Lydia opens her door to find Allison standing outside.
"Scott texted. Said you might need a friend."
She returned home an hour ago. They spent a long and draining night searching vainly for Stiles. While they weren't the ones to find him, she's relieved he's safe and under Melissa's care at the hospital.
She tilts her head, painting on a smile. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm fine."
Allison pushes herself into the room, dropping her bag on Lydia's vanity.
"Good. Then, you won't mind me staying."
Lydia crawls into her bed. She knows there's no point in even attempting to sleep. Not with her boyfriend in the hospital and this guilt pressing down on her chest.
Allison sits beside her, handing her a fashion magazine.
Lydia smiles. "Thank you."
Allison nods and opens her own book.
Lydia stares at the cover, her fingers ghosting over the thin pages.
"I'm not the girl with the wrong answers," she finally whispers.
Allison licks her lips, replying carefully, "You tried Lydia. That's all anyone can ask. That's all you can do."
She shakes her head. "No. This was for Stiles. I should've—"
Allison grabs her hand, squeezing it lightly.
Her eyes full of unspent tears, she voices her greatest fear, "What if Scott's dad hadn't found him?"
"He did. And that's all that matters. Stiles is ok. Don't forget that."
She paints on a smile for Allison. She knows her friend is trying to help.
And, it's true. For tonight, at least, Stiles is ok.
But, fear still claws at her chest. His nightmares are getting worse. Much worse. And, she has no idea what to do. She tried to follow these muffled voices in her head, and she ended up in the basement of an asylum.
While she knows Stiles won't blame her, his dad did. More importantly, she blames herself.
For all the times and all the ways Stiles has helped her, she has no clue on how to return the favor.
She closes her eyes and winces at the clanging inside her head. She can hear every noise in the house: the water in the pipes, the heat turning on, even the refrigerator running.
She tamps it down, refusing to tell anyone about it. She will not let these voices rule her.
Agent McCall found Stiles using reason and logic. She can do that better than anyone. She should've done that today. She won't make the same mistake twice.
Scott hesitates, before stating quickly, "Lydia wanted to be here."
Stiles shakes his head, waving his hand. "I know." He glances down as his fingers claw at his open palm. "She heard me, didn't she?"
Scott's brows raise in surprise as he nods.
"She thought you were at Eichen House."
Stiles shifts on the MRI bed, his eyes darting to his dad, before returning to his friend.
"My dad told me. Doubt she's takin' any of this well." He clears his throat, straightening his spine. "You gotta watch out for her, you know. She's tryin', she's just—"
"—fighting herself."
Stiles lets out a small scoff. "Yea. Aren't we all?"
Lydia feels like electricity is literally thrumming through her veins.
She left school early and drove aimlessly for hours.
It should be no surprise to anyone she ended up in the hospital parking lot.
She barks out an empty, hollow laugh, leaning her head against the steering wheel.
Scott and Stiles are inside, and while she was invited and encouraged to visit herself, she isn't sure she can face him.
Stiles sent her a few texts today. He relayed very little information, and somehow, she knows how much that means.
Stiles says everything that is on his mind. He plows through dark and light matters with equal fervor and intensity.
So, the fact that he's dancing around the tests he's undergoing today, only underscores their importance.
She's heard pieces of what happened with his mom. He tells her small stories here and there. She remembers some of the gossip.
She only researched the disorder once. She read about the heredity and the age of onset, and quickly shut down her computer. She didn't talk to Stiles for two days.
The idea of him losing himself, losing her, losing everything—
The clanging in her head becomes so loud she can't think of anything else.
She looks out the window and sees nothing at all. Her hands grip her steering wheel and she can feel the anxiety and fear build inside her.
She screams, loud and clear, the noise bright and long.
She slumps forward as the noise dies in her throat, her eyes sliding shut.
An MRI machine.
She raises her head.
An MRI machine sounds like anvils clanging. Stiles was getting an MRI today.
She steps out of the car on trembling legs, holding onto the door.
Just as she starts to move towards the hospital, she watches as a wire sparks on the roof. It falls to the ground, where it recently rained, and she feels the need to scream again.