My heart's pounding in my head so loud
Drowns out the low hum of the city
Gold lights up the clouds over head
Like sun behind your eyes
It's only time, going by
It's only time
Ain't it something beautiful?
Something beautiful
- Something Beautiful by Hilary Grist


Lydia gets headaches – both a lingering side effect and an unwelcome reminder of those awful days, just eight months ago, when she was confined to the closed unit of Eichen House.

As if she needs a reminder. As if the trauma and agony she suffered inside that hellish place hadn't been enough…

For twenty-six days, she was trapped within the maze-like parameters of her mind, held against her will, and oh yeah...experimented on by a madman with the soulless purpose of amplifying the abilities she had been striving to manage for well over a year. For twenty-six days, she was kept away from her life and everything she cared about – away from school, away from her friends, away from the boy she loved.

Now, Lydia gets headaches, and though not a frequent occurrence, when they strike, they leave her bedridden, bleary-eyed, and silently pleading for the time to pass until it's over.

Today is one of those days. There is nothing she can do about it.

That is why, even though it's nearly noon, Lydia is still in her pajamas, still in bed, still unsuccessfully trying to fall back to sleep.

She is secured underneath the covers with Prada beside her, and she has no intention of moving. All of the shades on her windows are drawn, barring any bright sun rays from entering her room and casting an even harsher light on her misery. Slowly, she takes deliberate breaths, in and out. With one hand, she twirls the ends of her pup's perky, butterflied ears, slight but reassuring weight of her little body pressing into Lydia's ribs. With the other, she clutches her silver heart pendant, thumb repeatedly grazing over Stiles's initials.

She misses him, always does when they are apart, but it's harder to bear when she feels like this. The ache in her chest is only worsened by the relentless throb in her head. It's as though the natural rhythm of her beats, are being reset by the pounding in her temporal lobe, making it feel like he is farther away.

Burrowing deeper into her pillow, she uncovers a glimmer of relief in another deliberate inhale. Stiles slept there two nights ago, and it still smells like him. She holds her breath, keeps the sweet remnant of him within her lungs for as long as she can, then gradually releases it, pushing back against the discomfort in her head.

Lydia is fully aware that her situation could be worse. People don't go through something like trepanation without facing serious adverse consequences. Anything from infections to stroke, from abscesses to permanent brain tissue damage, even generalized encephalitis, epilepsy, or...death.

All things considered, she is lucky it's only headaches.

Only headaches. The kind that she can feel coming on from the moment she opens her eyes in the morning. Long-lasting ones that start with a tingling on the left side of her head and which progress in intensity until she can hardly sit up without succumbing to a spell of dizziness. Splitting headaches which make it difficult for her to concentrate, that magnify every unpleasant sound, and which make her hyper-sensitive to nearly every gradation of light...

Save for one. A light that captivates and soothes her. A soft golden light – the one she always sees in Stiles's eyes. She would give anything to see it right now. To see him.

But he is not there, and she won't call him. Not today.

Today, he is at Canon Creek with Noah, and there is no way she is interrupting their first father-son weekend since Stiles came home.

It's only a headache, she repeats like a mantra.

She tells herself to be grateful. And she is. Of course, she is grateful.

She survived.

That time, that place, what happened to her inside those loathsome walls – none of it broke her.

She survived for weeks, on will alone. Weeks in which she persistently fought the hopelessness that sought to destroy her, the murmur of voices that taunted her – insisting that all of her friends were doomed to die and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Weeks when she yearned to be tucked into her own bed with Prada at her side, and when the only things keeping Lydia warm were her memories and the enduring promise of a love that flamed pure gold in her heart.

She survived because of her friends. Her amazing friends who collectively risked their lives for her, refusing to let her be used like a pawn in a turbulent supernatural power struggle. Like Scott, who reassembled their pack, one member at a time, because he believed they were stronger as a group but valued them as individuals too. Like Kira, who confronted her fears, harnessing her somewhat unpredictable powers to cause a brownout that would disable a normally impenetrable security system. And Liam, who cemented a place in Stiles's esteem when he volunteered to let Scott hit him to provoke an anger-induced shift – so he could break through a locked gate that would have prevented Stiles from getting to her.

She survived because of Stiles. The bravest, smartest, most resilient person she will ever know. The one who came up with the entire plan and who was anything but defeated when things didn't go accordingly. He overcame every obstacle to find his way back to her...even though she told him it was too dangerous, even though it meant putting up with someone he despises. Because Stiles said he wouldn't leave her. Because he wanted to bring her home. To him. To what they have together. And he did. Beyond that, his incorruptible heart kept hers beating, tether between them pulling her back when she faded into oblivion.

Now, she gets to love him. Every single day, and in every possible way.

Like by not calling him, even though it's what she longs to do.

She catches herself – gaze reflexively landing on her phone, hand roaming towards it...

