It takes a few days before things quieten down enough for Stiles and Lydia to really comprehend what they had been through. The sight of a not-dead-and-somewhat-ominous Meredith was enough to keep things at a breakneck pace and Stiles can't really remember the details, not yet anyway. Finally, without much warning, things come to a halt. Like an emergency brake being applied to the two teenager's lives.
At first, they just sleep. Stiles stays over at Lydia's, tells her he needs to go home for a bit. But only a few hours will pass before she's knocking on his door and they're curling up in bed together again. It's a wonder that they both manage to sleep so much but then Lydia supposes that the mental trauma they have put themselves through is equal to four weeks without sleep. Or something.
After two days of this strange routine, however, things start to catch up with them. Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night with hands stretching out desperately for Lydia, tears in his eyes until she tugs him into a tight hug. Whispers that she's okay. It doesn't help that Stiles has barely settled before she's sobbing into her pillows for her poor murdered grandmother, and writhing away from imaginary syringes.
Shadows begin to appear under their eyes. A matching set.
Dawn appears on the third morning since the Eichen House incident has occurred and the pair can be found in the centre of Stiles' bed. Duvet wrapped around them like one big fluffy cocoon. Lydia has the added cocoon of Stiles' arms and legs wrapped around her as well.
She still doesn't feel completely safe though. Stiles' bony collar bone feels too much like a needle against her skin and she has to keep moving, trying to find a position that doesn't bring a tear-bringing memory to her mind. Stiles is uncharacteristically still, and silent. He lets Lydia do the wriggling for him, while his hands remain looped around her middle, rocking her gently. The sun tracks across the sky from beneath his curtains, they hear the sound of Stilinski trying to make his breakfast with only one good arm. But still they can't move. They drift in and out of light dozes, still upright, still clinging to each other.
At ten o' clock, Stiles gives up on trying to get any more sleep. "Lyds," he mumbles against her hair, and she jerks slightly. Half asleep.
"Mhmm?" Her reply is distant, so he gently eases back away from her so that he crane round to see her face. She's got her eyes open but they're slightly glazed. Like her mind is far off somewhere. Probably in a dark records room. He rubs his thumb along her jawline, until she blinks and turns slightly brighter eyes to meet his.
"We gotta get up, we can't hide in here forever. There's stuff to do." His investigation board stands in the middle of the room just inches away from the bed, mocking them. Reminding them that they don't have time for a steady healing process, like a psychologist would most likely recommend.
"No…no I don't want to," Lydia whimpers, shaking her head back and forth before pressing her forehead against Stiles' collar bone. It scares Stiles to his very core that Lydia can't seem to find herself at the moment, like she lost her way in a fog made up of her grandmother's last dying moments. Stiles remembers how, soon after his mother died, he would go through whole school days without really ever being consciously aware of it, too lost in the endless cycle of his last conversation with her.
He can't let Lydia go through that as well. He shifts, coming to sit directly in front of her (even though the thought of having his back to the door, when a deranged murderer could be sneaking up on him at any moment, is enough to make his skin crawl). "Lydia, look at me. This isn't going to help. If we sit in here replaying that night over and over, we're going to go mad."
She shoots him a doubting look. The look says that she's not entirely convinced that they haven't already lost the plot. So he adds a clarification, with a roll of his eyes that he can't quite supress: "More mad, then."
Lydia looks away, then shakes her head. "I just want to sleep. I need to sleep. If I sleep, I'll feel better," she mumbles, before crawling back towards the pillows, dragging the duvet along with her.
"Lyds…" he tries, but she just makes a small noise of complaint. Quiet, Stiles. He lets out a sigh of frustration; not so much at her but the entire situation that has crumbled away his beautiful, strong, confident girlfriend into a tired, confused teenager. It's not fair, she deserves the world.
He waits until he can hear the soft breathing of her sleeping again. Then he leans down and presses a kiss against her temple. "I'll be back soon," he murmurs. Then he pulls on a pair of pants and creeps out of his bedroom.
His father is still on recovery leave, so is spread out on the couch in front of some hideous looking day time television. He glances up as his son troops past. "Stiles?" he says, bringing him to a halt. "How are you holding up?" Stiles can hear the plural in that word, knows that his father is worried about both of them.
Stiles shrugs. "I don't know," he says honestly. "She's half out of it, like someone's sedated her…" he shivers at the thought, because sedation wasn't too far off what Brunski was planning. Just a little more permanent.
Stilinski reaches across the back of the sofa and squeezes his son's arm, as much as he can from the somewhat unusual position. "She'll pull through. That's the main thing, Stiles. You're both alive. You got out alive."
Alive, yes. At what cost, Stiles isn't so sure. "Anything about Meredith?" he asks.
"You'll know when I do, kiddo."
Stilinski is already turning back to his show, but Stiles catches him with a hand to the shoulder. "Dad- I'm just going out. There's something I need to get. Just…please make sure nobody else comes for her."
