I wrapped around
and around
and around you;
strong arms
holding you in,
holding you together,
until the shaking
stopped.
Tied up in me
until you knew
soothing,
until you knew
I would never leave you
alone.
-Tyler Knott Gregson
They are huddled together on the comfy sofa that resides in the Stilinski living room. Stiles is sitting with Lydia's legs stretched across his lap. His left arm is draped around her shoulders, fingertips lightly grazing the sensitive skin on the inside of her elbow. Her stomach flutters at the contact and she rests her head on his bicep.
It's late afternoon, but with all of the curtains drawn and the shades pulled down, the room is so dark that it might as well be midnight. In other words, it's the perfect setting to binge watch episodes of all the British crime dramas they have been recording.
While the opening titles of Endeavour are flashing, Lydia's eyes keep wandering to Stiles. The light from the television is illuminating his face. It carves out his profile; the angles of his cheekbones and jawline, slope of his nose, and sweep of dense lashes that shade his eyes.
It's beautiful to see him like this. She can tell that he is already captivated, and she can't wait to watch his expressions change as he spots clues throughout the episode; his mind artfully storing them so he can gradually connect each piece of the puzzle. She loves to witness that magical moment when Stiles solves the mystery…well before the big reveal at the end.
Lydia runs her hand through his hair, playing with the crop of silky strands until the left side of his mouth elevates. He sneaks his opposite arm beneath the blanket that covers them to massage her calf. As he gently kneads his thumb into her soleus muscle, she lets out a soft moan of appreciation that makes him smile even bigger.
Cool air is briskly flowing down from the air conditioning vent, and her uncovered feet start to feel cold. Determined to remain in the cozy little nook she has nestled into, Lydia wiggles her toes for a few seconds hoping to revive them. When Stiles glides his hand past her ankle, his palm reaching the arch of her right foot, she realizes that he is even more aware of her than she already thought. He reacts to the frigid temperature of her skin, sucking in half of a breath through puckered lips. Then, he adjusts the blanket to cover both of her feet and runs his knuckles over top to help warm them. Lydia snuggles closer…and she remembers.
She remembers the night Stiles saved her from Eichen House.
She was sitting on a steel table in Deaton's clinic. It was the middle of the night, and though the room was dimly lit, her eyes were clearly focused on a fixed point, a bright spot, her touchstone – Stiles.
And he was looking back at her.
Lydia remembers the way his eyes glistened and how his skin glowed in moonlight that shone through broken windows. Windows that had been shattered by the vibrations of her scream.
"I'm not paying for the windows," he joked, gesturing towards them with his thumb…and she smiled through tears.
Shortly after, she remembers the sound of her mother's voice. "We should get you to the hospital," Natalie said, as she relaxed her hold on Lydia.
Before her mother finished her sentence, Stiles had returned to Lydia's side. Her eyes followed his every move. She noticed the bits of glass that skidded across the floor when they collided with his sneakers. She observed the way the fabric of his clothes responded to him – grey tee shirt and red pants shifting over his body, plaid shirt flowing behind him like a cape. She stared at his hands, his beautiful hands, as they rose to find hers. She felt their warmth as each of his fingers locked tightly around hers. She watched as sparkling particles fell from the sleeves of her robe and listened to them clink onto the table when she pulled Stiles closer.
"I'm not going to the hospital. How are we supposed to explain…?" she choked, words fracturing with emotion at the thought of what had been done to her. She swallowed thickly as Stiles's thumbs stroked the backs of her hands. "There's nothing they can do for me anyway," she finished.
"Lydia—" her mother began.
"No, Mom," she interrupted with an edge to her tone. "I'm not spending another night… I just want to sleep in my own bed."
Her refusal was trailed by the sound of a sigh. "Okay. Let's go home."
When she felt her mother's hand behind her shoulder, Lydia tensed. She remembers wanting to say Stiles, will you take me home? but only being able to pronounce one word.
"Stiles…" she gasped, lifting her gaze from his hands…which were still linked with hers, to his eyes…which were patiently waiting to meet hers.
Relief set in when his expression told her that she didn't need to say more. Stiles always understands.
He stopped nibbling on his lower lip to assert, "Of course I will."
"Stiles is going to take me home," she informed her mother, keeping her eyes on him.
She felt her mother's hand press into her shoulder blade in reluctance, then drop away in quiet acceptance.
"Here, Ms. Martin…" Deaton called, "Let me show you how to proceed with Lydia's treatment. There's a salve that will reduce the risk of infection as well as facilitate healing and…"
Lydia let the hum of their voices fade into the background. All she could focus on was Stiles. He squeezed her hands another time before releasing them, then took the keys from his pocket and tossed them across the room to Scott.
"You mind?" he asked his best friend in their usual verbal shorthand.
