Refers to Episodes: Abomination (02x04), Galvanize (03x15), and 117 (04x02)

The next day is equally miserable. It begins the minute Lydia opens her eyes, when a very frightened Derek loses control and shifts, attacking Deaton in the process of fleeing the clinic. Later on, when she picks Kira up from school, fully intending to head to Scott's house, Lydia's instincts lead her to stop at a gas station (even though she already has a full tank of fuel) where she discovers a horribly disfigured corpse in the restroom.

As if that wouldn't have been enough trauma for one day, in the evening, she and Stiles end up in a creepy underground vault with Peter Hale (whom she despises), nothing in their possession to defend themselves with…except Stiles's baseball bat. The only good piece of news - Peter was too distracted by his own personal matter to be more than mildly annoyed by their presence.


9:02 PM

Lydia and Stiles quietly walk out of the vault, leaving Peter behind to sulk about his stolen bearer bonds. A chill spreads over Lydia, and she instinctively wraps her arms around herself. Within seconds, she is sharply conscious of a hand on her shoulder - Stiles is guiding her through the darkness. The fact that his touch surprises her, speaks volumes.

A few months ago, the touch of his hand would have felt natural and comforting. Stiles has always been openly protective of her, but it is the subtle adjustments he makes that really affect her – placing a hand on her back when she is scared, squeezing her hand in a tense moment, stepping ever so slightly in front of her if he thinks she is in danger.

Tonight, even through the material of her jacket, his touch is painful, like a burn. It reminds Lydia of what she has been missing and manifests an ache so profound that it infiltrates every cell in her body. Maintaining focus on the ground beneath her feet, Lydia hopes its support will steady her legs. She quickens her step until she is out of his reach. A gnawing sensation inside reminds her that the current state of their relationship is her own fault, and she shivers with cold.

"I'll drive you home," Stiles says casually, as they cross in front of his Jeep.

"My car is at Kira's. If you bring me there, I can drive myself home," she replies glumly.

"Or, I could pick you up in the morning and you could get your car then," he suggests.

"That's not necessary. It will be out of your way."

"Lydia, it's fine. I don't mind."

"But–"

"Lydia, would you just let me drive you home? I want to make sure you get there safely," he interrupts.

"Depends on how you define safely," she scoffs. "Did you even have time to get the Jeep fixed? We'll probably get stuck somewhere between here and my house, and I just want to go home and get some sleep."

"As a matter of fact, I had it fixed this morning," he answers, irritation coloring his tone. "Why are you being so difficult?"

"I'm being difficult?" she remarks, whipping around to face him and immediately regretting the eye contact. She breathes deeply in a vain attempt to calm herself. "You know what? Fine. We'll do whatever you want."

Lydia stomps over to the passenger side and pulls open the door, refusing to give Stiles the opportunity to open it for her, as he usually does. It crosses her mind that he might not have tried to do so, and the last thing she needs is further proof that their relationship is going awry. She plops her petite frame in the seat and slams the door, mumbling, "You get to make all the decisions for us now anyway."

Anger building, she buckles herself in and turns to stare out the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Stiles running a hand through his hair and slowly walking to the driver's side. He silently climbs in next to her; lips gathered into a pout and eyes examining her.

"Lydia, what's wrong? Did I do something?"

She doesn't answer.

"Lydia?" he repeats.

"Nothing is wrong. I'm tired," she lies, plastering a smile on her lips and taking her phone out of her purse. "I'll text Kira, so she knows I won't be picking up my car until tomorrow. Can we go now?"

Without another word, Stiles sets the key in the ignition and starts up the Jeep. Then the pair travel in uncomfortable silence for the next quarter of an hour. Lydia remembers how not long ago, they used to be able to sit for extended lengths, contented in the quiet of each other's presence. For her, during those spells, happiness came purely from being in his orbit. She would listen to the steady sound of his breathing, watch his facial expressions change as his mind linked two points, feel the warmth of his body in those moments when he was so near they were just shy of touching. She misses those moments. She misses Stiles.

