A/N: Sorry about the delay. What an exhausting chapter to write. *whew*
There are moments when she finds herself confused, wondering when her life shifted from spending Friday nights out in society, pretending to eat carbs and laughing at all those who were doing nothing at home, to hiding out at the Vet's with a werewolf and an emissary contemplating the reappearance of a person she watched die and then get buried.
Lydia thinks that anyone else would have pleaded insanity by now. She thinks that she's that much closer to it herself.
"Do you still see him?" Deaton asks carefully, watching as Lydia looks behind him, a small smile of familiarity playing on her lips.
"Yes." She forces herself not to look at Scott, who she knows is eying her intensely.
"Can he see you?" Deaton asks patiently.
His question causes her to pause as she looks between Deaton and Scott incredulously. "I don't know. I never tried…"
"Try now," Deaton says, as if that is the most obvious thing to do in the world.
She sees the way Scott's eyes widen as she faces a wall she knows looks like empty space to the two men standing on the either side of her. She watches as Stiles shrugs, his shoulder slumping as he leans against the wall with his neck craning to the side. She waits until his glance falls in her direction and she waves, tentatively, a small smile playing on her lips in a way that doesn't mask her hope. She tries to hide the sinking feeling in her chest when his eyes keep moving past her.
"He doesn't see me," she says softly, because somehow that's worse. And she realises with a pang exactly why she had never thought to communicate with him. The disappointment is almost too much.
She can practically hear the heavy breath Scott releases, and she can't help but share an understanding, albeit a disappointing smile with the only other person in the room who has the same stakes as she did, if not more so.
"Can you hear him?" Deaton asks carefully.
"Sometimes," Lydia says too honestly.
Scott can't help but lean forward and eye her eagerly, his eyes sparkling with hope. "What does he say?"
"I don't know." She shrugs even though she's aware that her shoulders are too stiff to make the movement look casual. "Things. Stiles sort of things. I'm sure they don't make any sense to anyone but him." She keeps her gaze on Scott, since from the corner of her eye she can see the suspicion in the emissary's gaze.
"You said there's something we can do about this," Scott tells Deaton. "Whatever it is, we'll do it."
Deaton hesitates a moment before he nods. "There is a chance—a good chance under the right circumstances—that we can bring him back."
"Resurrect him?" Lydia can't help but whisper, the nightmares that had plagued her with regards to Peter causing an unwanted shiver of dread to travel up her spine.
Deaton nods. "It's not easy. We'll need to use the power of the Nemeton."
Scott shakes his head, his expression confused. "The last time someone used the Nemeton to resurrect herself, she ended up killing innocent people for a sacrifice. Stiles would never let anyone die because of him."
"A sacrifice is needed for a resurrection, yes," says Deaton, "but it need not be something living… or mortal."
Lydia's eyes widen with understanding. "The Nogitsune."
Giving her a curt nod, Deaton turns towards Scott. "You said that you had the Nogitsune trapped…?"
Scott nods. "Isaac, he… He caught it like you said we should. He has it. Or he gave it to… Allison's dad," he says roughly, his jaw working hard.
Even after so many weeks, hearing her best friend's name is torture. Lydia tries her hardest to fight the tears threatening to spill over, and turns to face the object of their discussion. She nearly laughs when she sees him pacing, and the way he rolls his eyes as if he has just heard a stupid suggestion.
Deaton's gaze flicks over her before he faces Scott again. "We'll need it."
Scott nods, his shoulders straightening with determination. "I'll get it."
"Lydia," Deaton says suddenly, effectively drawing her attention. "I need you to get something of Stiles'. Something that can connect you to him."
She nods, because she can guess how it will work, since the memory of three of her friends staying under icy cold water for sixteen hours is not something she will ever forget.
"It is best to do this on the night of the full moon, when the Nemeton can draw on its power. That gives us close to two weeks to get what we need."
"What else do we need?" asks Scott, voicing the question she's about to ask.
Deaton hesitates, his expression apologetic. "We'll need Stiles' body."
Lydia feels a silent gasp escape her lips as Scott winces as if he had just been punched in the gut. "You want us to dig him up?" she asks, incredulously. Even though they are working on reviving him, the very thought of disturbing his resting place seems… wrong.
"If you can bring him back," Deaton says as he meets her gaze, "the Nemeton will have to heal his body so he has a something to come back to. Without it, the ritual is useless."
She turns towards Scott and sees the internal battle he's waging within himself. The very thought that he might have to dig up his best friend is horrific, and Lydia can't help but sympathise with his plight.
"Maybe we could ask Derek—"
"No," Scott says forcefully, his voice strengthening with determination. "I'll do it. Is that all?"
"There is one more thing." Deaton says as he turns his attention on her once again. "What we are going to attempt is not easy. It won't be easy on you. If we cannot exchange Stiles' life for the Nogitsune's, there is a chance that your sacrifice might be accepted in its place."
