Sitting on the pavement, comforting a heartbroken girl that he just met is not how Stiles Stilinski had envisioned his Saturday evening. If things had gone according to plan, he would have been alone in his old hoodie and ratty converse, probably grabbing a sandwich from some food truck. But here he is, with a girl who has told him multiple times that she is, in fact, not crying despite what the constant stream from her eyes would indicate. Stiles had just raised his hands in surrender and decided to go along. (Obviously, why he decided to go along and not pat her awkwardly on the back and went about his own merry, sandwich eating way is something he hasn't had the time to ponder on.)
He looks at the girl from head to toe, as she sits next to him on the dirty pavement; her head bowed, tissue in hand, slightly sniffling and constantly shaking her head to insist that she is not crying over some "nincompoop" anyway. Stiles makes a mental note to work on her swearing skills when she is in a better mood. (Obviously, why he would think he would meet her a second time when she in a better mood is something he hasn't had the time to ponder on either.)
She has red hair. Dark red. Strawberry blonde you could call it, if you're being all fancy. And despite her eyes being red and swollen from all the not crying, he can see that they are green. Hazel maybe, but definitely more green than brown. Her knees are bent so that she folds her arms around them and sometimes her shoulder would shake from all the tears she is probably too proud to let flow. Stiles awkwardly rubs her back, hoping she'd feel better.
"Honestly, the guy sounds like a proper fuckward to me. A real waste of time, to be honest," he tells her as a means to console her, "no point crying over someone like that." He realizes that he is playing with fire here. He doesn't even know if she is in the "how will I live without him" phase or the "I hope a truck runs over him" phase. He hedges his bets on the latter with all the attempted nincompoopish swearing back there.
"Wasted seven years on him," she replies.
Seven years. Stiles chokes on air. His longest relationship lasted two. And honestly, the constant travelling definitely helped because he cannot imagine spending two years with someone day in, day out. The longest relationship he's ever had was with his dad (since birth). Then his best friend (since he was four). And beyond that, he hadn't even thought of. Seven years felt like a lifetime compared to that. How do you walk away from seven years?
"How do you walk away from seven years?" Stiles says before he could stop himself. In that moment, he decides that he sucks at consoling people post break-up and should really keep himself to rubbing backs. The girl apparently agreed with him, because she throws him the look that makes him cringe.
"Just like he did," she replies, her voice on edge.
"Sorry," Stiles says immediately. "I didn't – It wasn't my inten – I didn't mean to –"
"It's alright," she cuts him off. Her eyes soften a little. "It's alright."
Stiles relaxes. And then immediately realizes that those should have been his words in such a situation. He really sucks at post break-up condolences. He feels the cool October breeze bite at the exposed skin on his face and cracks his knuckles. She is still sitting there, in her black floral dress looking entirely misplaced on the dirty pavement of some shady street at one in the morning in New York. Stiles digs inside the pocket of his hoodie, lord knows he needed a smoke. Enclosing his fingers around the rectangular cardboard box, he pulls it out, takes a stick out and without thinking offers it to the girl sitting beside him. "So… what's his name?"
"Jackson," she replies, taking one.
For a moment he doesn't realize if she was referring to a surname he was supposed to know or if that was the asshole's first name. (Obviously, why Stiles was internally swearing at a guy he hardly knew worse than his now ex-girlfriend isn't something he had pondered on yet.) And just when he decides that no one could possibly hate their son to name them two surnames, she pipes up, "Jackson Whittemore."
Apparently people can hate their sons enough to name them two surnames. But wait, who was he to judge? His name was Stiles Stilinski. And that was because no one can actually pronounce his real name.
Anyway. According to Stiles's highschool experience boys with two surnames were assholes anyway. "What, he was the popular jock at highschool, too rich for all mere mortals?" He questioned. And then immediately winced. He needed a filter between his brain and mouth. This, without even being drunk.
This time though, she didn't throw him the look. She looked at him, a bit surprised, and then she laughed a little. Only a little. But it was bit like wind chimes. Twinkling. Stiles looked at her and then he looked at the sky and he only just realized how many stars were out.
