It's been a long time since the last update, so I doubt anybody's still reading this. Still, I feel like the story deserves a proper conclusion, so here it is. Sorry for the delay; long story short my mother died, my life fell apart, and I'm still not really okay but that's life I guess. Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, and reviewed this story. It's one of my favorite things I've written, fanfic or otherwise, and I hope the ending does it justice. So, for the final time: enjoy, and I'll see you all next time.
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It's still dark when they reach the cemetery. It had taken them a while to walk back to Stiles' jeep, and they'd run into the rest of the pack there. Scott kept offering to take Lydia to the hospital, while Kira backed him up with one of her stop pretending you're okay when we all know you're not looks, but eventually Lydia managed to convince them that she was okay. And when she told the others where she and Stiles were going, they backed off at once; they understood.
So now Stiles and Lydia are pulling up outside the cemetery, exhausted but determined, and he can't stop thinking about the fact that she kissed him. And this time it wasn't to trick him into holding his breath; it wasn't panic – it was passion. And it felt right in a way that nothing with Malia ever had. His thoughts turn briefly to the werecoyote, and he's grateful for what they shared; but on some level they'd both known it wouldn't last. They'd burned bright and gone out with a bang, and Stiles knows she'll be happier out there. Heck, maybe he can even visit her sometimes; when she's not caught in the middle of a battle between her coyote side and her human side, she's actually quite reasonable.
Stiles falls back slightly, letting Lydia lead the way. Her steps are light, slightly hesitant, but she's not going to turn back. There's no turning back now, for either of them. Lydia's steps start to falter and Stiles grabs her arm to steady her. She looks back at him, her eyes catching the moonlight, and Stiles thinks he's never seen anything so beautiful – or so sad.
"Have you…" he starts tentatively. "Have you been here since the funeral?"
He feels Lydia shiver, but he's not sure whether it's the cold or the question. They haven't talked about Allison's death, even though at times he'd been on the verge of calling her to do just that, and he's still not sure how to broach the subject with her.
"Sort of," she responds, and her voice makes his heart lurch; she sounds distant again, like she's starting to slip away.
"What do you mean?" he asks, pulling her to a stop.
When she looks at him, he's not sure if it's tears or moonlight glittering in her eyes. "I've been… I've been sleepwalking lately," she says. "And I always end up here." Her gaze sweeps over the cemetery, taking in the neat rows of tombstones and the wilting bouquets of flowers. "I thought it was just part of being a banshee – you know, my powers messing with me again – but now I think it was something else. Something like…"
"Grief," Stiles supplies, and she winces but doesn't argue.
"I never got to say goodbye," she says simply, but there's something almost hopeful in her voice. "Until tonight, anyway."
They keep walking, and it takes them a couple minutes to end up at Allison's grave. The night is silent, almost respectful, and Stiles feels his heart twinge with guilt – over what had happened with Allison, and what had happened later with Lydia. He hasn't been here for her, and it had almost ended in tragedy. Vowing not to let that happen again, he follows Lydia's lead and kneels down in the grass in front of Allison's tombstone.
Neither of them speak for a moment, lost in their own thoughts, in their own grief, but for the first time in a long time Stiles doesn't feel alone. He's connected to Lydia in a way he wasn't with Malia, in a way that he's never been with anyone else; it's not just a schoolyard crush anymore – it's something that runs so much deeper. They've pulled each other back from the brink of death, and they'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"I'm sorry I haven't been to visit," Lydia says, resting a hand on the tombstone, running her fingers along the words that spell out the code. "I should have… I should have come earlier. But you know why I didn't. But it was – it was good to see you again."
This trips Stiles up, and he makes a note to ask about it later; maybe it's some kind of banshee thing, something only she would understand. Now's not the time to ask her about it, so he stays quiet and lets her go on.
"It's been hard without you, but I think we're going to be okay," Lydia says, her hand still resting on the tombstone. After a moment she pulls it back, reaching into her pocket. She pulls out the arrow Stiles had noticed her holding earlier. It glistens in the moonlight, throwing the light back at them, and Stiles finds himself momentarily blinded. There's something almost poetic about it, although he can't quite tell what. Lydia hesitates, and then she starts to scrape away some of the dirt near the tombstone.
After a moment Stiles helps, and they dig in silence for a minute. When the hole is big enough Lydia places the arrow almost reverentially in it, and then she and Stiles cover it back up with dirt. He glances over at her and notices that she's crying, so he brushes her cheek with the back of his hand, remembering – I think you look really beautiful when you cry – and it's enough to make her smile.
Once the arrow has been buried – a symbol of everything she'd done and everything they've lost, of the warrior she was and the people she'd made them want to be – Stiles wraps an arm around Lydia's shoulder, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. She leans into his embrace, still crying quietly, and they stay like that for a long time.
"You know," Stiles says after a while, "the first time I saw Allison, I knew she was trouble."
Lydia looks up at him, her cheeks still wet with tears but something close to a smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah?"
"Oh, yeah," he says, pulling her closer. "I knew we were going to get mixed up in her world, and it would mess up our lives."
Lydia giggles, and then covers her mouth with her hand like she thinks it's disrespectful. "It hasn't all been bad, though, has it?"
"Nah," Stiles says, using nonchalance to cover up his feelings about just how good things have turned out – minus all the deaths and pain and torture. But it's all led them here, and somehow that almost feels okay. "It's all been a mess, but I wouldn't take back a second of it."
"Not even a second?" Lydia asks, and he knows where she's going with this.
