"Stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting. I'm just…"
"Nervous?" Lydia asks, cocking her head to study him. Stiles sighs.
"I guess. It's weird, right? I feel like I should tell him but…I'm not even totally sure that's actually him, you know?"
She nods. When he continues to drum his fingers on the thigh of his jeans, she grabs his hand. It's almost starting to feel natural, the way her fingers slide between his. He squeezes her hand, a silent thank you. Then the door in front of them swings open. Melissa stands there, blinking at them.
"Since when do you knock?" She wants to know, but her lips stretch into a warm smile. When her arms open, Stiles steps into them, hugging her back.
"I'm trying this new thing, it's called being polite." He tells her, and somehow this is easier than seeing his own father was. She laughs.
"That is new. Come on in," she mutters, stepping back to let them in and throwing an arm around Lydia's shoulders. She doesn't look terribly different, though there are lines at the corners of her eyes that Stiles doesn't remember. "So how was the drive? Your dad said you guys didn't stay long earlier…"
Stiles takes his jacket back from Lydia, hanging it on the coat rack.
"Fine," the redhead answers. "I mean you know how Stiles drives, but we got here in one piece."
Melissa snorts.
"A miracle. Your dad's just finishing up on the grill outside, you want some drinks?"
He bobs his head noncommittally, but they follow her into the kitchen. She hands him a beer, which startles him until he remembers that he's not underage anymore.
"Thanks."
She offers Lydia one too, and then wanders out toward the living room. It's different, and then Stiles realizes that the reason for this is that there are now pictures of him mixed among those of Scott. It's not the McCall house anymore, it's McCall-Stilinski.
"I'm just going to wash my hands," Lydia says suddenly, veering off down the hallway and disappearing. Stiles stares after her for a moment, then sinks onto the couch next to Melissa. The older woman turns to him as soon as Lydia is out of earshot.
"So, no ring?"
Stiles blinks, then remembers the way his father's gaze lingered on Lydia's hand earlier.
"Uh, no," he mutters. "We aren't-I didn't…" The memory of his mother's ring sitting in that box has his throat constricting. He'd played it off, for Lydia's sake, but he was never expecting to see that ring again. He always thought she'd been buried with it.
"Hmm." Melissa taps her finger gently against the neck of her beer bottle. "I would ask if it's cold feet, but I mean, it's you. And Lydia."
He can't help but smile at that. In all the weirdness of their current situation, it's easy to forget how well she knows him.
"It's not that, we've just…got some other stuff going on. It seems better to wait until everything isn't so…messy."
Her eyebrows draw together, concern etching lines into her forehead.
"Is something wrong?"
And he wants to tell her, to tell his father. He wants all of this to go back to normal.
"No," Stiles says, forcing a smile. "It's just a timing thing."
Melissa nods, as though that makes perfect sense. They both jump when someone comes around the corner, but it's just the Sherriff.
"Hey," he says, glancing between the pair as he leans down to press a kiss to his wife's head. "What's going on in here?"
Melissa glances at the doorway, then back at him.
"I was just asking about the-" She points to her own engagement ring. The sheriff nods.
"Ah, and the answer was?"
But neither Stiles nor Melissa get a chance to reply to that, as Lydia walks in, pausing when she notices the three of them staring.
"What?" She asks, hands fluttering nervously at her sides. "Did I get water on my dress?"
Stiles shakes his head, getting up to walk over and slide an arm around her waist. He's not sure what made him do it, maybe just how uncomfortable she looked. He wonders if playing this part is harder for her than he'd imagined.
"No, we were just talking about you," he announces, and his father rolls his eyes.
"Really?" She wonders, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What about me?"
Stiles just shrugs, earning him a flick on the ear.
"Steaks are done," the Sherriff announces, almost as an afterthought. Stiles doesn't remove his arm from around Lydia's waist as they make their way to the kitchen, and she doesn't make any move to pull away either.
Dinner is surprisingly familiar, despite the glaring differences in their lives and dynamics, but the steak tastes the same as it always has, and he and his father bicker the same way they always have.
"Okay, but the M.O. was different. The perp didn't break any windows, the shower wasn't running, and none of the girl's shoes were missing," Stiles argues, through a mouthful of potato.
"So you think it's a copycat? There were details at this crime scene that matched the three other murders that no one could know. Even some of my deputies don't have eyes on that stuff." The Sherriff counters, taking a swig of his beer. Melissa holds up her hand before Stiles has a chance to respond.
"I think that's enough shop talk for the dinner table." She says, voice firm. Both men blink, then smile apologetically.
"Oh," Lydia jumps up suddenly, startling Stiles into dropping his fork. "Stiles, we're going to be late."
He glances up at the clock, swallowing a curse when he sees the time.
"I'm sorry Dad, Melissa, this is super rude, but-"
"Go," his father waves him away, biting his lip. "You've never helped with the dishes before, why start now?" He's clearly teasing, but that doesn't stop the flare of guilt in his stomach as Stiles pushes out from the table, shooting his new step-mother a remorseful glance.