"Not at all. I'll be out front," Scott answered, keys almost inaudibly connecting with his palm as he caught them. He passed by the table, offering a reassuring smile on his way out the door.
Once she and Stiles were alone, Lydia felt herself sway with dizziness. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her.
"It's okay," he soothed.
Her eyes started to mist, shiver of weary emotion tearing through her, but he kept her close to him; safe, tethered.
"It's okay," he repeated. "I've got you."
Stiles continued to comfort her with words and touches. She remembers that he never raised his volume above a whisper, like he knew that every sound echoed in her mind as loudly as the crack of a ricocheting bullet.
He held her until she steadied. Then, as if he could sense the storm dissipating, Stiles angled back to look at her, cupping her cheek in his hand. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah."
Lydia was suddenly aware of her bare feet. They were cold. With her legs outstretched in front of her, she could see that they were dirty and a bit bruised too. Stiles gingerly guided her legs over the edge of the table, but the path to the door seemed like an obstacle course; fragments of glass and debris everywhere. As if he could read her mind, he extended his arms towards her.
She smiled, fighting another upsurge of tears as she slid her arms around his neck. She remembers his cheek grazing against hers as he inched closer and carefully lifted her from the table. He carried her into the hallway and through the front entrance, where Scott was holding the door aside for them.
The Jeep was already running, its engine idling and bright headlights cutting through pitch darkness. The driver's side door was open – waiting for them.
Stiles set Lydia on the back seat. Rather than walk to the other side of the truck, he simply climbed over her, positioning himself directly next to her and opening his arms once more. Without hesitation, she drew her legs up onto the seat and curled into him. She felt a twinge below her ribs when he thoughtfully tucked the fabric of her robe around her feet and ran his knuckles over top to help warm them. Every move Stiles made invited her nearer and nearer. Lydia nestled her head into the crook of his neck and slipped her hands in between his flannel and tee shirt. It felt like ages since they had been so close, and she had been aching for the contact.
Seconds later, Scott took his place in the driver's seat, mindful to shut the door as noiselessly as possible behind him. He reversed onto the main road, then drove to her house without a word.
As Lydia sat with Stiles, she remembers being fully aware that every muscle in her body was beginning to relax…except for her heart, which was rapidly pumping in her chest. She could feel Stiles's heart too – each of his beats an answer to every silent cry she made for him in the past weeks. She wanted to talk to him, but she couldn't find words that encompassed even a fraction of what she felt in that moment, so she closed her eyes. Stiles didn't speak either, but the way his lips kept grazing her forehead and the way he continually twirled the damp ends of her hair between his fingers spoke volumes. Without uttering a sound, Stiles was telling her that he missed her…just as much as she missed him. She knew it.
Eventually, Scott turned into the driveway alongside her house and slowed the Jeep to a stop. The door creaked open and he promptly hopped out to help her.
Lydia stood on the cold stone path. Looking up at the house she lived in, she realized it had never seemed so unfamiliar, so dark, so…big. With Scott's assistance, she took a few cautious steps forward with her hands braced on his elbows until Stiles was beside her again.
"You okay?" Scott checked, his eyebrows cinched together with concern.
Her whole body ached, and the left side of her head was throbbing, but she nodded. She was alive and her two best friends were with her. What else could she hope for?
The boys slowly walked her to the porch, where Scott kept hold of her waist as Stiles unlocked the front door. The trio entered the house, and Scott flicked on the lights before standing in front of her.
"Are you going to stay a while," Lydia asked.
"Nah… You need to get some rest. Anyway, you're in good hands," he noted, looking at Stiles, "and—"
Before he could finish his statement, she understood. "Kira… You need to see her."
"Yeah."
"Is she okay? That was her…wasn't it? The brown-out…"
"It was. She's okay… Worried about you though. She must have sent me at least ten texts while I was waiting for you earlier."
Lydia exhaled a light breathy laugh. "Will you tell her that I miss her…and that I'm so grateful?"
"Sure," he smiled, hugging her close. "And we'll come by later to see how you're doing and drop off the Jeep. Okay?"
He held her for an extended pause, and when he let go, all of her pain was gone.
"Scott, you didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to."
"Thank you…for everything," she said with a quiver.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. "Lydia, it's what we do… Right?"
"Yeah…still… Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She remembers that as soon as Scott's hands left her shoulders, Stiles's arms were there to support her…like always. She leaned into him, reassured by the fact that she could rely on him so completely. Together they watched Scott head back to the Jeep and drive away.
When the taillights were beyond their view, Stiles secured the front door and led her towards the staircase. The mere sight of it halted her progression. She looked reluctantly from its imposing stature to Stiles. Where there always so many steps?
"We'll take it slow. Okay?"
"Okay," she sighed.
They took a few strides forward before he paused and moved in front of her, tugging at the front of her robe. "Maybe you should ditch this first… It's kind of…"
"Long…cumbersome…not to mention gross," she finished for him, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah…" he agreed through a nervous exhale. "All those things."
