The pain was overwhelming, but even more powerful than her pain was the all-encompassing guilt that flooded her cheeks and sunk her heart to her toes. Stiles...wonderful, sarcastic, dying Stiles. Everything was so wrong, so completely fucked.
She stormed quickly to the front door, and Allison was suddenly beside her, squeezing her shoulder. Her eyes searched Lydia's own, knowingly. But now was not the time, first she had to get out of this apartment.
"Wait!" Malia cried, chasing Lydia to the doorway. "You forgot something. Please, for the love of God, take her."
Lydia grabbed it before she even registered what it was. And then it hit her like a brick wall.
"W-what?" she stammered, blinking the tears and frustration from her vision to focus on the ball of fluff wiggling in her arms.
"It's Prada!" Scott exclaimed, and Lydia's concentration immediately snapped back into the present.
It was Prada. Wiggling, snorting excitedly.
"Oh my God! What?! How…?"
"Your mom didn't want to take her to Costa Rica. She was going to give her to the local shelter, since it was your dog and all."
"And I can see why. That dog is Satan." Malia remarked, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
"I told Stiles no way, but when does he ever listen to what I say anymore?"
Lydia's head shot up. What did Stiles have to do with her childhood Pomeranian?
"When Stiles heard your mom was selling the house and moving, he went over to say goodbye. She told him about Prada and he said he'd hold onto her for you." Allison said, softly.
"It's been four years since my mom moved." she whispered back.
"Longest four years of my fucking life." Malia groaned.
Lydia didn't know what was worst. That her mom tried to give away her dog without letting her know, or that she wasn't surprised that Stiles took her at all. This was totally something that Stiles would do. Hold onto a dog that wasn't his just because he knew how much it meant to her.
"I-I need to lie down." she said, running a hand across her forehead.
"Yeah, yeah of course." Allison murmured, turning her to head out the door.
Lydia threw one last look over her shoulder, and saw him slumped on his bedroom door frame, watching. Always, always watching.
She couldn't look at him for another moment.
"Pretty exhausting day, huh?" Allison asked, sitting across from her on the bed.
They were both in pajamas, Allison's hair wet and fresh from the shower. A pint of Ben and Jerry's sat between them, with two spoons jutting out of the creamy surface.
Exhausting was one word for it.
"I'm so, so glad you're here, Lyd. We all are."
"It feels really good to be here." She smiled, taking a particularly large chunk of ice cream out of the cardboard container.
"So...are we going to talk about the elephant in the room or what?"
"What elephant?" Lydia asked, bringing her hand up over her eyebrows and pretending to search the guest bedroom.
She had known they would discuss this eventually, and secretly she was dying for someone to talk to about it. She didn't have any friends in Europe. Girls were envious of her, and the men she slept with were temporary at best. The only person she ever could confide in was in the apartment below, probably sleeping peacefully in the arms of someone he loved.
She suddenly felt like she would puke.
"Come on, it's me." Allison said sympathetically, patting her knee.
"What would you like to know? The fact that I lost the only person who ever truly understood and accepted me? Or that I drove him to it?"
"We all know you didn't 'drive him to it,' Lydia. What happened graduation night, it was shit. It was. But no one blames you for anything. And I'm pretty sure it's still a secret."
"Malia still doesn't know?" she questioned, chewing her bottom lip.
"Malia isn't an idiot, but you know how she is. She can be a little...indifferent...when it comes to things that don't directly affect her."
"So the fact that I slept with her boyfriend didn't 'directly affect' her?" Lydia grumbled self loathingly.
Allison just gave her a noncommittal shrug, and said, "Pass the Chunky Monkey."
Lydia remembered every detail, down to the dress she was wearing, and the shade of her nail polish, Lilacism. She remembered what he was wearing too, a button down in a shade of blue that brought out his amber eyes. And she remembered the taste of the beer as she took a last swig for courage. Her parties were known for being Beacon Hill's epic blowouts, and this graduation party was the last party she would throw. Her swan song.
The music pounded, and she felt the heat of bodies jostling against her. Grinding and laughing and drinking. They had just graduated hours ago, and after family dinners and lots of cap and gown photos, the senior class had all gathered together one last time. And it was a rager. Lights flashed, cheers from a beer pong win carried over the thudding of a bass line, and darkness allowed them to lose their inhibitions. Someone came up behind her and touched her hips, snaking their way slowly to squeeze her breasts. She let it happen, but only briefly, before swatting the hand away, not bothering to look behind her and see who it was.
She only had eyes for one person tonight.
People were pushing, she felt herself begin to sweat from the body heat, but still she looked and looked. He was probably gone. Probably no where to be found. She could just picture him in some corner by himself, picking up random household items to inspect them. Or drumming his constantly moving fingers on the balcony of the back porch.
Hands touched her once more, and she finally decided to give in and just enjoy the moment. The crowd swelled, and she began to feel dizzy.
How long had it been that she'd been dancing? She was certain that four different men had been dancing with her at one point. She was being touched and gawked at and it all felt good. This was her party, after all, and she was enjoying herself. Lydia Martin, queen bee forever. But still, something felt missing.
Suddenly, someone was being pushed off her, and then new hands were placed on her hips, and her hair was being brushed over one shoulder.
"Lydia." he whispered into her neck, and she pushed back on him and felt his groan travel down her spine. He had found her.