His father looks at him with a look that is either pure pride or utter sadness. Maybe both. He nods, pats his son's hand. "Sure thing. Ain't nobody getting to her, promise. Not with two Stilinskis on the case, eh?" He's trying to make light of it, but his voice sounds a little choked. Stiles decides its best to leave before either he or his father start weeping. While he's all for a little emotional release occasionally, now is not the time. Besides he did plenty of that last night. Crying out for her, holding her so tight that he knows he's probably hurting her but needing to check she's real.
He's gone for about an hour. Lydia wakes up before he comes back. She's about to panic but the Sheriff has left a glass of water on the bedside table with a note: 'Idiot son went out for mysterious reason and probably forgot to tell you that. Downstairs if you need anything.'
She doesn't need anything, but she goes downstairs anyway. Sits on the other sofa in Stiles' Lacrosse jumper and tries to focus on the television screen. She's a little better at it, feels a little more connected with reality. Stilinski comments on random little snippets, probably just to make conversation, but it helps her focus. Finally, Stiles returns. Her head snaps towards him, but he just holds up two fingers. Hang on. Then he hurries past without another word, carrying a bulging bag with him.
It takes him more than the two minutes his fingers promised. More like five. He shuffles back down the stairs, a slightly nervous expression on his face. She catches his eye, and manages to make a slightly quizzical expression. He uses his head to beckon her over to him, and she somewhat hesitantly obliges. Stilinski is half-sleeping on the sofa and Stiles can't help but snort at the so called police officer he left in charge of his girlfriend's safety.
But then he's back to the task at hand. He takes Lydia's hand as she comes to his side, and gently tugs her up at the stairs. "I hope your grandmother doesn't mind, but I sorta borrowed her hobby."
"What?" Lydia asks blearily, too dazed to really work out what Stiles is getting at.
But then they reach Stiles' room and Stiles pushes the door open and it becomes a lot more obvious. Stiles' floor has been covered with a turquoise blanket, upon which Stiles has placed an assortment of plastic fish toys. A pile of pillows sit in the centre of the blanket, with a bowl of goldfish crackers and what looks like a plate of fish sticks in front of it. Finally, screen glowing in the darkened room (the curtains are still shut), Stiles' laptop waits. On the screen, just visible, is the frozen image of an all too familiar castle logo.
Lydia turns to Stiles, mouth hanging open slightly. "Stiles…is this…?" she begins, and Stiles nods, ducking his head slightly as nervousness takes over. It's a bit of a risk that she'll like it, after all.
"Yeah…I know you started with the book, but I could only find the movie. Your mom let me borrow it on the firm condition that I brought it back pristine so…" He bites down his lip, looks at her with a hint of a wonky smile. "Do you like it?"
"Like it…I…" Lydia purses his lips, because words aren't really her friend right now. So she settles for the next best thing and pulls him in for a kiss, flush against his lips. It's so full of life, so full of Lydia that Stiles could almost cry with relief.
He manages to keep it together, though. "Come on then. I haven't actually seen this one the whole way through- Scott and I preferred Toy Story…I was Woody and he was Buzz. We had costumes…" he's rambling, but Lydia loves it and kisses him again. The memory of Brunski bearing down on her, syringe in hand, is temporarily replaced by miniature Stiles and Scott in cowboy and spaceman costumes.
They settle down on the blankets. It takes another two minutes for Stiles to work out the perfect arrangement of pillows and girlfriend, but Lydia is quite happy to wait. When he's finally comfortable (the pillows are in a fort-like structure around them and Lydia is tucked under his chin and rested against his chest), they begin. The movie starts and Lydia lets the memories wash over, lets the pain of her grandmother's murder begin to soften as she blocks out the sounds of her death with the sounds of her story-telling. Memories of the pair of them laughing at how inaccurate the movie was, but loving it anyway.
By the time the movie has finished, the fractures left by Brunski's actions have begun to seal. It will be a long while before they're completely gone but it's enough for now. Lydia turns to Stiles as the credits roll, her eyes bright and sharp. "What did you think?" she asks.
Stiles grins. "I think you would have made a better mermaid. You would never have fallen for all that crap from Ursula. And even if you had, you would have found a much better way to tell the dude everything."
Lydia nods her acceptance. "I agree. The only reason I stopped getting everyone to call me Ariel was because I began to unpick the story and realised what a dumbass she was."
Stiles has to laugh. It's a giddy laugh, full of relief that he has brought Lydia back from her haze. He watches as she stands up, stretches slightly. "Now…" she says, pushing up the sleeves of Stiles' jumper as she turns to face their investigation board. "Time to solve this mystery once and for all."
And in that moment, with the evening sunset peeking through the curtains and setting her strawberry blonde hair aglow, Stiles is pretty sure he's never loved her more.