Quickly, she closes her eyes and sets her hand on Prada's back, stubborn not to falter in her resolve. Instead, she thinks of Stiles, of their unforgettable road trip to San Francisco and the idyllic hours they've spent at Beryl Cove. She thinks of ice skating and the flavor of peanut butter cups on their tongues, and of the shooting stars and brilliant fireworks they watched just two days ago. She thinks of laughing with him and holding hands with him, of hugging and kissing him. She thinks of last week – making love on the floor of his room in the mid-afternoon heat; both so desperate for each other, they never made it to the bed. She thinks of sleeping and waking in his arms, of holding each other through nightmares and tears. She thinks of the way he touched her face when he said good-bye yesterday morning, of the sensation of his breath filling her lungs, and of the way his lips reduced pressure on hers only long enough to mouth an inaudible I love you – one that she felt resonate in every cell of her body. She thinks of the fact that each time they part, it's a bit harder to let him go, thinks of him looking back at her – once to offer a flawless crooked smile, then a second time to blow her a kiss. She thinks of the moment she pressed her fingertips to her smile to show him it reached her and how slowly he drove away in his Jeep. She thinks of how fifteen minutes later, he called to let her know he got home safe and to remind her of how happy she makes him.

She thinks she could get through just about anything, including this headache, if she keeps focusing on Stiles and the unfailing, all-encompassing love he shows her.

But the shrill sound of her neighbor's circular saw cuts through Lydia's positive progression of thought. Even with the windows closed, the disruptive noise assaults her sensitive ears with a high-pitched screech. Suddenly, she hears the instrument Valack used during the trepanation. She can practically see him looming over her with the drill and feel the excruciating pain of its jagged-metal teeth grinding into her skull.

It hurts. It hurts so badly she could scream.

She clamps her jaw shut, her body beginning to quake with the effort it takes to contain her voice. Her eyes are leaking tears. They slide back towards her pillow, hot and uncontrollable in a way that mimics the nauseating trickle of blood that had oozed along her scalp after the terrifying procedure.

It's too much. She wants Stiles. She knows if she could just see him or hear him say a single word to her, the pain wouldn't be able to assert such an oppressive grip.

Her need for him tugs with fierce determination. She is about to give in, to pick up her phone or cry out his name...as if that will magically make him appear before her.

At precisely the same moment, three hushed notes float across the room. "Ly-di-a," they chant, smothering the racket and easing her pain as swiftly as a breath blows out a candle, leaving behind nothing but a wispy trail of smoke.

Her eyes flash open, and Stiles comes into view.

He is standing in her doorway, silhouette in partial shadow, aura of diffused light glinting off his shoulders.

He looks like an angel.

At first, she blinks, convinced that what she sees is strictly a manifestation of her heart's truest desire.

It can't be him.

But it has to be. She can feel him.

Reaching out with a trembling arm, Lydia beckons him closer. When his fingertips greet hers, the shaking stops and any dampening trace of doubt evaporates from her mind.

He is real. She knew it.

"Stiles…" she exhales, linking their digits.

He kneels by the bed, one hand locked with hers while the other skims her cheek, then strokes her hair before he carefully drapes his arm over her.

"Hey, beautiful," he greets her, ever so softly.

She feels about as far from beautiful as she can imagine. Her hair is mangled from tossing and turning, and she is in dire need of a shampoo. She is sticky with sweat and her face must be pale and drawn, but she can't help smiling at him through tears. Her palm and fingers wriggle their way up to his wrist...then to his elbow...and shoulder...and finally, the side of his neck, where she finds his pulse and waits for hers to match it.

"You're here."

"I'm here."

"Stiles..."

Maneuvering her hand to the back of his head, she encourages him nearer...until their noses are touching. The nearer he is, the farther her pain.

He starts kissing her face, string of little pecks that, by sensation alone, are surely tinting her cheeks red.

She wants to ask him so many things: How did he know? How did he get to her so fast? How is he so perfect? But she only manages to squeak out, "How?" over the tightness in her throat.

No sooner has the incomplete question passed her lips, than Lydia realizes she already knows the comprehensive answer: Because he is Stiles.

His response only proves to vindicate her faith in their connection. "I had this...feeling...like a heaviness in my chest when I woke up. I knew something was wrong, that I had to come back," he explains, voice never elevating above a whisper. "You're having one of your headaches… Aren't you?"

She purses her lips, and a few more tears shake loose as she nods in silent admission.

"How bad?"

"Almost as bad as the last one."

"Aww…Lyds." His sigh breezes over her wet cheeks, alleviating the heat that is trapped within them.

"But it hurts less since you got here," she adds.

The room is dim, muted colors veiled by a haze of shadow, but she can clearly see the light in his eyes brightening as he smiles at her. He gives her one more tiny kiss, barely caressing her bottom lip, but he lingers...and her stomach swirls with a whirlpool of warmth. It swells and floods her body, submerging her pain while keeping her heart, and her lungs, and her thoughts afloat with the purifying influence of his affection.

"How long have you been awake?" he asks.

"Um...since around eight."

"Yeah, me too." His mouth reshapes, quickly flickering from a pout to a frown. "I guess it's safe to assume you weren't going to call me."

There is a twinge of tension in his statement, one so frail that it might be undetectable...if she didn't know him so well.

"I almost did," she informs him, anxious to neutralize any hurt she might have caused.

He is quiet. She knows he won't pursue the issue when she is in this state, but she also doesn't want anything left unsaid between them. There has been too much of that in the past.

"Stiles, listen—"

"It's alright, we can talk about it later," he says in a distinctly forbearing tone. "Right now, you need to rest."