Her mind swiftly conjures a memory – intangible evidence of what once was.

Lying on his bed, propped up on her elbows, Lydia coiled a strand of red yarn around her fingertips. She relaxed across his pillow, feeling him all around her. She was in his room, with his sheets and his blanket against her skin, purposefully working to identify the subtle traces of his scent that drifted from the pillow – a mix of pine needles, clean linen, and a pleasant note that she couldn't quite identify. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with him. Silence – as she watched Stiles methodically study his make-shift crime board, pen pressed into the pout that was forming on his lips. She could tell he was urgently working to draw a connection between the bits of information they had accumulated. Agitation building, he fretfully paced, rubbing at the nape of his neck. As he moved, she studied the way his light grey tee shirt glided over his torso and how the sleeves gently stretched over his upper arms. Even then, she longed to reach out for him. Her chest tightened with love, and Stiles turned to face her, as if he could also feel the tether towing him in her direction. She thought he was going to kiss her that night, but he didn't.

The noise of Stiles's thumb impatiently tapping on the steering wheel, redirects Lydia's attention to her surroundings. The comfort and ease of the night in her memory is a stark contrast to the present one. Such a comparison looms heavily and intensifies the lingering chill that penetrates her bones. Again, she rigidly covers her midsection with her arms.

She is aware that Stiles was repeatedly glancing over at her as she struggles to retain her own body heat. Though it is uncommonly hot that evening, he begins fiddling with the temperature controls until Lydia senses heat emanating from the vents. His attentiveness does not go unnoticed, but she is still too angry to let herself soften.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the view from her window, Lydia avoids meeting his eyes at all costs. She holds her purse in one hand, carefully preparing to make a quick departure. By the time Stiles parks in front of the Martin household, she has already unbuckled her seat belt. Her hand is poised to release the door handle, but his arm moves to stop her; his hand securely encircling her wrist.

"Lydia, could you just…wait? Don't go like this. Please, tell me what's wrong," he pleads in a low voice.

"Can we not do this now?" she begs, still not trusting herself to look at him. She knows one peek at those beautiful brown eyes will have her in pieces. "Look, I'm tired. I just want to go to bed and forget about the last few days."

"No, it's more than that. You're angry with me. Come on, Lydia… You know I hate it when you're mad at me."

The sincerity in his voice makes Lydia more flustered. How am I supposed to stay away from him when he is being so sweet and patient…and looking so gorgeous? Damn it! She quickly reminds herself to turn away, but her eyes are already transfixed.

"Why do you care?" she snaps, unable to shield her voice from the level of emotion that is forcing its way out of her.

"Oh, you're definitely angry with me! What kind of question is that?" he asks, hurt slashing through his words like a blade. "Of course, I care. We're friends… Aren't we?"

Lydia tenses. Friends. The word feels like an insult or a demotion. After everything – the hours spent side by side, the risks they have taken to save each other, the way he returned her kiss in the locker room – she is only a friend to him.

A mass of memories occupies her mind, preventing her from answering. Until Stiles points it out to her, she has no idea that tears are streaming down her face.

"Lydia, don't cry."

What happened to the boy who told me he thought I looked really beautiful when I cried? she wonders, staring into her lap.

His hand remains on her wrist; his touch gentle, yet agonizingly hot. The heat is so intense, she thinks it might burn a hole in her skin. It leaves such an impression that she hardly notices when he lets go.

Stiles gets out of the Jeep and hurries around to the passenger side. He opens the door, taking Lydia's hands in his own. Within seconds, he is coaxing her onto the sidewalk and wrapping his arms around her. She resists for a moment, but the contact is too welcoming…and too longed for. Her weakness for him prevails, and she lets him embrace her.

To Lydia, it has been an eternity since Stiles last held her. She yearns to savor it with every sense possible; hearing his heart pound in his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing in the scent of him until she can almost taste it. She wants to stay locked in his arms forever, but he eventually breaks from the hug, taking every last measure of heat with him.

He bends down to meet her gaze. "I know I said you look beautiful when you cry…and you do…but I can't stand it if I'm the reason you are crying," he explains, taking her face in both hands. "Please stop. Lydia, you're breaking my heart."