"Yeah, he was," she confirmed. Stiles nodded. He looked at the unlit cigarette in his hand and pulled out his lighter. And honestly, he could have just handed it to her after lighting his own, but for some reason he lit it, put his hand around the flame to protect it from the wind, allowing the heat on his palm to form a contrast with the goosebumps at the back of his hand from the fall breeze, and offered it to the girl sitting beside him. She moved her head towards him, pressed the cigarette between her lips, brought the tip to the flame and inhaled. Her hair kind of tickled his face.
She took a puff. Exhaled. "I was the ditzy girlfriend," she told him, then.
Stiles looked at the girl and wondered why he was so offended, she would call herself that. "All of us are idiots in highschool," he told her. (Obviously, why Stiles felt the need to defend her against the accusations she placed on herself, he hadn't had the time to ponder on.)
She snorted. "I was in a relationship with him for five years after highschool ended," she told him, "I was an idiot long after highschool."
Stiles didn't know where all this self-hatred was coming from. Or why was she so content in dubbing seven years of her life a mistake if they had only just broken up. Was she unhappy in the relationship long before it ended? Had she seen it coming? Was she clinging to it as it hurt her? Stiles stopped himself before he could ask her that. This was way too personal to ask, even for someone who had to invest into scientific inventions for a filter between his brain and his mouth. He took a puff from his cigarette and felt the tar burn his lungs.
"What's your name, then?" he asked suddenly. Because he realized the conversation was waning and the stick would soon end, and he didn't want to leave just yet. The girl looked at him and gave him a once over as he sat in his dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. Stiles wouldn't blame her, if she came out of her post break-up haze just about now and realize that she is sitting alone in a deserted, shady alley with someone she clearly does not recognize and makes a run for it. For all she knew he could pull out a knife on her right about now. And he sees it, in the way she slowly clenches her fist around her bag, and looks around to see if she can get help at this hour. Stiles shifts back a little. It was maybe that gesture, or the fact that if he wanted to attack her he probably wouldn't have been rubbing her back all this while that finally makes her break the silence.
"Lydia," she tells him, "Lydia Martin."
Stiles nods, and then brings his hand forward. "Stiles," he introduces himself.
Lydia takes it. Her hands are cold, her skin is soft and her grip is firm. "That's a weird name," she says. He wants to remind him that the comment is a bit rich coming from someone who willingly dated a guy with two surnames when her grip goes lax.
"Wait, a minute." Suddenly, her other hand, the one that he isn't holding (still holding, why is he still holding it?) comes to remove the hood off his head, revealing his dark hair.
"You're Stiles?" she almost screams. As if on impulse he covers her mouth with his palm, eyes begging to not be so loud. The palm of the hand that was holding hers, is now on her lips, and the other hand is around his shoulders and he has suddenly shifted very close to her. But he hasn't noticed it yet. He really, just wants her to be quiet right now.
Lydia's eyes go wide. And then she nods in understanding. Stiles removes his hand from her mouth and she immediately scream-whispers "You're Stiles Stilinski? The actor Stiles Stilinski?"
He nods. Before he has time to respond verbally, however, Lydia is scream whispering again. "What are you doing here? Why even are you here? And why didn't you tell me before? Also –"
"I was out for a walk," he quickly interrupts her before he loses track of her questions. "I was hoping to get some quiet time." He pauses. "And I didn't tell you because… it just never came up, I guess."
Lydia's mouth is slightly open, her green eyes are lined with a dark liner and lips are stained light pink. The cigarette is almost burnt out. And Stiles is slightly worried for her, wondering if he should shake her a little before she spits out, "What?"
"Yeah, really I –"
"You're such a cliché," she says suddenly. Stiles realizes that he has found a partner for that big financial investment in science for a filter.
"I am not the one accepting a cigarette from a stranger in a dark alleyway because I just got broken up with, am I?" Filters be damned, he realizes.
Lydia opens her mouth, clearly affronted, suddenly gets up, steps on the cigarette stub to burn it out and begins to walk away. It takes him a while to catch up before he is running after her.
He grabs her hand to stop her, 'Lydia, wait!" he turns her around and places both his hands on her shoulders, "I didn't mean to offend you. I might have been a bit rude there. Look, I am sorry." He says all in one breath, searching her eyes for forgiveness. She looks at him for a while before the corners of her mouth turn up and she giggles. Twinkles. Wind chimes. Stars.
