Isaac almost walked out of the airport six times.
He didn't want to go back to Beacon Hills. There was too much pain there, pain in every corner of the town. Even his happy memories were tinted red, like blood.
But something was drawing him there, something he couldn't explain. Maybe he had unfinished business, he wasn't sure. He'd certainly left things up in the air.
Melissa appeared in his mind, then. Melissa handing him a cup of coffee in the morning. Melissa making sure he ate before his finals. Melissa at 2am, in scrubs, finding him crouched behind the couch and sitting down next to him, silent and serene.
He would go back and see her, say sorry for running, thank her for everything. And then he could leave again. Back to Alaska or Cuba or wherever felt right for him.
Gate 12. His flight flashed on the departures board, and a few people around him stood up to make their way to the gate. He rose too, hauling his backpack over his shoulder – and stopped. Left: departures. Right: the exit.
Isaac made a decision.
/Missing You by DWNTWNLydia always forgot how much she loved Stiles until she saw him again. It sounded awful, because she loved him very much indeed. Enough that his absence made her feel hollow and cold. Still, whenever she saw him it was like losing all the air from her lungs. It reminded her just how much she needed him to be close, to be with her, to hold on to her, to remind her that he was still here, that he would never disappear again. Being apart hurt, yes, but every time she was with him she needed to wrap her arms around him and never let go.
It was just like Allison had described all those years ago, her hopeful face lit up pure white in the moonlight. Lydia hadn't known what love was, then, in a relationship where a smile or a compliment felt like things she had to fight for. Now she understood, now that Stiles felt like an additional organ that she needed to survive.
She was tucked under his arm, safe and warm, as they sat in a booth right by the door of the diner (unsurprisingly they always seemed to gravitate towards places with an efficient escape route) and watched Scott and Malia sneak little tentative glances at each other, both turning a rosy pink colour as their eyes almost met. Lydia could hear Stiles' heart through the fragile bones in his chest, thump, thump, thump, and her own chest swelled and ached with the promise that they had the whole summer ahead of them. No more eight-hour journeys, or missed phone calls, or, hopefully, near death experiences. In the back of her throat, like a snake ready to strike, was a familiar tickle. Lydia pushed it to the back of her mind, and by some blessing it didn't grow.
"So, Malia," Stiles said, and Lydia felt his voice rumbling through his body. "Tu t'es amusé en France?"
Malia stared at him across the table, eyes wide and lips pressed together, an almost comical expression of cluelessness. "Say what now, bud?"
Lydia laughed. "'Did you enjoy France?'" she translated. "I can't believe you didn't pick up any of the language at all."
"Oh!" exclaimed Malia. "Oui, oui, France was bon. Tres good!"
Even Scott snickered. "Your French sucks, Malia," he said, the first time that he had spoken directly to her beyond the cursory greeting.
She glowered at him. "I took Spanish, not French. And everyone spoke English, anyway, so what's the point?"
Lydia felt Stiles chuckle beside her. She looked up at him, her smile widening. "Le français est la langue de l'amour," she said quietly, enjoying the sudden discovery of a quasi-secret language that only she and Stiles knew. Scott knew only a few sentences, but Stiles had taken AP French as well as Spanish and she had become fluent around the age of ten.
Stiles didn't bother replying. Instead he grinned at her with his whiskey-eyes crinkling at the edges.
"Couples," Malia said despairingly, rolling her eyes at them.
"Couples," Scott agreed. His voice was edged with something bitter, and Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. Both he and Malia seemed quite intent on not making eye contact, and seemed very grateful when a waitress came to take their order.
"Catch any bad guys yet, Stiles?" Scott asked light-heartedly as soon as the waitress left.
Stiles winked at him, tapping his nose dramatically. "That's classified information, Scotty."
"Didn't you finish your basic training six months ago?"
"I did indeed. Then I was recommended for intelligence training by your old man, which I finished last week. Then I told them I wouldn't be accepting any assignments for three months, so I could come here and spend summer with the rest of you," he explained, squeezing Lydia as he spoke.
"And they just let you take three months off?" Malia asked, sounding unconvinced.
"They let you do a lot when you graduate top of your class," Lydia said proudly, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "He's going into the violent crime division. Specialising in cold murder cases."
"Sounds about right," Malia said, the happy ending of a cold case herself. "Surely you must come across some supernatural stuff, right? What was it your dad said? He thought like, eighty percent of cold cases must have some kind of supernatural element?"
Stiles shrugged. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Maybe the FBI already know."
"Really?" asked Scott, leaning forward.
"Maybe. They haven't told me they know, but I figure someone must have seen something. Maybe I'll rise up the ranks and one day they'll sit me down for the big reveal and I'll just laugh and say 'thanks, Sir, but don't bother with the PowerPoint, my girlfriend is a banshee.'" he joked, looking to Lydia for approval out of habit. He didn't consider a joke a success until it made Lydia smile, even though both Scott and Malia had guffawed.
