Present Day: March 25

As soon as Stiles opens his eyes on Monday morning, he reaches for his phone. He is hoping against hope for a text or a voicemail from Lydia. Just one. One that tells him in any possible way, shape, or form that he was wrong, that she didn't want him to go.

There are none. He isn't surprised, but it hurts.

Slowly sitting up, he leans his elbows on his knees, and rubs the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he drags himself out of bed. He makes sure the water in the shower is as hot as possible and adds an extra layer of clothing underneath his plaid, because he can't seem to get warm. He brushes his teeth and runs two unsteady hands through his hair, avoiding the bathroom mirror because he doesn't want to see what he looks like without Lydia. Picking up his books and his keys, which are next to the remnants of her bracelet, he pads down the hallway and passes through the living room...where he spent two nights sleeping with her on the couch.

In the kitchen, he heads to the refrigerator to see if his dad left any messages. There's a bright yellow Post-it tagged on the freezer door: Gonna be another late one. New towels for Lydia in the laundry room.

Stiles stares at her name. Lydia.

He wants to say it out loud, make her real again, but he can't. He crinkles the note in his hand, gruffly opens the refrigerator and slams it shut. He has no appetite anyway. It feels like there is a massive pit lodged in the center of his stomach.

He lifts a hand to adjust the strap of his backpack, and his fingertips brush against one of the chairs that surround the small table. Not just any chair, the one to the left of his…always on the left. Lydia's chair. She is not there, and he misses her so much.

Blueberry are my favorite, he hears her say to his dad.

Just a few words but they are spoken with such emotion…like she can't believe a father would ever go through the trouble of cooking for her. He thinks he cost her that too – the chance to spend more time with his dad, to see that fathers can be there for their kids, that they can choose to do things for them simply because they love them. He shuts his eyes to expunge the burning memory of her radiant image, but even then, he sees her; a bright spot scorched into his retinas, glowing through the darkness.

Passing through the living room on his way out of the house, it strikes him that Prada is not curled up in her preferred nook under the coffee table. He misses her too. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it won't budge. He locks the front door behind him, shrugs into the cold, and drives to school in silence. The passenger's seat is empty, but it shouldn't be.

Lydia and Scott aren't at school when Stiles arrives, but he didn't expect them to be there. He wanders the halls trying to clear his head before classes begin. He sees Lydia everywhere. Not a full-fledged apparition, but glimpses of her – the kind that make him blink his eyes clear, make his heart rush, and make him think he is losing his mind…again. She is in the flash of strawberry-blonde hair that can't possibly be hers, because no other girl in school (probably not even the world) has or has ever been able to reproduce that exact same shade (though several have tried). She is in the wisp of pale blue fabric that stands apart in a sea of colors as he walks down the hallway. She is in the light that pours out of the locker room and tempts him to remember. She is even in the distance that he put between them; he thinks he smells her perfume lingering there, in the now empty space…where she used to stand.

It hasn't even been twelve hours since he saw her, but Stiles misses Lydia so much that it hurts every cell in his body. His eyes sting with tears that won't fall because a part of him clings to the idea that maybe he was wrong. Maybe she didn't want me to leave. Maybe she is missing me too. But if he was right, and she did want him to leave, then he can't imagine how he is going to survive when she comes back to school. He knows it will be worse when she is so close…yet still so far out of his reach. There is still time though, maybe it was all a mistake.

He passes Allison's locker on the way to his first class. He misses her, but he doesn't see her. He only feels her presence every time someone offers a kind word that he doesn't think he deserves to hear. He loved her too. Who could possibly get to know Allison and not love her? She was amazing – strong and brave, selfless and pure-hearted too; a warrior with a heart of gold. She was always kind to him, and most importantly, she made two of the most important people in his life happy. She was the energy that brought their pack of four together and without her, they have already fallen apart.

Outside the library, he observes Allison's memorial, hating the fact that he is already thinking of her in the past tense. It makes him sick to see the mass of flowers and candles meant to pay her honor because none of the people standing in front of it are her friends. He wants to pass it by, but it seems disrespectful not to stop. The display is shabby from a few days' worth of strange hands touching it, the disheveled appearance worse than if it had never been made at all.

When the cluster of voyeurs move along, Stiles steps closer and straightens Allison's photo. She deserved better. He thinks of Lydia. She deserved better too. He misses them both and he despises himself. The pain is made worse because he wouldn't have to be missing either of them if he had been stronger, if he had fought harder, if he hadn't allowed so much damage to be done. As he walks away, he thinks he hears the echoing sound of Lydia crying, and it pierces him like a blade.