She remembers how he helped her out of the robe, his eyes never leaving hers. He tossed it over his shoulder, then wound his opposite arm around her waist. She held onto him as well, clutching his flannel with her right hand as they approached the first step. She remembers how their empty hands effortlessly found each other and the confidence it gave her to press forward. Together they ascended the steps…one at a time.
They were halfway to the top when the front door swung open…and closed loudly. "Lydia, where— Oh, there you are," her mother called.
A pair of high heels clicked hastily along the hardwood floors and pounded against the steps, broadcasting her every movement and making Lydia cringe as the clatter reverberated in her head. She exchanged a glance with Stiles. His eyebrows sympathetically furrowed as he pulled her a little closer.
"Now, let's get you settled upstairs," Natalie directed, as she arrived at Lydia's side.
Feeling her mother's hands slink between Stiles and herself, Lydia spoke up. "Mom, we're fine," she quickly refused, unwilling to separate from him.
"Al-alright… Be careful," she conceded, keeping her hand on Lydia's lower back.
For the remaining climb and the trek down the hallway, Natalie rambled about treatments…and ointments…and bandages, but Lydia didn't have a care for any of it. She kept staring at Stiles, letting the light from his eyes guide her and the strength of his arms steady her. She noticed his lips twitching, trying to stifle a crooked grin, and a tickling sensation flourished deep in her belly at the prospect of seeing him smile again. Nothing else mattered.
By the time they reached Lydia's bedroom, her mother had moved on to the topic of clean bedding, new towels, and some kind of willow-bark tea that Deaton recommended. Lydia was losing her patience.
"Okay, Stiles, I'll take it from here—" her mother began dismissively.
But Lydia recoiled, clinging to Stiles with every ounce of her strength as she gritted out, "Mom, please… Just STOP!" The sound of her own hoarse voice was excruciating. Her knees started to buckle, but Stiles's grip on her was unwavering and he kept her upright.
"Lydia, honey we need to talk—"
"We can talk later. Right now, what I need is for you to back off. Stiles is perfectly capable of helping me. He is what I need right now. Can you please just respect me enough to understand that?"
Her mother took two unbalanced steps in reverse, her right hand pressed to her stomach, her eyes wide and mouth agape in shock. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
Seeing her mother's reaction, made Lydia's insides clench with remorse, but she held her ground.
Natalie's mouth opened and a few times before she repeated, "I'm sorry. I'll just go make you some of that tea that Dr. Deaton recommended."
As she turned to leave, Stiles gave Lydia a reassuring squeeze and ticked his head in her mother's direction.
"Mom," she called with trembling lips.
"Yes honey?" she replied over her shoulder.
"I— I love you," Lydia squeaked out.
Natalie came back, touched Lydia's face, and kissed her cheek. "I love you too," she said softly, then she nodded and quietly walked down the hallway.
"You alright?" Stiles asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. Come on," he coaxed, blindly locating the light switch and encouraging Lydia into her room.
Her eyes scanned the space. Everything was exactly as she had left it…except for one thing – the addition of a bouquet of pale pink and white dahlias that had been placed on her nightstand. She slowly walked towards them, Stiles's hand still at her back. There was a card tucked between the blossoms, penned with two simple words: For Lydia.
She had read once that dahlias symbolize a bond between two people, and she wondered if Stiles knew that too. Lydia's heart swelled with such affection for him that she thought it might burst.
She pursed her lips and sat on the bed. "When did you…?"
"Uh…yesterday," he explained, kneeling in front of her. "I wanted you to have something…something nice to look at after… I know it doesn't—"
She touched her finger to his lips. "They're beautiful. I love them." You're beautiful. I love you.
The words were forming on her tongue, but her lungs were so tight that she could scarcely make another sound. She remembers how Stiles took hold of her face and how he glided his thumbs across the apples of her cheeks until she was able to breathe.
When she caught a glimpse of the daily planner on her nightstand, she saw that the page was turned to October 10th – the last day she could remember. The day Theo hurt her. Her eyes immediately flashed to Stiles. How long had she been away from him?
"What day is it?"
"Tuesday," he answered quietly before dropping his hands, setting his elbows on the bed at either side of her legs, and averting his eyes.
"That's not… You know what I mean…"
"Lydia, I don't think now is the best—"
"Stiles, please. I need to know."
His body shuddered as he murmured, "It's…November 5th. It's been three weeks. Three weeks…five days…and…"
Tears were stinging her eyes, but she fought them, determined to keep Stiles in sight. She sucked in her top lip. She remembers letting his statement roll around in her mind. Three weeks and five days. Twenty-six days that she lost. Twenty-six days that were taken from her. Twenty-six days that she could have spent with Stiles…but she didn't.
"Oh…" was all she could manage to respond.
