You Be the Anchor (Keeping My Feet on the Ground)

"You're a coward, Lydia."

"I'm not the one kidnapping people."

"My, my. Aren't we defensive? Trying to turn this back around on me." The nogitsune's lips twisted into a malicious smirk. He stared into her eyes, challenging her to maintain eye contact. She couldn't do it. She had to look away. The demon was wearing Stiles' face. That lovely, friendly, open, familiar face. The real Stiles could never look so sinister, so cruel.

The nogitsune's smirk widened, pleased at his own capacity for mastery. She knew he was enjoying her misery. "I'm a coward for wanting a normal life?" she retaliated. The question sounded weak, even to her own ears. Maybe she couldn't change the way her life was now, but that didn't mean she couldn't hate it. She hadn't asked for any of this. She had been robbed of her choice. Against her will, she had been thrust into a supernatural world of werewolves and banshees, murderous dark druids and Japanese fox demons. She heard voices no one else could, and sensed the deaths of complete strangers. In the past couple years, she had seen enough blood to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool. She'd never be able to wash it all from her mind.

'Normal' did not exist for her anymore.

It wasn't fair. Lydia didn't want any of this. She wanted to go back to the days when her biggest worries were clothes and makeup, lacrosse games and final exams. When the loudest sound in her ears was music blaring from her car radio, and she could take a Sunday evening drive without worrying where she'd end up. When she spent Saturday morning in bed watching stupid cartoons, Jackson's strong, athletic body cuddling hers in soft sheets, fondling and Frenching during commercials to stay entertained.

She was sick of screaming, sick of nightmares, sick of finding dead bodies, sick of fear, sick of losing the people she loved.

Was that so wrong?

"What you fear," the nogitsune whispered in her ear, "is the truth." His breath was cold and rancid. It reeked of death. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and goose pimples rose along her flesh.

"What do you mean?" she asked, but in her gut she already knew the answer. She had seen it within herself – the denial, the refusal to accept the facts in front of her, the desire to hide under her covers and hope it all went away. Her one coping mechanism was her tragic flaw.

The nogitsune laughed, and clucked its tongue. "Tsk. Tsk. There it is again. Denial. Let's try something else. Hm, I'm sure you'll enjoy this." He paused dramatically. Always the performer. Always the trickster. "Why didn't you finish the memory, Lydia, in Stiles' head? Why didn't you face your fears, and see what happened at the dance that night?"

"I lived it once. I didn't want to a second time."

"We both know that's a lie. You live it every night it dreams, don't you? Every time you see that man's face? But we're missing the whole picture once again, aren't we, Lydia?" The nogitsune smiled wickedly, and tapped a long, pale finger to its temple. "When I was inside Stiles, I had access to all his memories. He couldn't stop me, of course. A kind of mental violation, if you will," Lydia shuddered as he leaned in closer, and breathed in her scent. "He couldn't believe it when you told him you wanted to attend the dance with him. Could have pissed himself with excitement. He's liked you since the third grade. Fell in love with your long red pig-tails and toothy grin. The confidence in yourself you exuded, even at such a young age. He thought you were the most perfect girl in existence. He has this ten year plan to win your heart." The nogitsune chuckled. "It's pathetic."

Lydia shifted uncomfortably. She wanted to say something to make him shut up, but she didn't have any words. She told herself to stop listening, that she didn't want to hear anymore, but she was curious. What pieces of the puzzle was she missing? She wanted to know what Stiles was carrying around in his head.

"He knew you didn't really want to be there with him. He figured Allison had put you up to it, maybe even Scott, since he felt guilty the two of you had made out in Coach's office. But he didn't care why you were there with him, he was just thankful you were. You were so beautiful, so perfect. He just wanted to dance with you. Ugh, you should have heard the sentimental drivel in his head. He wanted that night to be special for you. He thought you deserved the chance to dance with someone who loved you, who saw the real you – the girl beyond that pretty, hard exterior. The soul within." The nogitsune snickered. "I'm not convinced you really have one."