Stiles makes it through half of the day, struggling to focus on his work because everything reminds him of Lydia – even algebraic equations. He tears a piece of paper from his notebook and quickly scratches out few lines: Please call me. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me I'm an idiot. Tell me to come back to you.

Folding the message and tucking it into his shirt pocket, he lifts his head and tries to focus for the remaining six minutes of class. He knows he shouldn't, but he repeatedly checks his messages. Still nothing. It crosses his mind that maybe Lydia is waiting for lunchtime, so they can talk. He clings to the hope for as long as he can.

In the cafeteria, Malia makes a beeline to where he is sitting. It's only her first day of school and he guesses she needs some company, but after the conversation they had last night, Stiles feels awkward being alone with her. He wonders if this is how Lydia used to feel. He really hopes not.

Even though he has no appetite, he chokes down half of his food because it is there, and he needs something to do. His phone is next to him the entire time, just in case Lydia calls. The sadness and restlessness grow with each passing minute – each is one minute less to talk to her before his next class.

When he gets up to discard the remainders of his lunch, thoughts still consumed with Lydia, he leaves his phone behind. It is left unguarded while he speaks to Danny for a few minutes. Eventually, Stiles realizes his mistake and quickly returns to retrieve his phone, but there are no messages. The rest of the day drags on and his anxiety builds, but he gets through it.

After school, Stiles decides to drive over to Scott's to check on him. He absentmindedly passes his destination, automatically heading in the direction of Lydia's house. When he realizes what he is doing, Stiles skids to a stop, puts the Jeep in reverse, and backs down the block to park outside 821 Williamson Road, the McCall home.

He sits for a while, looking over at Lydia's seat contemplating the idea of calling her. If he could just hear her voice, hear that she is alright, then maybe he could get some sense of peace. Holding his phone in the palm of his shaking hand, Stiles scrolls through his contacts to Lydia's number, bringing up her picture. He looks at her big bright eyes, sweet little nose, and rosy cheeks. One curled hand partially covers her mouth. She is trying to hide a vibrant smile – the one that spread across her lips when he agreed to teach her how to drive stick shift.

From the moment she asked, he had every intention of saying yes. In all honesty, she had him at: Stiles will you… but he feigned reluctance in order to buy himself time to get his phone out, so he could capture her expression upon finally hearing the word yes. In the meantime, she pleaded and pouted a bit. Stiles pleeease… I promise, I won't hurt Roscoe… she continued, subtly batting her lashes and tilting her head to one side at first, then more deliberately leaning into him and sliding her arms between his layers of plaid and solid cotton. From there, it escalated quickly. She tickled his sides and giggled while he squirmed, then she wrapped her arms around his waist, shamelessly working to persuade him to bend to her will. As if he needed to be persuaded. As if there was anything he could or would ever deny her. It was the most adorable thing he had ever seen, and he snapped a quick picture, holding her close to him with one arm and maneuvering his phone above her reach with the other, so she couldn't stop him. He would give anything to revisit that moment, to see her be happy like she was that day, to feel her arms around him, her chin on his chest, the hair from her topknot tickling the skin above his lip.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he scolds himself for the mistake he was about to make. What the hell is wrong with me? How can I even think of calling her right now…disrespecting her needs like that…risk her having a setback, just to ease my own pain?

He wonders if she is alright, if she slept through the night. What if she still had flashbacks and she was all alone with no one to hold her?

His stomach screws into a tight knot. He is tormented by the thought of Lydia crying in the darkness, shivering and afraid…because of him. He tells himself that is not what happened. Now that he is gone, now that the burden of having to tell a friend that he scares her has been lifted from her shoulders, Lydia will probably sleep just fine. He hates it, but at the same time he needs it to be true. Above all else, he just needs for her to be okay.

He pushes himself out of the Jeep, shuddering from the dampness in the air as he walks up the path and stairs to the front door. He enters with his key, locks the door behind him, and calls out to his friend.

"Scott?"

"Up here," his voice carries from above.

Stiles strides the flight of steps, taking two at a time, then cuts to the right, towards Scott's bedroom. "Hey, how are you holding up?" he asks from the doorway.

Scott is sitting on the edge of his bed. He is still in his pajamas – hair uncombed, jaw perforated with stubble, eyes dark and tired. He shrugs his shoulders, shadowed ghost of the person Stiles grew up with looking up at him.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Yeah…woke up about half an hour ago," he answers, tossing his cell phone towards the middle of the bed. "I…uh…just got off the phone with Lydia."