"No, I can't. Not until you hear this... It's important," she insists, lightly raking her nails across the nape of his neck. "You know there is only one reason why I didn't call. You know that... Don't you?"

"I do, and I love you for it."

He bows his head, lips conforming to her knuckles, and Lydia takes the opportunity to kiss the crown of his head. She can feel him struggling to compose himself, but eventually he makes eye contact.

Keeping his jaw pressed to the back of her hand, he resumes, "But also...it breaks my heart to think of you going through this without me – again. All those months...I couldn't be here for you. I want to be here now."

"And I want you here. Stiles, I want you so much... But what about your dad? This was his first weekend off since we got you back...and you've already missed so much time together. I didn't want to ruin it because of a headache. It's not my first, probably won't be the last either."

His brows pinch together in dismay. "Baby, come on... First of all, you could never ruin anything...especially not by telling me you want me with you," he assures her. "And second, this isn't just an average headache. Do you think, for one minute, that my dad would be okay knowing you were alone here...feeling like this?"

He wouldn't. Lydia is certain of that. If the way he has treated her – not only in the last six weeks, but ever since she and Stiles became friends – if that is any indication of how much he cares, then she is one, very fortunate girl. Because Noah treats her like she matters, like he can't imagine his or his son's life without her in it. He treats her, not just like part of their family, but like she is his own daughter.

"No," she gulps down a sob of emotion, "he wouldn't, but I was trying to... I thought I could handle it, just this once."

"How?"

"I was thinking about you...about us... Stiles, it was working. Not as well as being with you, but it was working...until my neighbor started using that stupid electric saw."

"And then?"

"I had a flashback..."

"Of Eichen House," he finishes for her, tone even more forgiving than before. "That must have been awful."

"Yeah, I kinda lost it after that. I was so scared, and all I wanted was you. I was reaching for the phone, but it turns out...I didn't have to. You were here."

He strokes her hair again, hand protectively guarding the vulnerability that scars the left side of her head. Then, he leans in to kiss the bridge of her nose. When he looks back at her, his eyes are glossy and he is giving her an upside-down smile.

"I'm in awe of you, Lydia Martin. You are, without a doubt, the bravest person I have ever known."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. Selfless too."

She shakes her head. "I just want you to have...everything," she confides.

"I do. I've got everything I need," he affirms with another sweet kiss, "and just so you know, there isn't any better reason to come home than to be with you."

Tender adoration saturates his every word. Words that dilute the guilt she feels and which remind her that no matter what, Stiles will always choose to come home to her.

"I love you. Stiles, I love you."

"I love you back."

"And you forgive me... Right?"

"There's nothing to forgive." He bumps her nose with his. "Now, let's tackle this headache. Just you and me...and Prada."

At the sound of her name, the toy spaniel sits up, proudly puffing out her chest and quirking her ears as if to say, It's about time someone paid attention to me.

They quietly laugh at her playful and innocent, albeit melodramatic, tendencies.

"She missed you...you know," Lydia informs Stiles as they pet her. "Yesterday, she kept bringing me that ball you got for her."

"That's adorable," Stiles chuckles as he scratches behind Prada's ears. "I missed you too, Prada. We'll play later. Okay?"

She nuzzles his hand, while he turns to Lydia.

"But first, I'm making you some of Deaton's willow bark tea. Then, I'm coming right back, and the three of us are going to curl up together. And, Lyds, I'm not letting you go until you're one hundred percent yourself...and even then, I'm gonna keep holding you because we have like an entire day's worth of kissing to make up for."

"Yes, please – to all of that," Lydia smiles.

Stiles kisses her head, so gently that she feels it more in her heart than on the surface of her skin. "Be back in a few," he reassures before rising from the floor, toeing off his sneakers by the closet, and heading down the hall.


Within five minutes, he returns with a tray which he sets on the nightstand. He pours Lydia a cup of tea and tests it to make sure it's not too hot, then carefully helps her sit up.

She leans against Stiles and takes a sip, cup warm in her hands, his ardent regard even warmer.

"How's that?"

"Good, thanks," she replies, looking up at him.

Once Lydia finishes her tea, Stiles takes the cup from her. She tries to stifle a yawn, but to no avail. These headaches wear her out every time. She is dreadfully tired, and he knows it, already encouraging her under the covers and adjusting the pillows for her.

"That's it... Just give me one sec," he says as she lies down without reluctance.

She waits as he removes his phone from his pocket and leaves it on the nightstand. He unbuckles his belt, takes off his khakis, and hangs them over the footboard before crawling into bed in his tee shirt and boxers. Reclining with his back propped on her headboard and his legs out in front of him, he opens his arms for her without delay. She turns onto her side and nestles her head on his shoulder, sighing as his limbs completely envelop her. Prada soon joins them, coiling up in a ball near Lydia's knees.

The comfort of being surrounded by love starts to settle in, and she wants to let it, to absorb every ounce of solace and never let it go. It feels good. Really good...and familiar...and she starts to remember...

Her mind wants to take her into the past, but she hangs on to the present a little while longer – for Stiles.

"I'm so glad you're here," she tells him, reaching up to caress his face.

"Me too," he answers, turning in to kiss her palm. "It's alright now. You're never going through this without me again."