Scott's eyes widen as he turns towards her. "You mean…"
"He means I might not make it," Lydia says softly, suddenly the puzzle that is the mystery of her connection to Stiles clicking into place with loud clangs in her head. This is what it really means to be someone's anchor, she thinks, the chance to exchange your life for another's, not just to ground them in reality. Had she been alone, she would have laughed at the irony of her situation. Somehow she doubts Scott will find her thoughts as funny as she does.
Scott shakes his head vehemently. "No. There has to be another way."
"There isn't," Deaton says apologetically. "Unfortunately, if you want Stiles back, this is the only way. But, of course, you could always break the connection you share with Stiles."
She can see the way Scott's jaw tightens and the way his hands form into fists as he contemplates keeping her safe over bringing his best friend back. She feels the thrumming in her chest against such an idea, but knowing it is not the best time, it doesn't stop a giggle from escaping her. Her eyes widen when she sees the incredulous looks Scott and Deaton throw her.
"I'm sorry," she says, her eyes are sincere even though her voice is far from it. "I just remembered the time Stiles tried to do that weird flip thing with Danny's skateboard? You remember that, right? He fell on his ass and then blamed Danny for faulty merchandise? Do you remember what he said then, Scott?"
Scott's gaze holds onto hers intensely as he swallows back something before quoting his best friend. "He said that he will perfect that backflip by the time of your eighteenth birthday even if it kills him."
"Yeah," she says quietly with a smile. "I think we owe him that chance, don't you?"
She sees the way his shoulders slump at her words, and she can't help but think that that is the cruellest thing she has ever told Scott McCall.
Maybe she is the optimist of the group now or maybe it's the fact that she can't shake the feeling that she is meant to do this. Whatever it is, if she can help Scott prioritise Stiles the way he should, she thinks her methods just might be worth it.
The drive back to her place is quiet, with Scott's fingers tightening around the steering wheel of his Mom's car and Lydia breathing slowly in an effort to calm her racing heart.
There are certain words that keep playing around in her mind.
'Nemeton' and 'death' and 'sacrifice' are the only three that hold her attention the most.
It's Scott who speaks first, his voice soft and strained, breaking through the thick silence. "You don't have to do it."
She can hear the longing in his voice, the hope he has that even though he says the words, she might not take them to heart.
"I know," she says gently, because that is Scott. He will always give people the choice to choose the path with least harm. It's something predictable in an unpredictable world and his words only serve to relax her tense shoulders.
"You could do what Deaton says," he continues as if she hadn't said a word. "You could break the connection and…" He pauses, unable to say the words as the car pulls up in front of her house seconds before he kills the engine. "We could let him go," he says finally, his voice cracking painfully.
The words sound foreign, as if it's a concept none of them want to dwell on for fear that it might become reality. Lydia wonders if this is what fear truly is, not the need to survive when the threat of death hangs over you, but the dread to say something because you are terrified it might become real.
They sit in silence, neither one of them making a move before she feels the demands of the day press on her shoulders and make her want to collapse with exhaustion. "I'll think about it," she says quietly, because she understands that that is what he's after. If something happens—if something happens to her—he will never forgive himself for not stopping her. He needs that assurance that she's going into it willingly, knowing the consequences.
She makes a move to get out of the car when he stops her with her name.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He looks genuinely confused, and dare she think, hurt. She understands instantly why Allison had never been able to deny him anything, because Scott McCall had never looked at her the way she had seen him look at others, and it's disturbing to see such vulnerability in someone she has only considered as 'strong' for so long.
"I thought I was crazy," she says honestly, tears prickling her eyes. "I thought I was losing it and I didn't want you to worry."
He nods, like he understands her and then he hesitates for a moment. "Is he here? Now?"
She realises from the way he asks the question that he had been waiting to ask her for hours. She can't help but admire such restraint. She shakes her head slowly before thinking it through, and watches as his shoulders deflate with disappointment. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, it's fine. I just—" He lets out a low breath. "How is he?" he asks her earnestly. "Is he… okay?"
"I think so. I don't know." She shrugs lightly and reaches for the handle. "Thank you for dropping me home."
"It's no problem," he mumbles distractedly.
As she is about to step out, he draws her attention again. "Hey. I was serious. You don't have to do it."
She smiles, because she appreciates the way he keeps trying to give her an out. But they both know that she won't take it. "I know," she says again before she gets out of the car. As she is about to close the door, she hesitates. "I don't think we should tell the Sheriff what we're doing," she says cautiously. "Maybe we should just keep what we're doing to ourselves." Just in case it doesn't work, goes unsaid. Just in case we fail and he has to lose his son all over again.
Scott shares a sad, understanding smile with her. "I know."
Lydia nods before she closes the car door quickly and makes her way up the path towards her front door.
She tries to ignore the way Stiles' eyes follow her as she enters her house and close the door behind her.