The irony of his statement is astounding but she disregards it because there he is again – her Stiles – the boy that can dissolve every one of her inhibitions with a word, a smile, or a touch. The love she has for him expands; reaching up from her core, grabbing her by the throat, and compelling her to bare her soul to him.

Fearing what she might be tempted to confess, Lydia seeks to redirect the focus from herself. "I got your shirt all wet," she comments.

"That doesn't matter. Tell me what's wrong. I need to know what I did…so I can fix it," he begs, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"I…well…" she hesitates, her mind grasping for a plausible excuse for her behavior.

"Lydia, the truth…" he stresses.

"The truth is I…I can't tell you. It wouldn't be right."

"Yes, you can. You can tell me anything."

"No, not this!" she contends more forcefully, shrugging away from him and heading for the front door.

Her hands are shaking so ferociously the she can barely get the keys out of her purse and when she finally does, she drops them. The clanking sound of metal against stone makes her jump. She reaches down to retrieve the keys. Tears splatter the doorstep like raindrops. Faster than she can blink her saturated eyes to clarity, Stiles is beside her again – keys in his right hand, and his left covering both of hers to quiet them. He opens the door, waits for her to enter, and follows her inside.

"Stiles…go home. I don't need your pity," she instructs, flicking on the lights.

"This is most definitely not pity, and no…I'm not leaving until we talk. I know you are tired, but this is too important," he insists, closing the door behind him.

"Why?" she questions, nervously watching him move towards her.

"Because I care about you. You know that… Don't you?"

He is standing so close – too close for her to maintain her resolve and she urgently needs to put space between them, or else she might say something she won't be able to take back. Quickly she ascends the steps, trying to ignore the fact that Stiles is close on her heels. She reaches the top step and heads for her bedroom, trying to calculate how many times he may have followed her up that same staircase and down that same hallway over the past few years in order to make sure she was safe. Consequently, she is met with a series of memories that spring up from beneath her like wildflowers; each unique and meaningful; each a reminder of the beauty that was – asserting their way into her consciousness and tormenting her as they wither away.

"Lydia, wait," he calls, still following her trajectory.

She arrives at the threshold a few seconds ahead of Stiles, and hastily decides to use the advantage against him. Turning on a dime, she plants herself in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other on the door.

"But things are different now. I can't tell you everything." A lethal combination of exhaustion and sentiment causes her to blurt out words she never meant to say. "Anyway, it's not like we are a couple." She starts pushing the door closed but Stiles braces his foot in the doorway; one last maneuver to make entry.

"Lydia…come on…I…"

"Stiles, please just leave me alone," she implores softly.

"But—"

"Please."

His face changes shape before her eyes; concern twisting into offence. "Is that what you really want?"

The pain in his eyes is apparent. Knowing her own actions are the cause makes Lydia feel like a monster, but she can't risk giving in to him for fear that Stiles will figure out what she is so desperately trying to hide. "Yeah, that's what I want," she whispers through trembling lips.

He grudgingly steps back, and Lydia wastes no time shutting the door. She leans her head against it, seeking its solidity to prevent her from crashing to the floor. A light sound against the wooden barricade tells Lydia that Stiles has put his hand up to the door.

"I'll be here to pick you up in the morning," he assures her, voice filtering through the medium. "Lydia, whatever I did, I'm sorry."

The way his voice cracks over the words I'm sorry makes her think he might be crying. She puts her hand to the surface, imagining his on the opposite side of the grain. She immediately wants to tear the door open, so she can fall back into his arms…but she promised herself she would keep her distance and that is what she intends to do.

Another minute passes, followed by the sound of footsteps announcing his departure. Lydia knows that Stiles has literally given her every opportunity to confide in him, and she hates herself for resisting. She waits until she hears the front door close before uttering the words she so desperately wants to say - I love you. Her legs give out from under her. She slides down to her knees, shattered with grief and regret. The dam has breached, and a waterfall of tears cascades over her lashes.