Drowsiness continuing to subdue her, she nods, hand falling slowly from his jaw to his chest where it finds its place over his heart.

"Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," he promises, and then she lets herself remember.

She remembers a night in November, when Stiles gave her a remarkable gift...


She remembers this night in pieces, her exhausted mind drifting in and out of consciousness.

A repetitive beep stirred Lydia awake. Her eyes sluggishly opened; lids heavy as she waited for her vision to clear. She remembers the sterile, synthetically lit room, which she quickly identified as one of the intensive care units in Beacon Hills Memorial.

She was in the hospital, and the noise she heard was her heart monitor.

Inhaling slowly, she took in her surroundings. The space was small and cramped with medical equipment. It had tiled walls, swinging doors on either side, and a glass block transom window that bled in more artificial light from the hallway. All of it, far too familiar. All of it, the same as the last time she was there, after what happened with Tracy. But that was two months prior, and for a minute, Lydia couldn't remember why she was in the hospital. Again.

Her mouth was dry, so she tried to swallow but the soreness in her throat made her wince.

That's when it came to her in frighteningly vivid detail...


She had been at the Sheriff's Station with Noah, and they were taking a recess from discussing Beacon Hills most recent supernatural crisis. Lydia remembers having coffee in the break room while she texted with Stiles, who had left shortly before to meet with Scott, Liam, and Deaton. She remembers the last thing he wrote to her:

I'll be there soon. Try not to miss me too much.

She smiled at the winking face emoji he included and was about to respond when an unexpected and brief exchange of gunfire demanded her attention. She remembers the cold tingle that zipped up her spine.

Noah!

Without a second thought, she headed for the squad room, where she walked in on a confrontation between Sebastien Valet, Officer Clark, and the Sheriff. Noah was crawling on the floor, reaching for his handgun, and Sebastien had his sinister eyes set on him.

Before Lydia could take a step to intervene, Sebastien turned towards her. She caught sight of his pointed fangs and heard his ferocious growl, but she held her ground, preparing to strike back as he lifted his claws to her.

She remembers the sound of her own scream and the force it took for her to repel him. He flew across the room, slamming into a wall, then landing on his back with a thud.

The fleeting moment of relief that ensued was instantly eclipsed by the white-hot pain that struck the left side of her throat. Lydia remembers her hands, reflexively covering the wound she had sustained, and the sinking feeling that the ground beneath her was giving way as she dropped to her knees.

She saw red. Red like the tee shirt Stiles wore that day. Stiles.

After that, there was nothing.

Nothing but darkness and a sense of weightlessness...

Until...

A familiar parental tone breached the void, "Hang on, Lydia. Almost there... Come on, sweetheart, you have to stay awake."

Noah was carrying her through the hospital doors. His expression conveyed worry and uncertainty, but the strength of his arms was absolute; he held her close to his chest, preventing her body from jostling too violently as he hastened his stride towards the nurses' station.

Lydia remembers her hands. They were still clasped to her neck in what felt like a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. She could feel it slipping through her fingers and spreading as it soaked into her blouse. She tried to stay calm to prevent her heart rate from spiking and speeding along the process, but it seemed impossible. Lydia was anything but calm – she was profoundly afraid. She remembers being thoroughly conscious of the fact that she had lost a lot of blood. Too much blood.

She remembers the spokes of Noah's gold shield, poking into her right shoulder, giving her something to focus on. That shield had more than the obvious significance to its credit. An image of Stiles holding that token in his palm flashed through her mind. She could practically hear his quivering voice say,

Um...I got my dad's badge. Jennifer kind of crushed it...in her hand, so I tried hammering it out a bit... Still doesn't look great.

She remembers the faith Stiles put in her that night, the way he trusted her to pull him back from the depths of a watery grave. She wondered if he knew that she needed him just as much, that without him there, she was finding it hard to breathe.

"Ssst..." she hissed.

The amount of energy she had to exert to produce that small sound was unnatural. She was cold and tired...very tired. As a result, keeping her hands in place on her throat was becoming a chore.

"Melissa!" she heard Noah call. "Melissa!"

It was the most rattled she had witnessed his voice and demeanor since Stiles was missing. Stiles.

She wondered if she would ever see him again. She had to. After everything, it couldn't end like this – with her bleeding to death in his father's arms. Could it?

"Get her on a gurney," Melissa directed.

Noah carefully set Lydia down, and Melissa leaned over her, speaking to her in a firm yet gentle tone.

"Lydia, honey, it's okay. You're going to be just fine," she assured her, as she adeptly placed a handful of thick gauze over her neck and applied pressure to the wound for her. Then, she shifted her eyes to Noah. "Let's go."

Noah drew up the guard-rail and hurried alongside the stretcher. As he and Melissa wheeled her to the emergency room bay, Lydia's eyes rolled upwards where fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Their cold white glare was a harsh contrast from the warm amber hue she was aching to see. They made her want to shut her eyes, but she fought to stay awake.

In one last effort to communicate, she fumbled for Noah's wrist. Skin slick with blood, she was unable to latch on to him, but he caught her palm with both of his hands and held it tightly.

"Ssst... St—" she sputtered, eyes wide with a flare of panic as she looked up at Noah.

And he understood.