"You're not saying anything I don't already know." Hadn't Stiles said such lovely things to her that night?

"But you were still hung up on Jackson. Of course you were. He's stronger and better-looking. Captain of the lacrosse team. The golden boy of Beacon Hills. The most popular and desired boy at school. Stiles knew. He never had a chance against Jackson. So he let you break away from him to search for your ex-boyfriend. When you couldn't find Jackson inside the school, you went outside to look, calling his name. You saw something at the edge of the lacrosse field, and thought it could be him. Why not, he was the team captain, right? But it was Peter Hale, waiting for you in the darkness. Tell me, do you remember how it felt, his sharp teeth ripping into your fair flesh? The hot, slick feeling of your own blood pouring out? The smell?"

Lydia shivered, hugging her arms to herself. Her voice barely above a whisper, "Stop."

"The wound was so deep, you blacked out almost immediately. You don't remember, do you, who told you to run? Whose voice screamed to you to flee? Maybe you couldn't see his face, in the glare of the lights. Maybe it was the fear, or the lack of time, that kept your brain from recognizing the voice. All you could remember was the pain, the red eyes.

"It was Stiles. He had run into Jackson in the gym, and knew something was wrong. It was Stiles, and not Jackson, who went looking for you. He ran onto the field, ignoring the danger. The fool. He fell to his knees on the ground beside you, begging Peter not to kill you. He made a deal for your life. If Peter let you live, he'd help him find Derek. But Stiles didn't want to leave you. He didn't care if Peter killed him. He'd rather have died than abandoned you, leaving you alone to bleed out on the field. Stiles would have given his life for you, and you never even knew he was there."

"No."

"Stiles called Jackson, told him exactly where to find you. That was how Jackson was able to get to you that night, in time for an ambulance to be called. Any longer, and you might have died. Stiles allowed Peter to kidnap him, for your sake. Then he basically lived outside your hospital room, praying you'd live. He'd have given anything. And you. You practically threw yourself at Jackson." The nogitsune pitched Stiles' voice higher, mocking her, "'Oh, Jackson, you saved me. I owe you my life. My hero.' When all he did was carry you a few yards. Pitiful."

"This is a trick." Even as she said it, Lydia knew nothing the nogitsune had spoken was a lie. The story he had just told her fit exactly with Stiles' character. And she remembered all the times he had tried to protect her, shield her, made sure she was okay. She remembered the birthday presents and the way his eyes searched her face, the way he was always there, waiting, if she needed a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear. He was always there for her.

"Honesty is the best trick of all." The nogitsune reclined casually back against the concrete wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Through the rip in his shirt, Lydia could still see traces of the wound – bloody, raw, and deep – he had made by plunging a knife into his stomach. Stiles' stomach. "What's wrong, Lydia? Fox got your tongue?"

She wished he would stop nonchalantly dropping her name into sentences. It was too familiar, too intimate. God, how he sounded just like Stiles when he said her name. It bothered her to think that when she heard the nogitsune's voice in her nightmares, it would sound like her friend.

"Do you know why Jackson was outside the night of the dance? He was searching for the Alpha. He ran into the woods, begging it to turn him. Whining about power and strength and becoming one of them. As though he were somehow entitled. He got what he wanted – and look how that turned out for him. Idiot. He deserved it. Desperation is weakness."

Lydia shook her head. "You're wrong."

"Can I tell you a secret, Lydia?" the nogitsune asked, dropping his voice confidentially to a fake whisper. "Stiles still has nightmares about the Kanima. That whole experience really screwed him up, up here." The demon let out a quick whistle and tapped his forehead. He laughed delightedly. "You can just imagine how messed up his mind is now."

Guilt and shame burned in Lydia's stomach. She hated herself for the role she had played in causing Stiles pain, for being powerless now to stop the nogitsune. She didn't think the demon could say anything else that would surprise her.