"Maybe we'll see you before you leave?" She asks, face hopeful.
"We'll try," Lydia promises, wrapping a hand around Stiles' bicep and dragging him toward the door.
He grabs his jacket off the hook by the door and holds it out. She steps into it automatically. Just another thing that's easier, more natural than it should be. Like the way she takes a little step back before he opens the door because she knows he's holding it open for her, or the way he doesn't have to actually say anything to elicit an answer to the question on his mind.
"I don't know if it's going to be good news, Stiles." She says quietly, voice drifting across the center console as they make the rushed, but mostly silent drive to the animal clinic. "I really don't know." But the tense set of her jaw and the way her skin is stretched almost translucent across her knuckles tells a very different story. And if he's being honest, whatever bad feeling has settled in the pit of her stomach, whatever fear is humming quietly at the back of her neck that has her so upset, he's feeling it right along with her.
They pull up and jump out of the car, a few minutes past nine. Their fingers are laced together before they push through the clinic doors, and he thinks the feeling of her firm grip might be the only thing keeping him from dissolving into another panic attack. The uneven bump of his heart is like a threat, a warning of how fragile he sometimes is.
"Lydia." Chris Argent greets them as they round the corner to the examination room. "Stiles."
The redhead's fingers tighten painfully around his for a moment.
"Mr. Argent." She just ducks her head. Stiles waves with his free hand. The vet is nowhere to be seen.
"Deaton filled me in on your predicament. It sounded familiar, so I asked Gerard-"
Stiles' eyebrows shoot way up. His comment about Deucalion earlier had been a joke, but even the blind, psychopathic alpha would have been a preferable ally than the elder Argent.
"-and he pointed me to this." Chris holds up something that looks specifically like a bible.
"He…told you to find Jesus?" Stiles retorts, eyeing the book suspiciously. Chris sighs, but there's a trace of fondness in it.
"This isn't a bible, it's a bestiary. It just happens to focus exclusively on supernatural beings found in and around the scripture."
"O-kay…"
"And?" Lydia interjects, clearly anticipating the sarcasm Stiles already has brewing on the subject of religion.
"Have either of you ever heard of le voyageur?"
Both Stiles and Lydia blink. Taking that, and their following silence as a no, Chris continues.
"Alright. Assuming you both have some…general sense of Christian history and literature….some angels are given the opportunity to assent, become gods. But it is a choice, and some of them reject the amount of responsibility and constraint that come with making that commitment. Instead, they choose to become human. Or, partially human."
"Angels." Stiles repeats. Lydia shushes him.
"Yes, Stiles. Angels. And though they assume human form, their true nature is one of pure thought, which allows them to manipulate dimensions. Theoretically-" he taps the bestiary as if to emphasize his skepticism, "-because thought is the foundation of all reality."
His head beginning to hurt, Stiles holds up a hand.
"And time being one of those dimensions, you're saying these Voyageurs can also manipulate time?" Lydia's voice startles him, despite the vice-like grip she's keeping on his hand, he'd almost forgotten she was there. Chris nods. Something begins to gnaw at Stiles.
"Before we go any further," he interrupts, "-who exactly is supposed to be the voya-whatever-time-traveling-fallen angel in this story? The girl at the motel? Or-"
"You."
The room seems to empty of air, everything perfectly still for a moment, then-
"Ha!" He barks out a nervous laugh, the other two staring at him in surprise. "Come on," he mutters when Lydia frowns. "An angel? Seriously?" Her thumb strokes across the back of his hand, calming the nerves that kicked up when Chris started his story. It's totally ridiculous.
"Stiles…" Looking like she's going to shush him again, Lydia squeezes his arm. "Is it? Is it more ridiculous than any other time-travel alternative?"
And maybe she has a point, but-
"Yes." He says vehemently. "Wh-Lydia, yes. It's-" he turns to Chris. "I mean, if I was part angel, don't you think I would have known? And that's if I even-I don't exactly buy into the whole angels thing. And what about the Nogitsune? You're telling me being an angel wouldn't protect me from possession by an evil spirit?"
He immediately feels guilty, because they all know Chris doesn't need reminding of the spirit who took everything from him, who took Allison from all of them. But they came here for answers, and this isn't an answer, it's an impossibility.
"There are bits and pieces about the ability of humans to become voyageurs. It's unclear as to whether or not that part is even true, but it's plausible as well."
"Plausible? How is any of this plausible? Are you telling me-" Stiles steps away from Lydia, head swiveling between the two others in the room incredulously, "-that after everything that has happened to us that you still believe in God? In angels? And you think that me, the person who k-that I could be one?"