Her head comes up to his chin. With both his arms on her shoulders, her barely half an arm length away and giggling in the cool breeze, under starlit skies, Stiles realizes she is tiny. And also really, really beautiful. Maybe it's the insanirt of the situation. Maybe it's just in that moment. Maybe it's because his head feels a little light. But just then, just there, Lydia Martin looks beautiful.
"It's okay," she says and just like that his moment passes. Stiles lets go of her shoulders and steps back. "I wasn't really angry at you –"
"But you just stood up and walked away like that. I thought –"
"Well, what else was I supposed to do?" she asks, her tone light, laughter still colouring her words.
"Whatever we were doing earlier," he says, indignant that she would walk away just because of who he was.
"I was crying over my break-up earlier," she reminds him. "You want me to cry?"
"No!" he immediately responds. "That's not what I meant."
She is still smiling.
He likes it better when she smiles.
All he wants to say to her that he just wants to talk. That even with her crying over her break-up, he liked her company. But what was he supposed to say? That he wants to talk to her like he is not a celebrity? Like earlier? That will not work out. Because a) he was a celebrity and there is no way they are going back to when she didn't know about it and b) that only adds to his cliché profile.
Before he can decide what is it that he could say to her that would keep her talking, and not make him sound like a cliché, she interrupts his thoughts.
"It's getting late; I should really go home."
Stiles feels his heart sink a little. He didn't want her to go. Not just yet.
(Obviously why Stiles didn't want her to go was a question he has not yet pondered on.)
"I could drop you home," he says immediately. It's not like he could stop her in the middle of the alleyway because he wanted to talk, "it's late," he adds.
Lydia looks at him. Stiles sees her hesitate a little. "My apartment is just around the corner, actually," she tells him.
Stiles feels his heart sink deeper. Did she not want him around anymore? Stiles threw caution to the wind, it's not like he would be known for his diplomacy after his death.
"Do you not like my work?" he asks her.
Completely taken aback, clearly not expecting it, Lydia instantly responds, "No! Nothing like that!"
"Do you not like any of my roles?"
"They're fine…" this time, a bit slowly, clearly confused where this is going.
"Did anything come out in the press that made you think that I am an utter nincompoop?"
"I don't really keep up –"
"Am I a creep?"
"What? No," pause, "I mean, I don't think so."
"Your apartment is around the corner, yeah?"
Nod.
"Great," he says, "it would be a short walk."
"You really don't have to," she protests.
"It's really late," he tells her seriously, "what if some shady stranger offers you a smoke and you take it without thinking in your post break-up pity party?"
She cracks a smile. He smiles back.
The walk to her apartment is short. Really short. It actually is around the corner. And Stiles realizes that he is walking a lot more languidly that he normally does.
"You know, I can call up the press and tell them about our encounter," she says, "it can be my moment in the limelight."
She is looking at him, all serious. But there is a mirth in his eyes that Stiles decides he is really fond of.
"You can," he replies, "but then, who'd believe you?"
They reach her building, and Stiles stands under it. What now?
"Alright then, this is it," she tells him.
"Right." He should do something, he realizes. But what? Tell her he had a great time? But she was crying about a break up. Tell her he'll see her around? But how? They didn't share the same circles. Hell, they didn't even share the same shapes. He can't even ask her anything about her life now, he really should have made more of that very small walk. He can ask for her number. But then, he'd definitely come off as a creepy celebrity.
"Thanks," she tells him, "for… that," she gestures to the alleyway.
"Yeah, no problem. Any time." Any time?
"Alright then, Stiles," she says. And turns around.
Stiles keeps standing there and watches her walk into the building. He feels as if he is letting something slip. And really, he is not asking for her number because he plans to… he doesn't even know what. What does he not plan to do? What does he plan to do? He is a celebrity, for the love of god, shouldn't this be working the other way around? Shouldn't he be walking away from her. Shouldn't she be the one hoping for another conversation. Besides, he should really have her number, so he could check up on her tomorrow. She was really upset tonight. He should be concerned enough to call in tomorrow to make sure she is okay, right? That is reasonable.
Fuck it. He can just chart it up to the lack of a filter.
He rushes inside the building. She is nowhere to be seen.
(Obviously, he had pondered and pondered and pondered and went all in without any answers.)