"Do you know Peter offered to give Stiles the bite, and he refused?"

"What?"

"He offered to turn Stiles into a werewolf – all that strength, speed, and power, right there. He could have been Scott's equal. He could have been his best friend's pack brother." He ran his finger down Lydia's cheek, "and, with your apparent affinity for werewolves, finally gotten the girl. But he didn't want anything from Peter, didn't want to align himself with a psychopath. Ironic, isn't it, that you turned to Peter to help you get inside Stiles' head? And now Stiles is dying. You can feel it, can't you, Lydia? Inside you, cold and agonizing. He's in an incredible amount of pain, much worse than he's letting on. The voices are telling you, aren't they? They know Stiles is going to join them soon in death. If you ever hear his voice again, it will be screaming to you from beyond the grave."

Lydia covered her ears with her palms. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to block him out of her senses. Tears flowed steadily down her cheeks, splashing the stone floor like rain. "Stop! Just stop!" she screamed. "What do you want?"

"I already told you. Strife. Chaos. Pain. I'm hungry, and what you're feeling right now, this particular flavor of misery," he tucked her hair behind her ear and pressed his face to her neck, "is delicious."

TEENWOLF

They saved Stiles and defeated the nogitsune. Not without casualties. Lydia's best friend, Allison, and her hot, new boy toy Aiden, were among them. She wanted to feel relieved that it was over, but she couldn't. The sorrow and grief hurt too much. She didn't have any room inside herself for anything but her suffering. Pain so raw she could taste it, feel it in every inch of her body. Almost unbearable.

It seemed the nogitsune had gotten what it wanted after all.

It took every bit of her strength just to show up to school in the morning. More than anything, Lydia wanted to be alone, but Kira clung to her now, seeking a female friend to help navigate the situation and Scott's grief. Lydia didn't want a new friend, she wanted her old ones. Kira wanted to know what she could say to Scott and Stiles, wanted a way to alleviate their pain. Lydia had no advice. She wanted to tell Kira words were cheap and useless, that she couldn't help them, wouldn't be able to understand. She wanted to tell her that this was life in Beacon Hills, and nothing was ever going to be okay again. But she didn't. She couldn't.

She couldn't forget, or forgive, the role Kira's mother had played in creating the nogitsune, and almost killing Stiles.

Lydia had been avoiding Stiles for the last two weeks. Or, perhaps, he had been avoiding her. They hadn't said more than a couple words to each other during all that time. She knew he blamed himself for what had happened, but she didn't know how to help him, how to lift that weight from him.

She remembered perfectly what he had said to them the night they defeated the nogitsune. He made them promise to do whatever was necessary to stop the demon, even if it meant killing him too. He wouldn't let anyone else die because of him. And she remembered how he had held a sword to his own stomach, his hands remarkably steady, ready to impale himself if it would save the people he loved.

She had no doubt he would have done it, would have given up his life in exchange for theirs.

Lydia couldn't bear to see the pain in his eyes, so she chose not to look at all. But she watched him from afar, from a safe and selfish distance. She watched as he tried to put on a brave face and help Scott deal with Allison's death. She watched him trying to act like his usual goofy self, and pretend everything was okay. She watched him trying to pull himself together, hold onto some sense of himself. She watched as he tried to convince everyone, including himself, that he would bounce back from this. But she knew he couldn't, knew he wasn't okay. She knew he felt like he was drowning, suffocating, still trapped inside his own head.

She didn't understand why the nogitsune had targeted Stiles. Was it because he was a jokester? Because he was clever and funny? Because he had already experienced profound loss and still had so much to lose? Or was it because the demon knew how dearly Stiles was loved, when Stiles couldn't see this himself? The nogitsune had threatened to use him to destroy everyone he had ever loved – and almost succeeded. Despite her own pain, Lydia couldn't imagine how he must be hurting. His suffering was practically a stench coming off him. She was amazed none of the werewolves seemed to smell it.