Lydia saw him searching for words and felt his heartbeat nudging rapidly against her knee. She practically heard the unnecessary apology he was communicating.
Seeking to console him, she placed her hands on his shoulders, and his eyes automatically lifted to meet hers. She shook her head, then opened her mouth to say It wasn't your fault. You saved me…but Stiles spoke first.
His voice was filled with tenderness and compassion when he said, "What can I do, Lydia? Tell me what you need."
I need you. She paused, momentarily rendered speechless by the intensity of his gaze. "I… I need to get out of these clothes. I want to take a bath…and put on my own pajamas."
"Okay, sit here while I get the bath ready."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He covered her hands with his own, then placed them in her lap before standing and crossing the room. When he entered the adjoining bathroom, he disappeared from view.
Lydia remembers trying to stay still, but the distance between Stiles and herself only magnified the tugging in her chest. The one that used to scare her. The one that had become so crucially linked to her understanding of the world that she never wanted to be without it.
She went to her dresser, gathered a pair of black leggings, a pale blue long-sleeved top, and plain satin panties, then followed her heart until Stiles was in view.
He was sitting on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up, his left hand tapping restlessly on his knee, his right held under the faucet, checking the temperature of the water as a thick cloud of soap suds climbed higher and higher.
"Stiles…"
His head whipped in her direction. "Hey… I was just about to come get you." He silenced the running water, then stood rather abruptly, staring at the mounds of white foam. "I…um…might have gone overboard with the bubbles," he admitted shyly while scratching at his jaw.
He looked so sweet that Lydia couldn't refrain from smiling. "It's okay," she said, reaching for him. You're too far away.
His fingers connected with hers as he came to stand in front of her. "You need anything else?"
Just you. "No."
"I'll be right outside."
"Thanks."
He hesitantly let go of her hand and exited the room, closing the door behind him.
Lydia set her pajamas on the counter, purposely avoiding the mirror. Being especially mindful of the left side of her head, she peeled off the thin tee shirt she was wearing. She glared at it resentfully. It smelled musty, and its charcoal-grey color was darkened with sweat and moisture that had transferred from her hair. She tossed it on top of the dingy robe that Stiles had deposited next to the sink and moved her hands to the waistband of her sweatpants. With shaking fingers, she fumbled for the ends of the drawstring that secured them and pulled…but instead of coming lose, she felt the entire waistband lurch around her waist. It's knotted. Great.
She huffed in frustration and glanced down to survey the knot. As soon as she did, a wave of vertigo hit her. She remembers lifting her head, gripping the rim of the sink, and taking slow breaths until it passed.
Keeping her eyes forward, Lydia attempted to untie the tangled string without looking, but it wouldn't budge. The more she struggled, the more lightheaded she became, so she dropped her hands to her sides and turned towards the door. She remembers quickly debating whether she should put the tee shirt back on. The thought of pulling that disgusting thing over her head again and possibly grazing her wound in the process was far from appealing, so she decided that the thin cotton bra she had on would have to be enough. Reminding herself to breathe, she opened the door.
In her bedroom, Stiles was nervously pacing the floor, but he stopped as soon as she crossed the threshold.
"Lydia? What's the matter?" he questioned, rushing to her side.
Gripping at the strings, she self-consciously averted her eyes. "It's this stupid drawstring… There's a knot…and I can't look down without getting dizzy…so…" A few more tears blurred her vision, but she furiously blinked them away.
"It's alright. I can do that," he told her, touching her wrists to still her hands. "Come here."
He walked her into the bathroom and shut the door behind them. She remembers the moment his eyes connected with hers, silently seeking permission.
She nodded…and inhaled while his fingers nimbly loosened the knot until it was undone.
Letting out the breath she was holding, Lydia accepted the hand Stiles offered and released the waistband with the other, allowing the sweatpants to fall to the floor. When she stepped out, Stiles bent down to pick them up, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
It was worse than she feared. She hardly recognized the broken image that was reflecting in the glass. Her hair was damp and stringy, skin pale and pasty, dark circles eclipsing the skin below her eyes, lines of her ribs protruding slightly. And then there was her abdomen – scarred on both sides. On her left was a series of jagged pink gashes; evidence of Peter's bite. On her right was a single transverse line, sliced with near medical precision with a flick of Tracy's tail.
Her arms spontaneously clamped around her body; one bound across her chest, the other covering her stomach.
"Where should I—?" Stiles started to ask, holding the bundle of her clothing as he straightened.
"Throw them away…burn them if you have to… I don't care. I don't ever want to see them again," she blurted out, voice crackling and body convulsing with tremors as she tried and failed to maintain her composure.
"Aww, Lydia…" he sighed, tossing the clothes on the floor.
Winding his arms around her, Stiles held her. He held her in the way that only he could do – his body solidly braced against hers, fiercely strong and all-encompassing, but at the same time, unbelievably gentle and mindful of her weakened condition. He held her like he was fully aware of how fragile she felt. He held her like he knew he was the only thing holding her together.
