"What do you like about her?" Lydia's voice cut through the silence in the jeep, and Stiles glanced over at her.
"What?"
"I mean, I guess objectively she's attractive." There was a tone to her voice that had Stiles frowning.
"Is this you being catty? Can't handle having another girl added to the pack?" He rolled his eyes. Lydia was brilliant, but she could also be cold, and though he saw that side of her less often now, he didn't care for it.
"Okay first of all, I'm not catty." She pouted a little as she said it, and although Stiles knew he probably shouldn't find it endearing, he did. "And secondly, if you're insinuating that I'm threatened by her, let me remind you who exactly you're talking to." The last sentence was smug, and it grated on Stiles' nerves.
"Yeah, well for someone who's not threatened, you're kind of being a bitch." Stiles said. Lydia just shrugged.
"It's not like Malia's here." The car fell back into silence, the headlights carving a road out of the darkness. Stiles stared ahead with drooping eyes. He was exhausted, they had been driving all day and were nowhere near home.
"Yeah, but I don't really feel like listening to you complain either. You are aware that you had the advantage of growing up in a house with other human beings, one that she didn't? You could cut her some slack." Even as the words left his mouth he knew they were useless. Lydia didn't cut people slack. She judged them and held them to her ridiculously high standards and when they inevitably didn't measure up she cut them down. It was just her way. Stiles had often wondered whether she met her own expectations, but he wasn't brave enough to ask.
"I grew up in a house. There weren't always people there." She said it absently, like she wasn't quite aware that he could hear her. Suddenly she looked up, studying him. He hated when she did that. "Stiles, you look really tired."
"Thank you, Lydia. Thanks a lot." The sarcasm held no real bite. She was right. He was too tired to mean it.
"I meant that maybe you should let me drive." Stiles shot her a look. He had only ever let Lydia drive the jeep once, and it was not an experience he ever planned on repeating.
"I don't think so." Even as he said it, he wasn't so sure. The last thing he needed was to have successfully tracked down the set of fangs that would age Derek back to normal and then die in a car crash a few hours from Beacon Hills.
"Stiles-" As she was about to open her mouth to remind him that the only reason she crashed his jeep that time was because he let a bee into the car, a sign flashed into view ahead. "Fine. Look, there's a motel, why don't we stop and you can sleep, and maybe we can avoid a situation where you drive us into a ditch and I die while wearing leggings." Stiles weighed his options, the flashing sign growing closer. He could try to make the drive himself, which was admittedly reckless, let Lydia drive, which was actually more reckless, or take a few hours and try to get some sleep. It wasn't like Derek was going to grow old waiting for them, which was ironically kind of the problem. With a sigh, he signaled and took the exit. Lydia seemed to relax in her seat.
"Okay, we'll take a few hours. But as soon as I'm up we're getting home. Just because this version of Derek is smaller doesn't mean he's any less impatient. Or a jerk." She just nodded. Stiles pulled up in front of the office, rubbing his hand across his face as he turned off the car. The short walk to the door seemed like a mile. He was beginning to realize the toll the last few days had taken on his body, and he had to drag himself off the seat. He swayed a little on his feet as he jumped down onto the ground, and suddenly there was a small set of arms around him, steadying him.
"God, I'm surprised you didn't fall asleep at the wheel an hour ago." Stiles ignored her, jumping when he felt a hand in his back pocket. As it disappeared, so did the weight of his wallet.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to do you a favor. In case you've forgotten you have to be 19 to get a room. I can see the guy at the front desk from here, it will be better if I go in by myself." She propped him up against the hood and strode toward the door. Stiles sighed. He watched through half-closed eyes as she slid through the glass door and pulled a wad of cash of from his wallet. He had taken to carrying it once it became apparent that bribes were now a necessary addition to most of their trips. Chris Argent had left them a substantial account with which to protect Beacon Hills in his absence. It had certainly come in handy.
In the office, Lydia laughed, her hand snaking out to land on the poor guy's arm. He didn't stand a chance. A few minutes later she emerged, holding up a small silver key with a look of triumph.
"I told you." Stiles just sighed and held out his hand. Lydia dropped the key into it.
"My wallet?" He shook his head as she raised an eyebrow, placing his worn weather wallet on top of the room key. He closed his hand around it. "Which room?" Lydia grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the first door, numbered 1. Stiles remembered when little touches like these had been exciting for him. Now they were familiar, a comfort rather than a shot of adrenaline. He would be lying if he said the electricity he always felt had faded, though.
When they actually managed to get the ancient key into the ancient lock and open the door, they found themselves staring at something that alarmingly resembled the set of a low budget horror film.
"Oh god." Lydia glanced at him, her face a mask of horror. He was too tired to be overly concerned about the state of their surroundings, a first for him. It would have been refreshing to not be the one complaining for once, if he hadn't been so tired.
The room was small, the floors covered in that mossy green carpet that seemed to exist exclusively in cheap motels. A nightstand separated two generous beds. There were no visible stains on either, so Stiles walked forward and collapsed face first into the closest one.