Stiles feels his pulse accelerate at the misery he sees in his best friend's eyes and at the sound of Lydia's name. The same name that has been running through his mind but, for the first time in years, hasn't passed his lips all day. He wonders if she said anything to Scott about what happened between them.

"She called?" he questions rather brusquely.

Scott is puzzled by the tone of his friend's voice and the rapid sound of his heartbeat. "No…I called her. I figured with you at school all day, she might be lonely."

"Oh," he replies, attempting to gather control of himself. "How is she?"

"I dunno…she sounds…different."

"Good different?" He chews on his thumb, waiting for a reply, bracing himself for the stinging confirmation that Lydia is already better off without him, watching as Scott runs a hand over his face while he searches for words.

"She…uh…seemed sort of dazed…not like herself. She said she was sleeping when I called, but…I think there was something else. I didn't want to push. You should ask her when you get back there though, she has an easier time opening up to you."

"I can't do that," Stiles remarks quietly.

"Why not?"

"I left."

"What?"

"I left…last night. I left and…I'm not going back."

There is a hollow quality to Stiles's response that immediately puts Scott on alert. While a year or so before he wouldn't have imagined the closeness that developed between Lydia and Stiles, now he can't imagine them being separated from each other. He has watched them grow from awkward acquaintances, to real friends, to…something more. He has seen them depend on each other, challenge each other, support each other, and risk their lives for each other without hesitation.

He begins firing off questions in a rush, "Dude, what do you mean? What happened? Why wouldn't you go back?"

"Because I'm making her worse," Stiles explains.

The words are rough against his tongue, and they leave a bad taste in his mouth. He can't meet Scott's stare, so he averts his eyes. The first thing to cross his sight line is a photo of Allison and Lydia. His chest automatically constricts with regret.

"Stiles, that's ridiculous. She needs you." Scott asserts, standing up.

"No, she doesn't."

"Is that what she said? Because you know Lydia…she pushes back sometimes…but it's just her way."

"No," he answers, eyes fixed on the floor.

Scott taps Stiles on the shoulder with the back of his hand to get his attention. "Then why the hell would you leave her all alone? You know her mom is out of town – again. She needs someone…not just someone – she needs you…more than ever. Who is supposed to help her?"

His voice elevates swiftly. He doesn't mean for it to, but he knows Stiles isn't telling him the entire story. Scott is pressed with the notion that he has let his friend down. In truth, he hasn't been worrying about Lydia as much as he ought to, because he knew Stiles was with her. Now, he is picturing her grieving for Allison – all alone, and it bothers him a great deal.

"It can't… It can't be me. Okay? Scott, y—you didn't see the look in her eyes. I know her. She…she was terrified." His voice breaks over the words. He pictures the fear he saw in Lydia, and it tears him up inside.

Scott deliberately softens his tone. "Of course she is. She just lost her best friend…and she thinks she could have prevented it."

"It's more than that. She's…afraid of me," Stiles responds, voice struggling over the tightness in his throat.

"What? She trusts you. Why would she be—"

"Because of the things I did."

"Stiles, that wasn't you. She knows that. We all do. Well, everyone but you," Scott argues, shaking his head.

"I'm telling you she's—"

"No, I don't believe it, so I'll ask again. Is that what Lydia said? Did she say the words: Stiles, I'm afraid of you, and I want you to go?"

"Not in those words, no. She didn't have to. I could see it...feel it even. I've never seen her that scared."

"That's exactly why you should be with her. It's been non-stop chaos around here, and she needs time…that's all."

"Yeah, she needs time away from me," he insists, poking at his own chest with a shaky index finger. "You know…she told me about that night…when she was missing. She could barely get the words out…she was crying so hard. It—it had its filthy hands all over her."

Scott steps towards Stiles. "But why are you assuming— Oh…I get where you are going with this…and you're wrong."

"I can't be the one to keep hurting her! The more I want to protect her, the more I let her get hurt. I keep failing her. This is my chance…to help her for once!"

Stiles feels himself losing his patience. He doesn't want any of what he is saying to be true…but it is, and it grieves him to no end to have to insist that his worst fear is a reality. His eyes are burning as they strain to withhold tears.

"When have you ever—" Scott begins.

"The reason that thing was able to take her from us in the first place was because everyone was distracted by what was going on with me!"

"Stiles, we all—"

"But let's go back further. You want me to start listing all the times I've let her down already? Let's start with Peter…"

"Stiles, that—"

"Then there's Jackson...and Jennif—"

"Stiles, stop! They hurt her, not you!" Scott is aware of how loudly he is shouting and takes a breath to calm himself. "Look, I know…I know it kills you to see anything bad happen to her, but you can't control what other people do. You help her all the time – the same way she helps you. Anyone can see that."