And finally, she let herself cry — without restraint and for all the times she had withheld out of fear and useless pride.
All the while, Stiles's hands glided up and down her spine, his breath caressed the skin of her shoulder, and his warmth and comforting scent surrounded her – lulling her out of the shock she had endured and leading her back to him.
Her arms had been locked between them. When she wriggled them free to return his embrace, Stiles moved closer, and she felt the fabric of his clothes shifting against her bare skin. She remembers how the sensation alerted her to the fact that she was only wearing underwear. The sudden awareness conjured a novel kind of whimpering sound from the base of her throat as her body began to inwardly tremble.
"Lyds, are you crying…or laughing right now? I can't tell."
"I don't know… Both I guess."
He hunched down until their eyes met, massaging her upper arms with his palms. "What is it?"
"It's so ridiculous," she remarked, angrily wiping a few vagrant tears.
"What is?"
"I never pictured it like this…"
Stiles raised his eyebrows and twisted his mouth into a pout.
"This is the first time you are seeing me in my underwear…and I've got on this pathetic excuse for a bra and…and these ugly cotton grandma-panties that are probably stamped with the name of a mental institution."
His mouth fell agape for a second or two, then he glanced down.
"They are… Aren't they?"
Lydia remembers the way her stomach swirled when he ran his index along her hip before answering, "Yeah…yeah they are… Right here." Then he smacked his lips shut and covered his mouth with his fist.
She pulled his hand away from his face, giggling through a new wave of tears. "Go ahead… The whole thing is ridiculous and…and…"
"What?"
"I miss hearing you laugh. It's been so long."
She remembers his beautiful bright smile and how the two of them laughed…and laughed…until they cried.
"I'm such a mess," she sniffled, peering over his shoulder into the mirror. "I'm…l'm—"
He touched her chin and tilted her face toward his, waiting for her to make eye contact. "You are beautiful."
She shook her head. "I've got so many scars."
"That's alright… I've got scars too."
Lydia waited a few beats, watching his eyes gaze back at hers. "Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you… Will you show me?"
He looked at her curiously, then shrugged off his flannel shirt.
She silently scolded herself when he turned away from her. She remembers thinking that she went too far…embarrassed him. She worried that he was going to leave.
But he didn't.
Lydia could see his reflection in the mirror; head ducked, lashes fluttering with every blink, bottom lip tucked into his mouth, cheeks ever so slightly beginning to tint. In one swift movement, Stiles pulled his shirt up above his head before letting it join the blue-grey plaid on the tile floor. Then he stilled, chest heaving with shallow breaths.
Allowing her eyes to explore every inch of his back, Lydia stepped towards Stiles, her hand outstretched until it connected with the circular scar at his right shoulder. "Is that…?"
"Donovan…" he finished for her. "Yeah."
Following the outline of it, she lightly ran her fingertips along the puckered skin. She remembers how her insides twisted at the thought of how much it hurt him, how much that night had hurt him, leaving behind scars she couldn't see.
Stiles reached over his shoulder for Lydia's wrist and turned to face her. Bringing her hand upwards, he touched her index finger to his forehead. There was a thin white marking, shaped like a crescent moon, near his hairline.
"I've had this one since I was nine years old."
"How did it happen?"
He wet his lips. "Uh…Scott and I were goofing around. We were practicing our baseball slide on the hardwood floors at his house… Melissa had just had them refinished, so they were super slick." A shadow of a mischievous grin traversed his lips. "Anyway…we were about to stop 'cause Melissa was going to come in from the yard…but you know me… I had to get one more slide in. I slid all the way from the hallway into the living room…went right under the coffee table…except I didn't get my head down quick enough… Eight stitches…"
"I bet you don't regret it one bit," she noted with a slight smile.
"Nah…it was a really good slide – totally worth it."
Lydia caressed the side of his face, stopping at the sight of his blood-stained ear and jawline. "I did that to you," she said bitterly, tone burdened with guilt. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey, come on… It's not your fault. Alright? I'm okay. Really. And…I'll probably even be able to hear in that ear again… You know…someday…maybe…"
Her eyes widened and flashed back to his face, which was plastered with a playful grin.
"Sti—les…don't…" she pouted.
"Too soon to joke about it... Huh?"
"Yes…way too soon."
"Don't I get to want to see you smile too?"
"Then maybe you should say something that's actually funny," she quipped, almost forgetting how serious their conversation really was.
"I'll do better next time," he replied, smiling even more brilliantly.
She stared at him; spellbound by the way the golden-hued flecks in his eyes intensified, giving her more of the warmth she had been missing for so long. Letting the heel of her hand rest on his sternum, she traced the thin scar that spanned the right side of his chest, beneath his collarbone.