It was inevitable that they'd end up here, and for the first time Stiles thinks he might be ready to talk about it. "Maybe a few seconds," he concedes. They fall silent, and he knows Lydia is waiting for him to continue. He does, even though each word makes him feel smaller, more vulnerable. "I still think about her every day," he says slowly, working through his thoughts. "And I hate myself for what happened to her. But fighting in that battle, going up against the Oni – that was her choice. We can't blame ourselves for that."
Lydia shakes her head, her hair brushing against Stiles' shoulder. "It wasn't a choice," she says. "It was – instinct. Allison was a hunter; it wasn't just what she did, it was who she was. And her friends were in danger, so she didn't even think twice before marching into it herself."
"She would have done anything for any of us," Stiles agrees. "And we should do the same."
Lydia surveys him carefully, and he forces himself not to look away even though part of him is still (and probably will always be) intimidated by her. "You know I'd do anything for you, right, Stiles?" she says.
It's an unspoken rule that being part of the pack means looking out for each other, doing anything for each other – even if they get hurt in the process. But somehow hearing it said aloud feels even better than he'd imagined.
"I know," he says, placing a kiss on the top of her head. "And I'd do anything for you. I haven't always been there for you in the past, but I promise that's going to change. You're never going to be alone again, Lyds; I promise."
She leans into him again, and they share a few more minutes of silence. It's strangely peaceful in the cemetery, more serene than Stiles had thought it could be, and somehow it feels right being here. It's a night of endings and new beginnings, of letting go of the past and moving forward, and it's almost poetic that he should start his relationship with Lydia by saying goodbye to Allison. Grief has been holding him back for so long, and now it's time to let go of it. Allison wouldn't want her death to stop her friends from living their lives.
"I think I get it," Lydia says suddenly, and Stiles is about to ask what she means but then he realizes she's not talking to him. She's looking at the grave, her eyes skimming over the code. "That night at Scott's house, when Jackson became the kanima – do you remember what we talked about?" She waits, like she's expecting an answer, and then she smiles slightly. "You told me what it felt like to be in love. How you can't breathe until you're with him. How you can't stop looking at the clock because you know he's right outside waiting for you." She pauses again, her gaze coming to a stop on Allison's name. "What you didn't tell me is how awful it feels when the person you're waiting for isn't waiting for you anymore."
She laughs then, but Stiles can't quite join in. He'd never noticed Lydia's feelings for him – he'd never really thought she would feel that way about him – and all this time she'd been waiting for him, like he'd been waiting for her all those years.
"But I get it now," Lydia says, after a quick, almost shy, glance at Stiles. "I know how amazing it feels when he looks at you, or when he holds your hand, or when he catches your eye and you just know that everything's going to be okay." She rests her hand on top of the tombstone, breathing in the scent of earth and stars. "Thank you for everything you did for us," she says, and then adds quietly, "for me." She sniffs, and then she finishes, "You were the best friend I could have asked for, and I'm never going to forget you."
She pulls her hand away again and places it in Stiles', and he holds it like it's the most precious thing in the world. He'd imagined his first date with Lydia Martin a thousand times before, but he'd never considered the fact that it might be in a graveyard at night after their pack had just killed a werejaguar. Call him crazy, but somehow that seems perfect; it fits in well with the mess that's become their lives.
"I'm sorry for everything," Stiles says, speaking to Allison now, having the strange feeling that she can hear every word he's saying. "I know you and I had our differences, but you were a good hunter – you were a good friend – and more than that, you were a good person. You didn't deserve to die like this, and I don't think I'll ever be okay with it." His voice is starting to get louder, his words tripping over each other, so he takes a deep breath before he continues. "You gave us all a lot – you gave us back our lives – and we're not going to forget it. And we're not going to let it go to waste." He reaches out and touches the tombstone, and Lydia places her hand on top of his. A gust of wind brushes past them, but Stiles doesn't shiver. "Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes," he recites quietly, and then he adds, "We will. I promise."
Suddenly Lydia shivers, her hand going to her side. She lifts up her shirt slightly, and Stiles sees that her side is bandaged.
"What happened?" he asks in concern.
Lydia covers the wound up again. "It was in the fight with the werewolf pack," she admits.
Stiles casts his mind back, calculating. "But that was weeks ago," he says in alarm. "Why hasn't it healed yet?"
She doesn't answer right away; it looks like she's puzzling something out. "Remember that night we all ended up at the Glen Capri?" she asks, waiting for Stiles to nod before she goes on. "That was when we thought Derek was dead, and Scott had that wound that wouldn't heal…"
"Because he felt responsible for Derek's death," Stiles says, remembering. "He wouldn't let himself heal." He catches on, his gaze flicking up to Lydia's face. "You weren't healing because you thought you were somehow responsible for Allison's death?"
Lydia shrugs. "Guess that's not just a werewolf thing."
Stiles gives her a sympathetic look, wondering just how much she's been keeping from them. But he doesn't ask, because he knows there'll be time later; they have nothing but time now. Until the next supernatural disaster, at least. "It wasn't your fault," he says, and Lydia bites her lip.
"I know," she says softly, and then, "I think… I think it's healing now."
"I think we are too," Stiles says without thinking, and then they both burst out laughing. It's been a long night.
They stay where they are, Stiles with his arm around her, Lydia with her head on his shoulder, laughter fading into solemn but hopeful silence. The world around them starts to wake up, but still they stay where they are. Slowly the day dawns, light creeping over the horizon, birds starting to sing, something that sounds like a coyote howling in the distance. Stiles and Lydia watch the sun rise together, and the world keeps moving, and the sun shines on a banshee and a boy sitting alone in a cemetery.
But the thing is, they've never really been alone.
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