"He's on his way. I called him from the car. Stiles will be here soon. I promise."

Wherever he was, it felt too far away. She wanted him there. With her. There were tears in her eyes and a sharp tug in her chest, but she forced a smile.

"Noah, this is as far as you can go," Melissa said sympathetically. "Dr Geyer and I will take it from here. I'll update you as soon as I can."

Lydia remembers the cloud of drowsiness moving in, her eyelids getting heavier and heavier.

Noah bent down to kiss her forehead. "Hang in there, kid. We both need you," he whispered in a way that could only be described as loving.

She remembers his kind face. The face of the man whom she pictures whenever she thinks of the word Dad. The man who has been there for her more times than she can count, who willingly opened his home to her, and who trusted her with his most precious treasure – his son.

Stiles – who was once again, the first and the last thought on her mind.

Then the cloud settled over, and everything faded to black...


Lydia remembers her rapid heartbeats, thudding against her rib cage and transmitting through the monitor as she recalled the trauma she had experienced. She tried to slow her breathing, but icy fragments of fear were clinging to her bones, making her feel sick with cold everywhere.

Everywhere...except for one hand, which was being held by Stiles, and the left side of her ribs where Stiles had planted his forehead.

He was sitting in a chair that was pulled right next to her hospital bed, and he was stroking her index finger with his thumb – a tangible reminder that he was with her and he wasn't letting go. Even in sleep, he was the most communicative person she ever knew. His forehead was crinkled, eyebrows cinched together, lips parted and occasionally twitching. She recognized that expression. It's the same one he has when he is contemplating some clue, processing it through the inexhaustible scope of his mind, delving beneath the surface to find the truth. The same way he so often looks at her.

She kept her eyes on him; the sight of him so sweet, she couldn't help but smile. Gradually, her inhales and exhales evened out, and her heart rhythm returned to a normal pace. She focused on the way his warmth was flowing through her. She remembers what it felt like – like that first mild day of the year, when the sunlight shines at a slightly different angle, when the colors of the landscape appear just a little brighter, when spring is so close...she can practically reach out and touch it. It felt absurdly good. Lydia wanted to retain that sensation for as long as possible, so she decided that she wasn't letting go of Stiles either.

She remembers debating whether or not to wake him. The dryness in her throat was becoming unbearable. There was a cup on the bedside table, but she couldn't reach it. As if he were aware of her indecision, Stiles squeezed Lydia's hand, and she took it as a sign...

But she was determined to wake him gently this time.

Earlier that evening, when he fell asleep on the couch in his dad's office, she had poked his forehead with her finger. Granted, he told her to. If I nod off, just poke me, he had said. But Lydia still felt guilty about it. Stiles would never wake her like that. He was always so gentle with her.

She tenderly set her free hand atop his head and began lightly combing her fingers through the messy tufts of his hair.

His eyes immediately opened, and his head lifted from her rib cage as he gasped her name, "Lydia..."

After that, his whole body sprang into action, standing and pushing the chair away in one swift motion. Her smile blossomed when she saw that he was primed to lunge towards her, then faded as he reined himself in, approaching her more carefully...as if he had just considered that she was in a hospital bed, connected to an IV line and a bunch of electrodes. She remembers wishing he had done it anyway.

He maintained his grip on her left hand and reached for her shoulder with the other. "You're awake," he said softly.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, so she made a second attempt and managed to utter one syllable. "Wa—"

"Thirsty?"

She nodded.

"Dr Geyer says you can only have ice chips for now. Okay?" he explained.

Already feeling hindered by her limitations, she pursed her arid lips and nodded again. Then, she watched Stiles take a piece of ice and offer it to her. She parted her lips as he skated the frozen liquid from side to side. As it melted, droplets of water began to quench her parched mouth. He continued until the fragment was too small for him to hold. It slipped between her lips, where it finished dissolving on her tongue.

Lydia closed her eyes, cautiously swallowing, before extinguishing a relieved sigh.

"Better?" he asked.

She opened her eyes. "Yes," she answered in a raspy whisper.

"Good."

Stiles was smiling when he reached to cup her cheek, but to Lydia, his anguish was apparent – broadcast to her, loud and clear, by way of his sharp inhale and the intensity of his eyes. He looked so happy and so distraught at the same time, which was exactly how she felt in that moment.

Lydia remembers wanting to be strong for him, but she had surpassed her limit of reserve. Her heart rate spiked again as emotion crumpled her face into rapidly blinking lids and trembling lips.

He didn't hesitate to respond, leaning down, until their foreheads were touching. "I know. I know... Don't cry," he advised, "you'll strain your throat even more."

She wondered if he was aware that she could feel his tears splashing against her eyelashes and skin. Her arms were like lead, but she willed them into action; first finding his shoulders, then taking two handfuls of his cotton tee into tightly clenched fists.

"Sc—cared," she choked out.

"Me too."

"Thought I—I wasn't...going...to...see...you."

"I'm here. I'm right here, Lyds," he soothed, tilting his head up to kiss her temple. "We're together now. Just focus on that."

She listened to him, thought about how fitting it was that his was the first face she saw when she opened her eyes, how his proximity restored the natural cadence of her breaths and beats, and how his gentle touches were numbing her pain. Slowly but surely, she calmed; her hands loosening their vice grip on his shirt and sliding to either side of his face to keep him close.