But what can I do? That was the question. She didn't know the answer, so she did what she always did, what she was best at: she did nothing.

For so long, she had felt helpless, always waiting to be rescued, powerless to stop anything from happening. Powerless to protect those she loved. She hadn't saved Stiles then – and she couldn't save him from himself now.

Pathetic.

Before the end of fourth period, Lydia sneaked out of study hall. She wanted a chance to clear her head before the next class. The hallways were empty, desolate. She spotted Stiles standing in front of his locker, staring at its contents. She wondered what he was looking at, what he was really seeing. She was surprised to see him alone. Lately, he practically glued himself to Scott's side. Scott - another person she couldn't bring herself to talk to just now. Not yet, not with the grief so fresh.

He's not just alone right now, she suddenly realized. He's always alone, even in the middle of a crowd. She knew how lonely it could be in one's own mind.

I have to talk to him. I have to say something.

But what?

Lydia approached Stiles' locker tentatively. She hadn't been walking that quietly, the clicking of her heels echoing off the lockers lining the walls, but when she reached him, he still had not noticed her. She softly cleared her throat to get his attention.

"Lydia!" he jumped, his eyes wide. "You, uh, I didn't hear you. I, you, startled me."

He still looked frightfully pale and thin. His skin like paper, the circles under his eyes were as dark as bruises. She wondered how much sleep he had been getting. "I just, well," she cleared her throat again, "I wanted to know how you're doing."

She peered into his eyes. They were light brown, the color of warm tea and the soil in her mother's garden. A comforting color. She had always found them friendly and inviting. The kind of eyes a girl could easily fall in love with. Now, they looked haunted. Terror and uncertainty buried in their depths. As she stared, he met her gaze, and she watched his walls go up. A shroud of false calm covered his eyes, making him unreadable. She had caught him with his guard down, but he was prepared now to continue his charade, pretend everything was fine.

Stiles slammed his locker shut. "I'm alright." She knew it was a lie. "How are you?"

That was just like Stiles to turn the conversation away from himself and toward her. His eyes searched her face, penetrating, welcoming. You can tell me anything, they whispered softly. She could feel the concern wafting off him. She felt a tick of agitation, like an irritating itch, that he worried constantly about her, but refused to honestly answer her when she wanted to know how he was. It felt like he was insinuating he wasn't worth being worried about in return. God, he could be such an idiot sometimes.

Or maybe he just doesn't know you care.

She had assumed he would figure it out on his own. He was smart and witty, he shouldn't have difficulty picking up on something like that. That doesn't matter. She should have known better. Boys were essentially oblivious and stupid. You needed to spell things out to them.

Lydia thought about when she had kissed him during his panic attack. She told him her intention was to cause him to hold his breath – which was true. Only, she hadn't told him how she could have put her hand over his mouth as easily as she did her lips. How panicked she had felt, seeing him in distress. How she had wanted to be the one to save him, to stop his lips from trembling. How she still believed her mother's words from when she was a child - "a kiss makes everything better." How she had held her own breath, surprised by his warmth and gentleness, how wonderful he had tasted. How she had felt, in those few seconds, the magnitude of his affection for her. How, for all the kiss's simplicity, she had never experienced one full of such love. How for weeks she had been struggling against the urge to kiss him again and again.

How can he love me so much?

"I'm," she looked for the right word. She'd be candid with him, and hope he would eventually feel he could be honest with her, "surviving. Taking each day as it comes. Trying not to think too far ahead – or behind. They say time heals, but in this town, time brings nothing but new trouble. And I'll get to experience all of it. For the rest of my life, I'm going to be a herald of death." She laughed bitterly and suddenly burst into tears.

"Lydia." Stiles reached out for her, and she allowed him to pull her close, enveloping her in his arms. She snuggled into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, relishing his warmth and touch. She buried her face in the nape of his neck and breathed in his scent. Under his plaid shirt, she could feel the scars in his skin, and hear every beat of his heart. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. She focused on its rhythm, memorizing its cadence, its promise of life. This was the song she needed to drown out the noise.

