare at Lydia, watching in horror as her eyes flicker open and she sits up slowly. Her eyes are glowing an unearthly green, and the smile she wears is not one they've ever seen on her. There's no doubt this is a demon, which means they have to go on with the plan.
While Scott chants in Latin, Stiles scatters herbs around the bed, and even throws a handful right at Lydia. The demon seems sluggish, like it's only just waking up, and that's probably the only thing that saves them. By the time the demon figures out what's going on, the second half of the spell is already complete. Scott spits his last words out with a vehemence Stiles has never heard from him, and even the demon looks surprised.
Stiles has to cover his eyes as a bright light starts to shimmer around Lydia – around the demon – and it's accompanied by a faint ringing that hurts his ears. Then there's a high-pitched wail, something Stiles swears is only in his head, and he squeezes his eyes closed and prays for it to be over.
Silence. Darkness.
He opens his eyes and sees Lydia slumping against the bed. A faint trail of emerald green light drifts from her chest, swirling away and dissipating in the air. Lydia doesn't stir. Scott lets out a slow breath, and Stiles stays where he is, feeling somehow disappointed. He knows they've won, but it doesn't feel like a victory.
It feels like another tally mark in the list of failures, another gravestone in the cemetery.
Then Lydia opens her eyes.
Scott is so surprised he actually falls off his chair, but Stiles is already standing up so he just stumbles back against the wall.
"Damn it," Stiles hisses, reaching for the book. They must have done something wrong, they must have screwed it up –
"Stiles -"
"Oh, hell," he mutters, snatching the book up and flicking desperately through the pages -
"Stiles -"
"Where the hell is it?" he says to no one in particular, feeling panic threaten to overwhelm him -
"Stiles!"
"What?" he snaps, spinning around to face Scott so quickly that the book falls from his hand.
"Look," Scott says, inclining his head to indicate Lydia.
Stiles does look, and sees something entirely unexpected. Lydia is sitting up in her bed, and she's crying. Actual tears. A genuinely human expression of remorse and fear is splashed across her face, and Stiles knows that even when the nogitsune was possessing him, he never looked that convincing.
"Lydia?" he asks in disbelief, and she nods, and that's all he needs.
He rushes to her side and wraps his arms around her, and she sobs against his shoulder, and Scott rushes to get his mom so she can check her over. There's no time for talking as Melissa hurries in, and then there's a parade of doctors who push Stiles and Scott out of the room, and it's almost an hour later when they finally let Lydia have visitors.
She's lying down, but she props herself up when she sees the boys come in. Scott shuts the door behind them and Stiles sits down cautiously on the edge of Lydia's bed. Lydia waits until Scott's sitting down in the spare chair before she talks, and then she addresses both of them.
"You did it," she says, relieved and not disbelieving, like some (surprisingly large) part of her had always known they were going to do it. "You saved me."
Scott leans forward, clasping his hands and frowning. "Lydia, what… what happened?"
She breathes deeply, and Stiles notices that she's not connected to any machines anymore. She still looks pale and weak, but she definitely looks alive. "The only way to defeat the demon was to let it take over," she explains, watching them both for a reaction, "and the only way to do that was, well…"
"You had to give up control completely," Scott says, and the banshee nods.
"I get that," Stiles says, suddenly finding his voice again, "but why did you tell us you were dead?"
Lydia bites her lip, seeming suddenly less sure of herself. "I took a sort of magical poison, one that would bring me close to death without pushing me through the door," she says. "And that was when the demon took over. The spell you did… there was a chance it would kill me. For real."
Scott still looks puzzled, but Stiles connects the pieces. "You knew we wouldn't do it if there was a risk of killing you," he says.
Lydia meets his gaze without flinching. "And I knew that if you thought I was already dead, you'd do whatever you had to in order to stop the demon."
Stiles works this through in his mind, and it makes a horrible kind of sense. "That was actually pretty smart," he concedes.
Lydia manages half a smile. "I read it somewhere," she says, a running joke between them because it seems like she's read every book ever written.
Stiles finds himself smiling too, and Scott even laughs. They talk it through for another few minutes, until finally Melissa comes in to take Scott home. She urges Stiles to leave as well, but he refuses; after making him promise to at least call his dad, she leaves him alone.
The hospital room is quiet now, and Stiles finds it so eerily silent he can't even think. But he manages to say, "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you," and it feels better this time because she can actually hear him.
And she responds – with a smile. "It's okay, Stiles," she says, and she even takes his hand in hers. "After everything we've been through, even I had trouble believing we'd be this unlucky. Two possessions in one pack? Talk about bad luck."
"Maybe it wasn't bad luck," Stiles says, and Lydia blinks in surprise. "I just mean, I can see why a demon would target you."
Seemingly torn between being flattered and concerned, Lydia raises an eyebrow, managing to look queenly even in the confines of a hospital bed. "Why is that?"
"Because you're incredibly smart," Stiles says promptly, "and fearless, and fierce, and anybody would be crazy to mess with you."
Lydia smiles, a worn-out, world-weary smile, but it's real and that's what counts. "Is that why the demon chose me, or why you did?"
Stiles feels a weight lift from his shoulders, because this is how it's meant to be and he's not naïve enough to believe it will be okay, but maybe he's just crazy enough to hope it will be. "Oh, that's just the demon," he says, sliding closer to her. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she nuzzles into him, resting her head against his chest. "I haven't even begun to list the reasons why I chose you."
"Well, I've got nothing else to do," Lydia murmurs into his chest, as his fingers lazily tangle in her hair, "so why don't you start?"
"This could take a while," Stiles warns, and Lydia just smiles, because somehow it seems they have all the time in the world.
/
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Don't forget to review, and feel free to send me any prompts you'd like me to take on. :)