"That's it, easy. You're gonna be okay."

Following a lengthy pause, he kissed her head once more before a noise in the hallway startled them both.

Stiles quickly glanced over his shoulder. "It's just one of the porters. He's headed down the hall. We're fine. Though, technically..." he added, nibbling on his lip, "I'm not supposed to be in here. Melissa snuck me in."

"Don't go," she fretted, hooking his pinky with hers.

He hovered closer. "Hey, there's no way I'm leaving you."

She let her eyes fall shut and breathed easier.

"You tired?"

Honestly, the emotional outburst had drained what was left of her energy, but she denied a yawn and shook her head. "Mason... The Beast..."

"Scott and I are working on that. You need to rest. You're in the ICU for a reason."

She was assembling a half-baked rebuttal, but Stiles was several steps ahead of her.

"Alright...how about I need you to rest? Could you try? For me? 'Cause, Lydia, I'm seriously worried about you. I need you to be okay."

She remembers thinking that he had chosen the only words that could have persuaded her to take heed. There was nothing she could deny him. Nothing. Especially not when he was looking at her like that – like his peace of mind was dependent on her well-being, like he loved her.

"Please, Lyds," he coaxed, continually stroking her face with his fingertips.

She conceded with a nod.

"Thank you," he exhaled.

Stiles picked up her hand and kissed it, careful to avoid her IV line. Then he hooked the leg of the chair with his foot and brought it next to the bed. He sat down, maintaining as much contact with her as he could – one hand still locked with hers, the other clasped around her shoulder, where he attentively eased the last of her tension by massaging tiny circles with his thumb.

She watched him for as long as she could keep her eyes open.

"It's okay. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Prom—ise."

"I promise."

And with that, she drifted off...

Stiles still the first and last thought on her mind.


The next time she woke, she was in one of the private hospital rooms. The walls were shadowed in blue, stripes of moonlight peeking through Venetian blinds.

Stiles was there, fingers curled around her palm as he stood beside her bed.

"Hey, you alright?" he checked.

She remembers his expression – pensive and compassionate, and she instinctively knew he was trying to figure out how to tell her something.

"Did... Did you find something? A solution?" her hoarse voice inquired.

"Yeah. It was you…" Tilting his head and raising his eyebrows, he repeated. "It was you, Lydia."

She gave him a questioning look, and he briefly averted his eyes before sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Remember what Melissa found out about Mason having a vanishing twin?"

Her throat was still irritated, so she simply nodded.

"Okay...so Scott, Liam, and I were talking it over with Deaton, and he thinks Mason is a genetic chimera because his sibling's DNA is still part of him."

She nodded again.

"So, the running theory is that even though Sebastien overtook him, Mason could still be in there – his life force at least, his—"

"Energy," she interjected.

"Right. Deaton thinks that somewhere inside Sebastien, Mason has to exist...maybe a spark of that energy...or even just a single memory. He said, if we could get Mason to remember one thing – like his name, that could save him because...if you call a werewolf by its given name..."

"It reverts...to human form."

"And that would separate Mason from the Beast, giving us the chance to put an end to this without hurting him."

It made sense, she supposed, in a bizarre supernatural kind of way. But there was something else...

Lydia waited for Stiles to say what she was already piecing together – the catch. There was always a catch because they lived in Beacon Hills...and in Beacon Hills, there was never an uncomplicated solution to anything.

"But it can't just be anyone. There's a specific kind of voice that could get through to Mason."

"Mine," she deduced.

"Yeah, and given what happened to you tonight..." he trailed off.

She closed her eyes in exasperation. She remembers thinking about the way Sebastien had stood over Noah, how he was ready to strike Stiles's father with a gleam of satisfaction in his callous eyes. She thought about all of the damage that had been done and all that could still be done if they couldn't separate Mason from the Beast. Unwilling to accept defeat, she started to get up from the bed.

Stiles stopped her, setting his hands firmly on her shoulders and hunching down to make eye contact. "Lydia, what are you doing?"

"Let's go," she wheezed.

"No, no, we're not going anywhere right now. Just slow down. Alright? It's barely three hours since my dad brought you here and...and you had lost so much blood that you had to have a transfusion...and..."

Lydia grasped his forearms, but she was too tired to put up any kind of a fight. When she hung her head in surrender, her gaze descended on his arms. His arms that felt like the only thing keeping her upright.

That was when she noticed the bruise in the crook of his right elbow; a red-violet splotch centered by a tiny puncture mark – like from a hypodermic needle.

There was no reason for him to have a mark like that.

Unless... Stiles was her blood donor.

His blood was surging through her veins.

Her head lifted. She stared at him; eyes transfixed on his beautiful careworn face. She stared at him while her nearly breathless lungs squeezed out a partial exhale. If she were still connected to a heart monitor, her pulse reading would have set off an alarm at the nurses' station.

"Lydia, what is it? Do you need me to get Melissa?"

"You."

"What?"

She bit her quivering lip and traced a circle around the mark with her index finger. He instantly understood what she was wordlessly communicating, but in typical unpretentious Stiles fashion, he tried to downplay the magnitude of what he had done for her.

"Oh, that..." he shrugged.