"Shh, it's okay," he soothed. "I've got you, Lydia. I've got you."

Stiles' breath was hot and pleasant in her hair, oddly comforting. Her name tender and reverent on his lips. He was different in every way from the nogitsune that had stolen his shape.

She allowed herself a selfish moment of comfort, of enjoyment of him, before she pulled away and rubbed at her eyes. She chuckled quietly. "I came over here to see how you were doing, see how I could help, and instead you're the one making me feel better."

"I like making you feel better."

"You're always there when I need you, Stiles."

He lifted her chin with his finger, and brushed away a stray tear with his thumb. "I'll always be here for you."

"I want to be here for you too."

"You are." He drew her into his arms again. "This is what makes me feel better. You have no idea how good this feels. This closeness, this contact. Reminds me I'm awake, that I'm alive."

She nodded. There were studies that claimed physical touch could do wonders healing the body and mind. She knew from experience the power of a loving touch – and the way isolation could slowly kill you. If she thought he would let her, she'd hold him forever. She'd been so worried about finding the right words, but that wasn't what Stiles needed at all. This, she realized, was how she could help him. "Scott," Stiles continued, "has the ability to ease physical pain, by taking it into himself. But this eases the other pain."

"Yeah," she agreed. Right then, she felt better than she had in days, weeks, months. "You're so much warmer than the last time I touched you. You were so cold, it scared me."

"My body's healing, getting back to its old self."

"And your mind?"

He didn't answer.

She rested her chin on his chest and looked up into his face. "Stiles, you're my friend, and I care about you. A lot. I don't know if I've ever told you that, but it's true. I've never really thanked you for everything you've done for me, but I do appreciate it. I'm not really good at expressing myself to others, especially when it comes to my feelings. I kind of just assume people know how I feel about them. All my therapists have said I'm a narcissist." She laughed, "And they're right. I totally am. But that doesn't mean I don't care about other people. I do, deeply. Sometimes it scares me how much I can care about another person – even more than I care about myself. I care about you that way. So don't go anywhere, okay?" She recalled the words he had said to her the night of the lacrosse championship their sophomore year. He'd admonished her for running blindly into dangerous situations, risking her life, without realizing how her death would affect so many people. If she died, the people left behind would be the ones broken beyond repair, forced to pick up the pieces of their lives, and try to fit them back together without her in them.

She hoped he understood how many people would feel the same if they lost him.

"I won't," he assured her. They both knew it was an impossible promise to make, but she held onto his words. She wanted to believe him, that by saying it, he could somehow make it true. She wanted to hold onto that hope.

"You give me hope," she admitted. "You never give up. You keep going."

"So do you. You're so strong. You keep me grounded."

"Stiles, I-"

The bell rang suddenly, signalling the end of class and cutting off her sentence. She broke away from him as students poured out of classrooms. They were surrounded by bodies, but she suddenly felt alone and empty apart from his arms. She knew he felt the same. She clutched her books to her chest, substituting them for him. Her eyes found his. "I know you're not okay, Stiles. And I don't want you to feel you have to pretend around me. You can tell me anything. You don't have to deal with this alone. The only way we're going to get through this is if we do it together. The nogitsune isolated you inside yourself, don't continue to give it the power to do so. I'm here for you."

"I know."

"Well...okay." Lydia suddenly felt awkward and shy standing beside the boy who had given her his heart in the third grade. She felt silly for having showed so much of her heart to him. She didn't know where they were going to go from here, but she hoped they would go together. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, but hesitated when she saw Kira wave to her from down the hall. "I have to go. I'll see you later, okay?"

He knew it was a promise, not a goodbye. "Okay. See ya."

Stiles hoisted his book-bag over his shoulder, watching as Lydia walked down the corridor, her strawberry-blond hair illuminated by the florescent lights. For the first time in weeks, he truly smiled.

END