She turned to face him, throwing her arms over his neck. He was clearly as drunk as she was, hair disheveled and eyes both piercing and sleepy. She cupped her hand to his cheek, and drew her thumb over his lips.
"I've been trying to find you all night." she slurred, and he grinned.
"I know."
Of course he knew.
They danced for what seemed like both minutes and hours. Slow songs where they rested their foreheads against each other. Fast songs where he spun her around to grip her hips, and push his pelvis into her backside. Sometimes they laughed, sometimes they moaned, but always, they were introspective. Absorbing everything they could about each other, not wanting any moment to go to waste.
"Remember when we danced at formal?" he breathed into her ear.
Of course she remembered. She remembered feeling prickly and disappointed that she was not attending with Jackson.
'Oh if only.' She thought. If only she knew at that time, that Jackson was only a fraction of the man that Stiles was. And then there was the traumatizing moment when Peter had tried to turn her into a werewolf, but she preferred to keep that part of the night dead and buried.
"I was a bitch." she groaned, turning her head to his face.
"Yeah!" he laughed, and she couldn't help but throw her head back and laugh with him.
"I'm really glad we're dancing now." He smiled sleepily, and she turned to throw her arms over his shoulders and rest her head on his shoulder.
"Let's get out of here." she murmured, and wasn't surprised when he nodded in agreement.
When she rang Sheriff Stalinski's doorbell, she wasn't surprised he didn't answer it. She was preparing to find the worst. She pushed the lit button once more. Finally, the doorknob turned and there he was, standing in a wrinkled uniform with five o'clock shadow, red-rimmed eyes, and smelling of whiskey.
"Lydia?!" he exclaimed, with equal parts apprehension and excitement.
"Howdy, Sheriff." she smiled, and threw her arms over his broad shoulders.
"Care for some breakfast?" she winked, shaking a paper bag in one hand, and a venti dark roast coffee in the other. He was putty in her hands.
"I can't believe you still remember I take my coffee black." he laughed, turning the cup in his palms. "It's been a while, huh?"
"Mmhmm." she nodded, "four years, to be exact."
"Does, uh..does Stiles know you're here?"
"Well, I am staying in the apartment right above his!" she laughed in attempt to hid the sting.
"Oh great. How, uh, is he, um, doing?" Sheriff questioned, scratching his scalp anxiously.
Lydia turned to look out the kitchen window. Everything was like she remembered. Same furniture, paint. Same plaid armchair that the Sheriff sat in every night before bed. Same sunny windows.
The only thing that wasn't the same was now he was alone in the house. And maybe soon, he would be alone in the world.
"Oh he's great. In great spirits, eating like a horse, taking nightly walks after dinner."
Okay so she had made those last two things up, but the Sheriff probably needed to hear them more than they needed to be true.
"Come over with me. I'll drive." Lydia offered. She already knew what his answer would be.
"Oh no, I couldn't. I've got a lot to do today at the office. I should actually go and get ready." he stood, and paused halfway through the kitchen doorway.
"Feel free to hang around, or you know. Stiles' room is open." he finished, and she suddenly understood he knew so much more about her than she assumed he did. Her eyes prickled uncomfortably, and she looked down, still trying to sound chipper as she thanked him.
His room was exactly the same, just like the house. However, she realized with a start that no one had entered since he left. His books spilled about, his bed was unmade, and he still had some clothes on the floor. The air felt so, so heavy. She wasn't sure if it was her Banshee senses giving her vibes, or it was just the way a house feels inside when someone's heart breaks endlessly over and over again. She lifted her foot to take a step inside, but never put it down.
This was a sacred place, a secret place. And it needed to be left alone to grieve.
She closed the door.
...
On her way out, she stopped back into the kitchen, opening every cabinet. She found them under the sink. She debated pouring them all down the drain, or watering them down. But both options felt wrong. So instead she took some post it notes out of her purse and wrote a message, placing them on each bottle.
She hoped they would do the trick.
It was only 8 am when she returned to the apartment complex. She was still acclimating back to the American time schedule, and found Allison and Scott bleary eyed at their kitchen table.
"Wow, you're up early!" Scott smiled, "Where'dya go?"
"The Stilinski house."
Scott and Allison exchanged a look.
"Oh yeah?" Allison asked tentatively.
"Just dropped off breakfast and caught up with the Sheriff. Hopefully he comes over sometime this week."
"Oh Lydia," Allison said sympathetically. "He hasn't been over since Stiles was diagnosed and we all moved here."
Lydia just shrugged.
"I think it's time to go make breakfast." Scott got up, stretching yawning and stretching his arms over his head. He and Allison were still in their pajamas, but Lydia was already dressed and ready for the day.
The three of them made their way to the next floor down. Scott knocked on the door, and slowly turned the doorknob. As soon as he turned it, she was immediately struck with a wave of fear. She quickly sucked in a breath, and as Scott swung the door open, a buzzing noise filled the apartment.
Scott sprung to action, running across the foyer, screaming Stiles' name. So many things seemed to happen at once. Allison following his lead, Malia, slowly rising to her elbows on the living room couch, covered by a blanket and blinking away sleep.
"What's going on?" She groaned.
Lydia didn't feel herself move, but one minute she was frozen in the doorway, the next she was watching Scott perform CPR on Stiles.