Like it was no big deal. No big deal when, ever since he was a child – a boy of only eight, who spent far too many days in this hospital, helplessly witnessing the decline of his mother's health, repeatedly seeing her poked and prodded with needles for blood samples and injections of experimental drugs, none of which helped her improve – ever since then, Stiles had developed a fear of needles and an intense aversion to the sight of blood.

Lydia released her lip and, without taking her eyes off him, continued to graze her thumb over the evidence of his selfless act. "Yes, that."

"That's just... I mean, the hospital's supply has been kind of depleted with all the killing and maiming that's been going on. With your blood type...the donor had to be—"

"O negative."

"Yeah."

"Looks like...you're making a habit of...saving my life," she smiled, ignoring the tightness in her sore throat.

He shook his head, cheeks tinging pink. "I should have been there."

"You're here now," she pointed out, sliding her hands up to his shoulders, "and...you let someone...stick you with a needle...for me."

His shoulders lifted and lowered under her palms. "It was Melissa...and I passed out before she even got within two feet of me."

"Liar."

"Alright, I didn't pass out, but I was pretty close." He timidly smirked, but with a flutter of his lashes, his expression grew serious. "When I got here...and saw your blood all over my dad's uniform... I—there wasn't even a choice to make. Okay? I couldn't let you— because I have this stupid, irrational fear. I just couldn't."

"It doesn't make it any less..." she contended, tenderly brushing a few unruly strands away from his temple. "It only makes it more heroic."

"Lydia—"

Refusing to let him minimize what he had done for her, she silenced him with a hug. She remembers wanting to hold him tighter, but her body didn't cooperate, only yielding a weary shudder. Stiles seemed to know the source of her frustration. He shifted closer and adjusted his grip on her, holding her tight enough for the both of them.

"Thank you," she whispered in his ear.

His chest swelled with an inhale. "Lyds, it's what we do for each other, and... I'd do anything... Anything."

She remembers thinking that two years earlier, a statement like that would have scared her; the weight of being this person, one that he would do anything for, a burden – something she neither thought she could live up to or deserved. But things had changed. Somehow her mutual devotion to him created a balance, and Lydia wanted Stiles to know it.

She leaned back so she could look into his eyes, tiny droplets teetering off the ends of her lashes when she said, "So would I. You know that... Right?"

He solemnly nodded.

Lydia let the tugging that she always felt towards him guide her closer. She kissed his cheek, deliberately catching the corner of his mouth. Stiles pressed into her, turning inwards just a fraction of an inch. Just enough to let her know he understood it was intentional and he was okay with that.

When they unhurriedly parted, he was smiling, and so was she.

"Now will you lie down?"

"Stiles, I need...to do...something. We can't...let him win."

"We won't. We'll figure out a way. But first, you need to get your strength back. Come on..." he cajoled, flipping her pillow over and easing her towards it. "How's that?"

She scrunched up her face with disapproval.

The bed beneath her was nothing like either of theirs. It was thin and lumpy, and the sheets were stiff and pilly. It didn't have Lydia's plush pillows nor her cozy floral quilt. It didn't have Stiles's soft plaid sheets nor that perfect nook in the middle of his mattress – the one his body naturally impressed over time, the one they always sink into so effortlessly.

"Sorry, dumb question. These beds suck. I know they do. Also, it's freezing in here," he commented. "Why are hospitals always so ridiculously cold?"

It was cold. She remembers wishing she were curled up with Stiles in one of their beds – same as they had been doing, as often as they could, in recent weeks. There was always a reason. Sometimes, they fell asleep studying or watching a movie together. Other times, he was helping her cope with a headache or they had just gotten so comfortable they couldn't be bothered to move. Whatever the case, Lydia always felt warm and sheltered when Stiles was beside her...and she was pretty sure he felt the same.

Before she could ask him to lie down with her, he went on, "I'll get you some extra blankets."

Lydia tugged on his hand, directing her eyes to the empty space on her right side, so he would get the hint. She didn't need or want another blanket. She wanted him.

"Lyds, you know bed sharing is against hospital policy," he mock-scolded her.

She rolled her eyes.

"What about the fact that the bed's too small? I'll crowd you," he alleged feebly.

She knew he was teasing her, so she pouted dramatically. Stiles laughed – his beautiful, vibrant laugh that always made her soul feel considerably less bruised.

"You're right. We'll make it work," he conspired with a wink.

Then, he walked to the opposite side of the bed and squeezed in next to her. They melded together; Stiles putting his arm around her, and Lydia resting her cheek on his shoulder.

"Better?" he asked, left hand automatically coming up to the side of her head, protectively shielding the wound she sustained during the trepanation.

"Much," she answered, snuggling a little closer.

It was still dark outside, and the wall clock indicated that it was 1:22 a.m. In Beacon Hills, some nights seemed to go on forever, an endless deprivation of light, wickedly permitting more time for the supernatural realm to wreak havoc on their lives.

