Derek yells, "She resurrected Peter, Stiles!"

Stiles nearly growls in frustration. "She didn't know what she was doing!"

"I noticed. I was there! It was like she couldn't even hear me."

"Exactly my point!"

"And that doesn't concern you? That Peter can just order her around, get inside her head?"

"Yes, but you're focusing on the wrong thing! Peter is the problem here, not Lydia. Lydia's living a freaking walking nightmare because your uncle wants world domination or something."

Derek's jaw tenses as he growls. "I will take care of Peter." He steps closer to Stiles, slamming a finger into his chest. "You watch the girl or I'll take care of her, too."

Stiles rolls his eyes, watching as Derek walks away.


After Mrs. Argent's funeral, Stiles finds himself standing in Lydia's kitchen. She works on a flower arrangement as he paces restlessly through the large space.

"Thanks for staying. I just—I didn't want to be alone."

Stiles nods, his body swaying as he holds onto the counter. "Honestly, you seem like you're taking all this better than any of us."

She shrugs, her eyes fixed on the flowers and vase in front of her. "It kind of feels like all of this is my fault."

His head tilts back as he grimaces. "What? Are you kidding? How is any of this your fault?"

"Next time, you're not in control of your actions and you resurrect a murderer, we'll talk about guilt."

He raises his brows, his hands hitting the counter beside her, persistently shifting on his feet.

"Did you know, when you're drowning, you don't actually inhale until right before you black out?"

"Voluntary apnea," she provides.

He nods. "It's like no matter how much you're freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won't open your mouth until you feel like your head's exploding. But, then, when you finally do let it in, that's when it stops hurting. It's not scary anymore. It's—it's actually kind of peaceful."

"I hope not." His brows raise and she elaborates, "I don't feel sorry for him. Matt murdered all those people. He forced Jackson to kill."

Stiles drops his head between his shoulders. "My dad said they found a bunch of pictures of Allison on Matt's computer. Like, he photoshopped himself into the pictures. He built this whole fake relationship."

She presses her lips together firmly. "Let's keep that one between us. I'd say that's the last thing Allison needs to hear right now." He nods in agreement. "It's good, right? That your dad's back at his job?"

"Yeah, yeah. Of course. I dunno. I still feel like there's some tension between us."

"Might be because you're constantly lying to him."

"Thanks for that."

She shrugs. "Secrets have a cost."

"How's Allison?"

Her face falls. "She's been pretty tied up with her family. I don't know how to help, so I figured flowers never hurt."

In an attempt to lighten the mood, he asks, "You goin' to the game tomorrow night? I never play, but since one of my teammates is dead and another one's missing, who knows, right?"

"You could, you know."

"Could what?"

"Play. You have the right build. You're smart enough. You have the basic mechanics—"

"How do you even know that?"

"I've watched a lot of lacrosse." She turns her head, meeting his astonished gaze. "And I like it when we win."

"And you think I could help with that?"

She tilts her head, her eyes traveling over his body. "Again, you got the fundamentals. You just need—"

His lips turn down as he supplies sarcastically, "—skill, physique, aggression—"

She glares at him, finishing her thought, "—focus."

His jaw slides to the left as he raises his brows. "Not the first time I've heard that."

She shrugs, turning back to her arrangement. "Just an observation."

Silence settles over her kitchen as she ties a bow around the vase. Stiles paces back and forth, shoving his hands deep into his pockets then out again.

Finished with her handiwork, she turns towards him with a sigh, "You haven't stopped moving all day."

He finally stills. "Sorry."

"You're jumpier than usual."

He scoffs. "Yea. I am."

"Are you sleeping?"

He shakes his head. "You?"

She licks her lips, her shoulders tightening. "It's called hyper-vigilance."

"What? The constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that somethin' terrible's about to happen?"

She nods, frowning as she recites softly, "The persistent feeling of being under threat." She shakes her head, turning back to the counter and placing her hands against it. "I hate feeling like this."

He raises his brows. "No argument here."

Taking a deep breath, she pulls her shoulders back, standing up to her full height, as her voice borders on desperation, "You know what? It doesn't matter. We're all going to survive this. We're going to fight back."

He narrows his eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, we're getting our asses kicked. And we're fighting werewolves and giant murdering lizards. We're not exactly in the same league—"

She places a hand on his shoulder, insisting, "We can still help. We may not have supernatural strength, but we are the brains of this operation, Stiles. They need us."

He studies her, slightly awed, "You really believe that."

"I'm not giving up. And neither are you."