"That was before. Now, there's this thing between us…this ugly thing that happened, something that I can't scrub out, or erase, or undo. Scott, you know how I feel about her." He runs his hand over his forehead, passing his fingers over his eyes to wipe away any stray tears that may have escaped. "If I thought there was another way – any possible way that I could help her and still be with her…but I've ruined everything. We were so close, damn it, we were so close…and I screwed it all up."

"I don't know what to say... I wasn't there, but I saw the way she was clinging to you at the funeral…and the whole week before. Stiles, you've been her rock…just like she has been for you. Seeing the two of you together… You have no idea what that did for me…knowing that you had each other. I think you've got this wrong. I know you matter to her, even more than she lets on. Lydia made a real connection with you… Bonds like that don't just go away. She needs you."

Stiles paces a few steps, then sits on the edge of the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, and runs his hands roughly through his hair. He looks up at Scott, shaking his head incredulously.

"Scott, what was I supposed to do? She asked me to help her. Me. She was practically begging me to understand her last night. I could tell she didn't want to hurt me, but it's just too much for her to deal with on top of everything else…losing her best friend, trying to comprehend being a banshee, all of the pressure her parents put on her. She doesn't need to feel weighed down by some sort of obligation to me…because of what we've been through…or because she is trying to spare my feelings. Anyway, I left, and I haven't heard from her, so I must be right… It is what she needed."

"I still think you should talk to her. You can't be sure unless you hear her say it."

An image of Lydia sobbing flashes before Stiles's eyes. He grabs at the front of his shirt recalling the warm wetness of her tears soaking through it. He stands up again, frowning and folding his arms across his chest. "I'm not going to put her through that again. If you could have seen what it took for her to tell me…and the way she did… She was so broken up about it, but still so sweet."

"That just proves she cares about you," Scott stresses.

"Caring about someone and being able to have them in your life are two different things. If anyone knows that…it's you. I haven't forgotten what you did for…Allison…when she needed time. You were amazing – you understood, you didn't pressure her or hold any resentment…and it helped her."

Stiles thinks of Scott writhing in agony at the opposite end of a sword, held by his own blood-stained hands. If he looks down, he is sure that his palms and fingers will be coated with the slick red substance. He can almost smell the metallic note assaulting his senses, and he has to choke back a gag. The guilt he feels for bringing Allison into their discussion is immense. He doesn't think he is worthy of even saying her name anymore, but he needs Scott to understand. He needs Scott to tell him that he is doing the right thing, so he can try to live with it.

"That was different. Allison…told me she was breaking up with me…in those words." Scott pauses over Allison's name. He noticed that Stiles did too, and he knows why. The amount of self-blame emanating off his best friend's shoulders is overwhelming and unwarranted. He doesn't know how he is ever going to convince Stiles that it wasn't his fault.

"But you knew. Before she said it, you knew. Didn't you?"

"I… Yeah…I did," Scott admits quietly.

"So, then you get it. She told me that it hurts to be around me…in her own way. If I can do the same for her… If I can even come close to doing what you did for Allison, then I have to try. Scott…she's ev— she's everything…"

"I know, but Stiles…what about you? You need her."

"It doesn't matter. I'll deal with it. If it means that she gets through this…that she gets better, that she suffers even one second less…then…I'll deal with it."

Scott puts his hand on Stiles's shoulder and pulls him into a hug. It saddens him to know that Stiles has no idea how selfless and strong he really is. He can feel the pain radiating from his friend's back and it knocks the breath out of him. He remembers what it feels like…he feels it still.

Stiles leans into him for a minute, then breaks from the embrace. He keeps his head down and focuses on rubbing the nape of his sore neck, rather than looking at Scott.

"Scott would you do something for me?"

"Sure," he replies, without a hint of reluctance.

"Would you…look out for her? Please." His lips are quivering over the words. He resents himself for asking, but he needs reassurance that someone will be there to take care of Lydia. He needs to know that someone he trusts – his best friend, his brother – will do what he is unable to do.

"Of course, you don't even have to ask. I'll do anything I can for her…and for you."

"Thanks," he whispers before coughing to clear his throat. "I…uh…better get going. I've got to check in with my dad."

"Alright."

Stiles turns to leave but Scott calls out to him.

"Stiles?

"Hmm…"

"Don't give up on Lydia. Something doesn't add up here. You guys are so…good together."

Stiles looks at the floor and sighs. The next words to leave his mouth would barely be audible if not for Scott's hearing abilities. "We were."