"What about this one?"
"Tracy did that, the same night she did this..." he explained, grin fading as he cupped his hand around the curve of her right rib.
"Stiles…" she breathed, gripping his shoulder.
"I know, Lydia. But you survived. You're here…and I'm so grateful."
She remembers his expression – it radiated pure love. The kind she never knew existed…until Stiles showed her that it did. She wanted nothing more than to just dive into him. So, she did. She let herself fall against him, her damp cheek landing on his warm chest, skin of their abdomens mingling, his hands splayed across her back, gradually bringing her nearer until the only parts of her body that Lydia was aware of were the ones that were touching Stiles.
They remained that way for a length of time, reluctantly parting when she found her voice through the veil of drowsiness that was slowly creeping in and fogging her vision.
Glancing at the tub she admitted, "I'm so tired. I'm afraid I'll fall asleep."
"Do you want me to get your mom?"
She shook her head. "Could you…stay? Please stay."
He looked at her for a long moment, then cleared his throat. "Okay. I'll um… I'll just turn around…so you can..."
It wasn't the first time she had seen Stiles respond so bashfully. His flushed cheeks and sweet shyness only endeared him to her further. She gave him a small smile and waited for him to turn. Then she slipped out of the undergarments she was wearing, kicked them aside, and sank into the bathtub. The water was perfectly warm, and the bubbles reached as high as her shoulders, their soothing lavender fragrance wafting up to greet her. She exhaled a long slow breath and watched as Stiles stood in front of the sink, erasing the dried remnants of blood from his ear and jawline before patting his skin dry.
She remembers how he came to sit beside her on the floor. Leaning against the wall, he positioned himself as close to the side of the tub as possible, then hooked his elbow on the rim – like if he couldn't be touching her, he had to at least be connected to her in some way.
Lydia wanted to be closer to Stiles too, so she lifted her hand from the water and placed it over his. He immediately flipped his palm up, and she laced their fingers together. Then she closed her eyes and relished in the powerfully fortifying sensation of having his digits linked with hers.
The room was peaceful, with only the sound of sloshing water and the static crinkle of dissolving bath bubbles permeating the air. Lydia brought their joined hands to her face, resting her cheek on Stiles's knuckles and whispering his name.
"Yeah?"
When she opened her eyes, he was already looking at her.
"Thank you…for saving my life."
"Lydia, you don't—"
"But—"
"There isn't anything—"
"Stiles, will you please shut up and let me thank you," she said firmly, but affectionately.
He chuckled softly, eyes twinkling with moisture.
"When I was trapped there…before he…" she gasped. She couldn't say Valack's name – the monster who experimented on her, the man she killed. "Before he…did what he did to me…he tried to make me think you were dead. But I knew you were alive. I knew it. I felt it. I felt you…and I knew you wouldn't leave me there."
He squeezed her hand but turned away. "I should have…gotten you out sooner. If—"
"Stiles." She sat up, pulling her other hand from the water and persuading him to look at her; soapy wet hand clasped to his cheek. "I know you did everything you could."
"But if I had been more careful… If I had been there for you, like you deserve…Theo never could have…"
"No. Nothing that happened to me was your fault. Stiles, you saved me," she insisted, bringing his face to hers and touching her forehead to his. "You saved me."
The swish of his abbreviated breaths echoed through the room as he tried to control his sobs. Lydia remembers how he nuzzled closer, until their blushing cheeks were pressed together, and how his other arm wrapped around her shoulder; palm flat against her upper back, fingers sneaking below her curtain of wet hair to graze the series of scars at the nape of her neck. She remembers that all the tiredness left her, that her need to ease his pain infused her with a strength she didn't know she possessed. She remembers the moment he calmed, and how that stillness dispelled an ache that had been boring a hole inside her for weeks like a parasite.
Eventually, they parted; their lips finding each other's cheeks as they regretfully allowed space between them. After Lydia scrubbed the grimy residue of Eichen House from her body, Stiles washed her back for her. Hugging her knees to her chest, she relished in the feeling of his gentle hands on her skin. He seemed to recognize every point of tension and soreness, easing them away and replacing them with the buzz of a euphoric kind of tranquility.
Then Stiles rose from the floor, towering above her like some sort of benevolent deity. He helped her stand, bundled her inside the fluffy warmth of an over-sized towel, and lifted her out of the bathtub.
Clutching her pajamas, he stood in front of her, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for a cue to either stay or go.
Lydia wanted him to stay. She trusted him. She could always trust Stiles.
No longer self-conscious, she let her towel plummet to the floor. She remembers how his eyes wandered over her. Somehow, she knew he was looking deeper…looking at her. Not her naked body. Not her scars. Her. Just like he always had. Lydia believed his eyes could see inside…past layers of fair skin, battered muscle, and breakable bone. She hoped he could see all the way to her rapidly beating heart and know it was for him.