She was staring pointedly at the table, the muscle in her jaw tensing and relaxing. Stiles snaked his free arm across his lap to grab her cold hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, feeling immediately guilty for reminding her that she was a banshee.
"I wonder where our drinks are," he said, deftly changing the subject.
"I thought Lydia was the psychic one," Malia quipped as the waitress appeared out of nowhere with a tray, setting down coffees in front of Lydia and Scott and huge milkshakes in front of Stiles and Malia. She put two large baskets of fries in the centre of the table, and disappeared to bring over the burgers and chicken salad they had ordered.
"I missed this," Stiles sighed dramatically, immediately dipping a fry into his vanilla milkshake.
"You're a monster," Lydia said, shaking her head.
Malia looked at him in awe, her mouth hanging open. "I can't believe I never thought of that!" she said, snatching up a handful of fries to try it herself. "This is the greatest thing. So, Lydia, anything spooky happened to you lately? Find any bodies?"
Lydia flinched, standing up abruptly. "I forgot they had a jukebox in here," she said wanly. "I'll be right back."
Stiles watched her walking straight-backed to the jukebox on the other side of the diner, a grimace on his face. Scott looked at the table sadly.
"What did I say?" Malia asked, looking between Lydia and Stiles for an explanation.
Scott finally looked at her. "Lydia's been finding bodies again," he said quietly. "She's a bit upset about it."
Malia nodded, processing. "None of us are going to die, right?" she asked bluntly.
"No," Scott replied, a hint of a smile. "No, we're okay. She moved somewhere new, it was bound to happen sometime."
Suddenly they heard a clattering noise, their eyes immediately drawn to the far side of the restaurant. It looked like Lydia had dropped her phone on the floor, but she made no effort to pick it up. Slowly she turned around, her face pale and blank.
"Lydia?" Stiles called over, rising cautiously from his seat.
She began to walk towards them. Stiles stayed where he was, not quite standing, not quite sitting, with concern painting his features. Lydia walked straight past the table and to the opposite end of the restaurant, sliding robotically into a different booth.
/Navigate by Band of SkullsMorinna was nursing a coffee when the strange girl sat in the seat opposite her and stared at her, unblinking, mouth hanging slightly open, for a full thirty seconds.
"Yes?" Morinna asked candidly, too drained to be dealing with this nonsense.
The girl looked confused, her eyelids fluttering. She put a hand to her throat and opened her mouth like she was about to speak before deciding against it. She was about Morinna's age with a real English rose complexion – creamy white skin with an exuberant blush of pink on her cheeks and lips, the colour brought out by soft coppery hair flowing in such a perfect way that Morinna almost resented her. Her own hair was perpetually messy, even when styled.
"Lydia?" someone said, their voice lilting as if they were reasoning with a small child. Lydia – that was her name. A boy was standing over their table, looking at the girl sadly. Morinna raised an eyebrow at him, awaiting an explanation. Nobody sane had behaved like this back at home – intrusive and unapologetic.
"I want to scream, Stiles," Lydia whispered. "Why do I want to scream?"
She never took her eyes off Morinna. They were a greenish brown colour, kind of like moss, very pretty. She was very pretty.
Stiles – a weird name for a weird character - looked at Morinna like he was in intense pain. She felt exposed, naked, uncomfortable. It was a cruelly familiar sensation.
"Come and talk to Scott, now, Lydia," he said gently. "Scott will know what to do." He reached out to take her hand and lead her away.
A burst of anger blossomed in Morinna's chest. She detested not understanding things.
"Sit down," she said, her voice like honey. Trance-like, Stiles slipped onto the bench besides Lydia. "You're going to tell me what's going on."
"Lydia is a –" he began emotionlessly.
"No!" Lydia burst out, standing up suddenly. She looked at Morinna defiantly, breathing hard. "Sorry about that," she said, voice strained. "Wrong person. We have to be going now."
She pushed Stiles out of the booth, almost straight onto the floor, and marched him back across the diner. Morinna stared at the bubbles on top of her coffee, feeling almost as lost as she had a year ago when she had woken up a monster.
Whoever Lydia was, compulsion didn't seem to work on her. And compulsion worked on everyone.
Morinna downed her coffee in seconds and went up to the counter to give the waitress a five dollar bill. Lydia, Stiles and two other people were staring at her from a table by the window, seeming more than a little shaken. Morinna stared them down, crossing her arms. She wasn't used to being seen as threatening, let alone as a predator. Today she was wearing a white cotton dress with big bell sleeves and a black fringed waistcoat – it was hard for her to believe she looked scary at all.
Still, the group were unnerved. All of them looked down – except for one, the boy she hadn't met yet. He had dark hair and he was staring straight into her eyes, unperturbed.
I want to scream, Lydia had said. Morinna looked away, agitated. Could it be possible that this strange girl knew what she was?
"Do you want a receipt?" the waitress asked, her perky voice cutting through the tension.
Morinna shook her head, not making eye contact. "Keep the change," she mumbled, heading straight for the door.
Out of the corner of her eye, she swore she had seen Scott's eyes flash red.