Lydia tried not to think about that, refocusing her attention on Stiles. His amber eyes, which she had ached to see a few hours prior, were looking back at her. She followed the pale bluish glow of moonlight that was kissing his skin and highlighting the branched pattern of veins in his arms. Veins that carried blood to his heart and, ever since that night, hers too. As she traced them with her finger, she remembers wishing for daylight, for the two of them to be tucked away, someplace safe and peaceful. Someplace warmed by the sun, where the only thing that went bump in the night was the harmonized pulsing of their two hearts. Her eyes began to sting with longing, but then she remembered that she didn't need to go somewhere else to experience that bliss. She was with Stiles – the boy with perpetual sun in his eyes. Wherever he was, there was light. Whenever they were together, she was safe...and happy...and hope could be more than just an abstract notion. It was something she could reach out and touch. She wanted to – so much.

So she did.

Lydia lifted her left hand from his arm so that her palm was facing him, fingers fanned out.

And Stiles understood. Of course he did.

His arm rose from where it was draped over her side. Then, his fingers slowly coasted over her palm and filled the spaces between hers before curling around the back of her hand.

She didn't have to wonder what he was thinking. She knew.

But it didn't hurt one bit when he said, "Keep doing things like this...and you're gonna be stuck with me."

"Good," she replied, and watched his grin flourish into a full smile.

For a while, they gazed into each other's eyes, holding on to each other in the calm between one of the many storms in their lives, their silent communication drowning out the low hum of activity in the adjoining corridor and of the world outside the window. Seconds passed...minutes...maybe hours. It didn't matter. It was only time going by, as it inevitably does; unaffected by need, want, or desire. And in the midst of it, there was something beautiful between them. Something that made the hardships easier to bear and the triumphs even sweeter. Something that made every raised brow, every blink, every smile, every touch, and every breath feel sacred, significant, and so very dear.

Something called Love.


Present Day

Lydia wakes, and Stiles is still with her. She is comfortably wrapped in his arms, a newly recovered memory enriching the present, her headache a thing of the past.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" he asks, giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze.

"Much better," she smiles.

"You were kind of restless for a while. Did you sleep okay?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And your headache?"

"It's gone."

"The tea worked then... Huh?"

"It wasn't the tea."

"No?"

"It was you..." she tells him, gingerly touching his face. "It was you, Stiles."

"Lydia?"

"You remember that whole night..." she leads, pointing to the four, now feather-light, scars on the side of her neck.

His fingers follow hers over the surface of her skin. "Yeah, I do."

"Until today, I only remembered the worst parts of it, but now...I have the best parts too. And now, when I look back...you'll be what I remember – more clearly than anything else." She brings his fingertips to her lips and kisses them. "I'll remember what you did for me."

"I'd do it again – in a heartbeat."

"I'll remember how you were there when I woke up, and how happy I was to see you...just like today."

The corners of his mouth steadily elevate as she speaks.

"I'll remember that you stayed with me and held me...just like today."

He hedges closer, kisses her once...twice...three times.

"You turned one of the worst nights of my life, into something...beautiful," she declares as she returns his kisses. "That's what you do, my love. It's what you've always done."

"It's what you do for me too. And the way we are now... This is how it's supposed to be. We've made it this far together, and that's how we're going to get through everything else. Right?"

"Yes."

"So...in the future...even though I hope you never have another headache, promise you'll tell me, and no matter where I am, I'll come home to you."

Stiles lifts his hand, palm facing her, fingers fanned out – same as she had done on the night in her memory.

Lydia nods, her fingers slowly coasting over his palm, then filling the spaces between his before curling around the back of his hand.

"I wanna know everything that's going on with you, Lyds," he continues. "Everything. Every headache, every cough, every sneeze...every broken fingernail."

She giggles through the overwhelming emotion he stirs inside of her. "I promise. You too?"

"I promise."

She sits up to hug him, arms encircling him at full strength. He pulls her into his lap, ducking his head to tenderly kiss her neck and further diminishing her scars with the touch of his lips and the caress of his exhales.

They part a few minutes later, when Stiles's phone vibrates with a text message. He takes it off the nightstand, keeping his left arm anchored to Lydia.

"Is that your dad?"

"Yup, he wanted to check on you."

"Where is he?"

"Home. Says he's making my mom's Rosół for you."

She sucks in her top lip. Claudia's Polish chicken noodle soup is by far the best she's ever had...and Noah doesn't make it for just anyone.

"Really?" she beams.

"Yeah, and if you feel up to it, he'll bring it over for dinner tonight."

"I'd love that."

"Great. I'll let him know."

While he texts a response, Lydia thinks of how much she cherishes those moments – the three of them...plus Prada too, having dinner together. She loves watching Stiles interact with his dad, loves the way Noah dotes on them, loves how easy it is to see what all of that means: they are a family.

"It's all set. He'll be here around six," he confirms, returning his phone to the nightstand, "which gives you all afternoon to rest—"

She interrupts him with a kiss, and he melts under the contact.

"Mmm..." she purrs, "I don't need any more rest. I feel one hundred percent myself... And what was it you said before? Something about us...and all the kissing we have to make up for."

With raised eyebrows and a love-struck grin, he rolls back onto the mattress with her. "A whole day's worth...at least. Maybe more," he amends, then kisses her again...and again. "Definitely more."

The rest of the afternoon goes by at a relaxed pace. It is marked by a peaceful evolution of lazy kisses, warm hugs, and affectionately whispered words.

And that, Lydia thinks, is something beautiful too.