He touched her face, and her eyes fell shut. Then she felt his lips on her forehead, so she reached for his chest. His heart was pounding, matching hers, beat for beat…and she had her answer: Stiles knew…and his heart was hers too.
They let themselves catch their breath, last of their trauma-induced anguish transforming into mutual comfort. Then Stiles helped her get dressed. Instead of accepting the shirt she had picked out, Lydia asked for his flannel. She remembers that he held it open for her with a smile. While he fastened the buttons, she remained mesmerized by its welcoming warmth and familiar scent; an extension of Stiles enveloping her body. After putting his tee shirt on, he took her hand, and together they moved forward.
When they reentered her bedroom, a tray was neatly laid out on her bed with a pot of hot tea and a stack of toasted bread. Lydia sat propped against her velvet headboard, Stiles right beside her, as she sipped her tea.
It was shortly past 1 AM when her mother rapped lightly on the door. "Lydia?"
"Come in Mom."
As Natalie stepped inside, Stiles got up from the bed and picked up their tray. "I'll just go bring this downstairs," he said.
She felt a twinge of panic, but he gave her a reassuring wink – his promise to come back, and she relaxed.
She remembers how her mother carefully applied the salve that Deaton recommended to her wound before combing through the tangles in her hair and thoroughly drying it.
"There's so much I want to say to you, sweetheart," Natalie cooed, tucking Lydia's hair behind her right ear.
"I know. But can we talk tomorrow?"
"Of course. I just want you to know that I was only trying to protect you…I—"
"That's the thing though, Mom…" Lydia interjected. "I don't need to be protected from Stiles."
"I can see that…now," she acknowledged quietly, fiddling with the cuffed sleeves of the shirt that Lydia wore – the shirt that Stiles gave to her. "I'll let you get some rest," she added, kissing her temple, then standing and exiting the room.
Lydia remembers the moment Stiles appeared in the doorway, half of him hidden by the wall.
"Are you coming in? Or are you going to lurk in the hallway?" she joked.
He laughed and revealed what he had been hiding from her view. "There's someone who's been wanting to see you…" he told her.
She remembers her reunion with Prada – how her eyes teared uncontrollably when Stiles placed an eight-pound bundle of unconditional love into her arms. Prada's entire body rippled with excitement, and a faint whimper gurgled in her throat. Lydia felt Prada's tiny paws tap dancing on her collarbone as the Papillon licked her salty cheeks.
Through it all, Stiles sat close by, his hand resting on Lydia's knee, grounding her with an unparalleled sense of belonging and acceptance. She held Prada until they both calmed, then nestled her little companion into her favorite spot at the foot of the bed as Stiles covered her with a blanket.
By then, exhaustion had worked its way through Lydia. Her eyelids were growing heavier by the minute, and her desire to lie down became irrepressible. She remembers how attentive Stiles continued to be, how he settled her into bed, and how he made sure she had anything she could possibly need within an arm's reach. As he stood at her side, she firmly grasped his hand while admiring the flowers he brought her.
Lydia remembers how easy it was to ask Stiles to hold her. She remembers the soft expression on his face when her words floated through the air. His response, a single perfect syllable: Yes. Just one note, but it might as well have been an entire song because it filled her heart with a melody – one that she knew her soul would memorize and replay for her, whenever she thought of him.
Stiles turned off the lights and even through pitch darkness, he found his way back to her. She remembers what it felt like to have him climb in next to her under crisp clean sheets and a downy comforter, to have his head on her pillow, his breath in her face, and his limbs surrounding her small frame. All physical boundaries that had been in place for far too long had suddenly vanished. Lydia didn't know if they would return, but she was sure that she would be much happier if they didn't.
"Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"This is real… Right? I'm out of that place, and you're with me…?"
"It's real, Lyds… You're home, I'm with you…"
She remembers how he answered another of her questions before the words even took shape in her mouth.
"…and I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not leaving you."
"Good," she sighed, relief flowing through her like a tonic.
She remembers how his arms tightened around her…then he teased her one more time.
"So…you uh… You thought about me seeing you in your underwear… Huh?"
She bumped his knee with hers. "Sti—les… Go to sleep…"
"I will. I just want you to know it's okay…'cause…I thought about it too," he confessed with a chuckle.
Then he edged a little closer, nudging her nose with his. And she smiled.
Lydia remembers that Stiles fell asleep soon after; all the stress he had been put through finally catching up to him. She remembers tilting her head nearer…and nearer…until her lips were barely grazing his. She whispered three words before she drifted to sleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of his breathing and the solace of his strong arms encircling her.
In daylight, there would be harsh realities to face, but in those obscure hours, none of it mattered. She was with him again. Her Stiles – the only one with the ability to heal her scars from the inside out.
Present Day
When her eyes refocus in the darkened living room, Lydia is still wrapped up in Stiles.