Maybe it's the silliest thing. She remembers the day Stiles had brought them all together, Scott, Allison and herself to give them all similar key rings as inconspicuously as he possibly could during a free period. Which, for Stiles, wasn't that inconspicuous at all.
She remembers the way Allison frowned as she studied the keys he had given them all. "How did you get these?"
Sidestepping the question, Stiles had just tossed a key ring to each of them. "Look, the way I see it, with werewolves, alphas, druids and your charming boyfriend—"
"Ex-boyfriend," Lydia had said with a roll of her eyes.
"Fine. Ex-boyfriend..." He raised an eyebrow at her and she had shrugged. "Things are not good around here. We need to be ready. We need a series of plans from B to Z just in case. And since some of us can't really huff and puff and break down a door—"
Scott had scoffed.
"This is our failsafe. If any one of us are in trouble, you just need to turn the key to get inside. Believe me it's the best way to protect personal property." He had slammed the table and leaned back, all smug and proud as if he was waiting for a wall of praise to hit him in the face.
Scott had laughed with amusement. "Do we even want to know how you got their house keys?"
"Really, Scott?" Stiles had asked his best friend, completely insulted by the question. "That's what you're concentrating on? I'm giving everyone here a chance to come to each other's defence when we need it and you focus on that? For the love of God!" He had sniffed and muttered that last phrase before shrugging. "Trust me, you'll thank me later."
What a time to be thankful, she thinks, as she turns the key in the lock and let's herself into the Stilinski household. As the Sheriff is on duty, she takes her time as she makes her way up the stairs and into Stiles' bedroom.
It's an awful thing, to see that nothing has been changed. His laptop is still open, some of his clothes strewn messily on the foot of his bed and his wall of cases intact with red string and all.
She doesn't know why it happens, but seeing it all, knowing that he's not here causes a pain in her chest so severe that crying doesn't seem enough. But she does cry, loud sobs that she tries to keep locked in her throat but they fight through and she hiccups as she covers her mouth while hot tears fall down her cheeks. She takes a few moments, lets it ride out, and then with a shake of her head, tries to hold it in. She came here for a specific item, after all. She can't be distracted.
She starts at his table, her fingers shaking as they carefully brush against items without really touching them. The truth is she's afraid to take things, to disturb the silence. Her eyes fall on the framed picture of her drawing before she blinks and looks away, searching for something else.
It takes her a few minutes but she tires quickly, and against her better judgement, she finds herself sitting on his bed with her hands on her lap. She doesn't know where to start. She doesn't know what to take.
She isn't startled when he appears right next to her, sitting on the bed with her with his head low as he studies her hands. She watches him, the way his leg bounces, that nervous tick only he seems to possess.
"There's gotta be something," he mumbles, his eyes rising to study the board. "There has to be something I'm missing."
She watches the way he twitches, the way he sits up straighter and circles his shoulders to make himself relax. She watches the way he bites the inside of his cheek and then how he shakes his head and slumps forward. "You were there," he tells the walls. Her eyes fall on an article about Barrow and her breath hitches.
"Lydia was right. You were there. But, why was I helping you?" He lets out a low breath and drops his head in his hands, his fingers rubbing his eyes as if he hadn't slept in days.
"What am I missing?" he mutters again as he raises his head. "Because I'm missing something." She watches as he sniffs, his eyes widening a moment before he gets up and walks towards the wall.
There is a small moment where she sees the way he lightly brushes his fingers over something on his desk. The moment is gone when he is startled by something before he calls over his shoulder, "Coming, Dad!" and after three steps he disappears.
Slowly, she gets up off the bed and moves towards the table, curiosity winning over every other feeling. She stands where he stood, her eyes studying the myriad of clues he had been obsessed with before she looks down at the spot where he had looked, if only for a brief moment.
The only thing close to her is the framed picture of her art, and with shaking fingers, she moves it. She doesn't know what she had expected to find, part of her thinks that she didn't expect anything at all, but what she sees under the frame is a faux ring made out of red string that she had made herself all those weeks ago when she had been lying on her stomach as they had tried to make sense of Barrow together.
Using the red string he had, she had knotted it around her finger, making a ring as they had discussed theory after theory. It had been Stiles who had cut it from the rest of the thread so he could use the string without compromising her project that had spouted from no other reason but to keep her hands busy. But, then they had hurried to go back to the school and it was left, forgotten, as so many meaningless things were.
But it wasn't meaningless, a voice in her head tells her softly. Not to Stiles.
She picks it up slowly and turns around only to see him standing at the other end of the bedroom watching her. She's not sure if he's here or if it's just an echo, but she smiles through her tears as she puts the ring on her index finger.
"I miss you," she finds herself telling his image, because it's true. She knows that he can't hear her and it feels good to be that honest in months.
And when he smiles sadly at her, she quickly wipes her eyes and exits his bedroom with the intention of leaving the house before the Sheriff comes back.
TBC