"Lock the door." His voice was muffled into the comforter, but a few seconds later he heard the click of a lock sliding into place. As soon as he stopped moving the exhaustion hit him like a drug, and he couldn't even move to kick off his shoes. The last thing he registered as he drifted off to sleep was the sound of an exasperated sigh, and something tugging on his foot.
Stiles woke up feeling stiff and not nearly rested enough. He opened one eye just enough to make out a spread of red, no, strawberry blonde hair fanned across the sheets. He blinked in confusion. Forcing his eyes to widen, he glanced around at the depressingly generic furniture and the events of the night before returned to him. His eyes fell on Lydia, sleeping on the other bed a few feet away. Her face was so soft in sleep, it was a cliché really, but the wall she erected in her waking hours was gone, and Stiles couldn't help but drink it in. He pushed himself to his feet, realizing as the covers fell away that Lydia had removed his shoes, jeans and button up, leaving him in his boxers in and t-shirt. Raising an eyebrow, he grabbed his clothes from where she had left them on the floor, and headed to the bathroom.
There was a part of him, as he surveyed the questionable facilities, that was insisting quite firmly that he not step foot in the shower. But a bigger part of him longed for the alertness that would inevitably follow, so he pushed aside his skepticism that he would come out of this any cleaner and stripped out of his remaining clothes. The water pressure was dismal, and the temperature inconsistent, but the burst of cold water at the end actually helped wake him up so he was mildly satisfied as he toweled off. He got dressed and stepped back into the main room, checking his phone for the time. It was a little after six am. He frowned as he noticed the icon for no reception on his screen. He had been hoping to call Scott and tell him why they'd been held up.
He was pulled from his thoughts as a whimper filled the room. He looked up, and saw Lydia thrashing in her bed. He closed the distance between them in seconds, his hand on her face as she tossed under the sheets.
"NO!" Her voice was a scream, it was wrenching and heartbreaking and Stiles knew before her next word which nightmare she was having. "Alison!" The name as a scream sounded the same this time as it had the first, and for a second it felt like Stiles was trapped in the dream with her.
"Lydia." He tried, gently at first, to shake her awake. She continued to thrash, tears flowing from her tightly shut eyes. "Come on, wake up." He found himself about to say that it was only a dream, but it wasn't. It was the worst kind of memory, a nightmare that you didn't get to wake up from, that wouldn't fade in the daylight. At a loss, Stiles climbed onto her bed, pulling Lydia into a sitting position, her head against his chest, his arms around her waist. He spoke directly into her ear. "Lydia, wake up!" She jerked awake with a gasp, pushing away from him in confusion.
Her eyes flickered over him, then around the room. He watched as she pieced it all together, and waited. Suddenly, she grabbed him, fisting her hands in his shirt and pulling him closer, burying her face in his chest. She didn't cry, just sat like that, her ragged breathing slowly evening out. Stiles wound his arms around her back, holding her more tightly. Eventually she sat back, swiping away the tears that had already begin to dry on her cheeks.
"Sorry." She looked away, sliding off the bed and away from him. Her warmth went with her and Stiles shivered.
"Don't ever apologize to me for that." The forcefulness of his tone surprised both of them, and she just blinked. Something like disgust crossed her features.
"Stiles, did you shower?" He hesitated for a moment, thrown by the change of topic.
"I-yeah. I did." She wrinkled her nose, clearly sharing his distaste for their accommodations, but he didn't care. He found the return of a Lydia he recognized comforting, and sighed. "Okay, I'm guessing by the fact that you're making that face that you don't plan on doing the same. We should probably get going." He headed toward the door, doing a quick sweep of the room to make sure they hadn't left anything. Other than his phone and wallet, Stiles didn't remembering bringing anything with them. He turned around to see Lydia frowning down at her phone.
"No service." She held it up for him to see. He nodded.
"Yeah, me too." He grabbed his phone to check again, and found it dead. He let out a little sigh of frustration and pocketed it. "Mine's dead."
"Mine's almost dead. Any chance you brought a charger?" Stiles shook his head.
"Okay, well let's-" He gestured toward the parking lot. "It's at least six hours from here, and Scott will be wondering if something happened to us." She followed him out of the room, and the door swung shut with a bang behind them. Stiles considered locking it, and debated momentarily whether it was hotel etiquette to lock a room when you checked out. Most of the places he'd stayed had rooms that locked automatically. He was distracted when Lydia said his name, her voice sending a jolt of anxiety through him.
"Stiles." He looked up. Her face was a picture of shock, then of fear.
"What?" She just pointed. He followed her finger and saw what had her biting her lip nervously. The parking lot stretched before them, the asphalt shimmering in the heat of the day. It was empty. His jeep was nowhere in sight, the familiar blue replaced by the black of crumbling cement. "Wha-" His mouth fell open in confusion, and he stared at Lydia. Her expression sent his heart plummeting in his chest. It was familiar in the worst way.
"Stiles."
"Who is it?" That look was the same one she'd worn in his nightmares, and he was beginning to suspect in her own. "Who's going to die?" Her hand snaked forward, fisting in his shirt again, this time so tightly he was afraid she might rip it. Her eyes were an ocean of fear, and he resisted the urge to pull her in close and try to press it away.
"You." Her voice shook, but her hand held fast, her grip a vice on his chest. "Stiles, it's you."