He is doing that thing he does. His left arm remains draped across her shoulders, but now, his hand is cupped around the side of her head – heel of his palm resting on her ear, fingertips spread apart, each of them lightly connecting with her skull, and his thumb stroking her hair. She is pretty sure that he is not entirely conscious of the behavior, but it's significant, nonetheless. It feels protective, like he wants to pose his own body as a barrier between her and anything that could seek to harm her.
The emotional weight of Lydia's memory bubbles beneath the surface as she continues to watch him. She tries to avoid thinking about the fact that underneath his hand, lies a permanent vulnerability, a soft indentation on the left region of her cranium where a piece of temporal bone used to be. Instead, she focuses on the fact that one of the worst nights of her life also became one of the best because Stiles was there for her. That night, he gave her everything she needed…and he did it because he loves her.
Since then, they have both been imprinted with a few more scars…some that run deeper than the others. With every rise and fall of his chest, Lydia aches to be closer to Stiles, to reassure herself that he hasn't been left with any open wounds.
Sensing her unrest, he instinctively stirs. He locates the remote control, pauses the DVR, and sets it aside. Turning to face her, he places his hand on her sternum. "Lydia…" he whispers, "I'm right here."
"I know," she breathes. "You always are."
"Talk to me."
She sits up, untangles herself from the blanket that covers them, and straddles his lap. Then she finds the hem of his blue tee shirt and asks, "Can I take this off?"
His eyes are patient and understanding, and so trusting she thinks it could break her in two.
"Yeah, go ahead," he replies, leaning forward and raising his arms.
She removes his shirt, drops it at his side, and takes his face in her hands. The television provides just enough light for Lydia to see his features. She caresses his cheeks before kissing him slowly. When she pulls back, his eyes flutter open and his hands are gripping her hips.
"Stiles," she begins, while tenderly running her hands along his shoulders and chest, "I remember the night you saved me from Eichen House... I remember all of it now."
"Oh…" he remarks, a bit awestruck. He looks thoughtfully at her, then sits up a little straighter. "A lot happened that night. Are you okay?"
She smiles through misty eyes. "Yes," she answers, finding the white crescent on his forehead with her lips. "Remember how you showed me your scars?"
He nods.
Bowing her head, she kisses the scar behind his shoulder, and the one on the right side of his chest…and a more recent one that is carved below his left collarbone.
"There's one here too," he tells her, pointing to his heart. "It got bigger every time I thought I lost you."
Along with a few tears, Lydia sheds the lace top she is wearing to reveal her pink satin bra before returning her hands to his shoulders. Her insides tremble with emotion, but Stiles shapes his hands around the scars on each side of her ribs, and he holds her together.
"I have the same one, but you healed me, Stiles…in every sense of the word. You gave me everything I've ever needed because you gave me you."
He emits an unsteady exhale, warmth from his lungs heating her skin as it breezes past. "Do you know how much it meant to me…after being away from you for so long… Do you know how much it meant to be so close to you, to know you needed me as much as I needed you?" He kisses her in that soft yet passionate way that he does, turning her insides to liquid heat. "I could feel how much you loved me…and it was the only thing holding me together."
"Really?"
"Yeah, and after that night, everything between us felt like we were moving forward…together. It was like you gave me a part of yourself, and it made this…what we have right now…it made this moment possible. You healed me too, Lydia."
"I did?"
"Yeah, you did."
She drops her chin to his shoulder, her palms pressed to his lower back, her hair cascading over both of them. She sighs with contentment when Stiles holds her tightly and presses his lips to the series of four feather-light scratches that span the side of her neck…a memento of the most recent injury she has suffered.
They hold onto each other, just like they did on the night in her memory – their skin connecting, scars uncovered, souls bared. It is in moments like this when Lydia feels the most safe. She never imagined that being so vulnerable with someone could feel so right or give her such peace. But Stiles not only showed her that such an experience is possible…he inspires her to seek it out, to bridge the gap between their two hearts by showing him the parts of herself that she would never show anyone else.
"Lydia, could we stay like this forever?"
She gives him a squeeze, then talks into his ear. "As much as I'd love that…I don't think your dad would appreciate walking in on us half-dressed. We should probably put the rest of our clothes back on…sooner rather than later."
"Valid point. This feels so amazing though…holding you like this."
"Yeah. Yeah, it does…but later…we can pick up where we left off. Anyway…don't you want to see Morse solve the case?"
He unearths his face from her neck, countenance lighting up the dark room like a solar flare, "I think I figured it out."
"I had no doubt you would," she smiles.
Five minutes and several dozen kisses later, Lydia and Stiles are fully clothed and comfortably wrapped in each other's arms. There is nothing more she needs, because Stiles is with her and she knows that he loves her…just as much as she loves him.
They both have scars, but their love gives them the ability to heal each other from the inside out.