"Voyageurs aren't technically angels, not anymore." Chris tells him, and the pain in his eyes is poorly masked, making Stiles feel even worse about his outburst. "I don't think you understand exactly how rare the ability to travel through time is, even in the supernatural world. And the kind of power that would be required for what happened to you two…there aren't a lot of options, Stiles."
"Say Stiles is a voyageur," Lydia says quietly, and Stiles glances over at her. "And that he brought us here, accidentally. How would he get us back?"
The hunter scratches his beard, looking wary.
"The book makes it out to be as simple as just…thinking it. Since voyageurs are beings of pure thought, they can choose to essentially just focus their energy on traveling through the dimensions."
"That's it?" The redhead's brow furrows, glancing between the men as if she's missing something. "He just has to think about going back?"
"There's a catch," Stiles says immediately, reading Chris' body language. "I've been thinking about going back since we got here. So pretending I buy any of this, why aren't we already back in 2015?"
"That's the problem, Stiles. You don't believe it." The older man sighs, blue eyes tired. "If a voyageur is not self-aware, it's possible for them to travel accidentally, but they lack the focus to be able to control their abilities. Which is probably how you got here, and why you can't seem to go back."
"So," there's a tinge of desperation to her voice now, Lydia's grip on his hand tightening painfully. "If we can just get him to believe it, he can reverse this."
Chris nods slowly.
"Theoretically. But there's something else. Voyageurs aren't supposed to be able to take passengers. That kind of travel is too hard on humans, or any other mortal beings."
Stiles splutters.
"So now I'm immortal?"
They ignore him, Lydia frowning at Chris.
"Well, obviously, he can. I'm proof of that."
"Right. As for that, I don't really have an answer for you."
Something suddenly occurs to Stiles.
"Where's Deaton?"
"He had some veterinary emergency," Chris says, shrugging. "And he said something about a lead on someone else who might be able to help you. He'll call you when he knows something."
"Oh, someone who can help me get in touch with my time traveling angel powers? That's good," he bobs his head jerkily.
"I know it's a lot to process-"
Stiles just makes a noise of disbelief.
"-but you're closer to finding a way back to your time. You're not stuck here. That's good news."
And he wants to believe that, he really does, if not for his own sake then for Lydia's. He just can't. Still, he forces a smile, nodding.
"Okay."
Chris moves toward the hallway, boots thudding dully on the cement floor.
"I've got to go, I'm supposed to be on a flight in less than two hours. Everything I have I've e-mailed to you, Stiles. Good luck." Then he disappears around the corner, leaving Stiles standing in the silence, Lydia still clutching his arm.
After a few minutes, she's the one to break the silence.
"Stiles," she says quietly, and her voice is so soft, so careful. He can't look at her, afraid that seeing her face, her hopeful, trusting face, will be too much on top of everything else.
"We should get going, back to the hotel," he replies woodenly, starting toward the door. She holds fast to his bicep, walking with him.
"I think we should t-"
"I can't yet."
She falls silent, not speaking until they push through the door of the hotel room.
"It's not that crazy."
He laughs.
"It's exactly that crazy." The conversation has been playing over and over and over in his mind, a loop he can't turn off. "The only thing crazier than this would have been Argent saying I actually was God."
She hangs the jacket, his jacket, on the back of a chair and steps out of her shoes. Even in his distracted state he appreciates how tiny she always is without her heels, barely coming up to his chin. It makes her seem deceptively vulnerable, despite him knowing exactly what she's capable of. He wants to protect her, to fix this. But he's no angel.
"Why?" She wonders. "Why is this so hard for you to believe? I'm a banshee, Scott's a werewolf, Kira's a kitsune. How is this different?"
"How-Lydia, there are no such things as angels, for starters." He's pacing agitatedly now, still avoiding her gaze.
"And if I'd asked you three years ago if there was such thing as werewolves, wouldn't you have said the same thing?"
He snorts.
"That depends on if by three years ago you mean 2012 or 2017."
"This is all we have to go on." And if she sounded desperate before, in the animal clinic, it's nothing compared to the despair he hears in her voice now. She's clutching at straws, trying to hold onto the last shred of hope that they have. And he's taking that away from her.
Besides, she's right.
"I'm willing to believe it, but it doesn't matter what I believe."
"And if I don't believe it, we're stuck here," he finishes, saying what he knows she wouldn't. Even though it's his fault they're here in the first place, she won't put that blame on him. He doesn't deserve that kind of forgiveness, but she's always given it to him. After this, after Allison. And as the memories wash over him, he's reminded of exactly why all this is impossible to begin with. "Lydia, I can't."
"But why?" she presses, and he can see the trembling of her lip, the one he's sure she's trying to hide.
"Because it's me, okay? I'm not an angel. I'm nothing. I'm human, and worse, I'm a murderer. And you're a scientist, can you really believe that there's a god out there? One who let my mother lose her mind, who decided you'll spend the rest of your life surrounded by death, who stood by and watched while we keep losing people over and over and over again? You think they're that cruel? Or that apathetic?" His voice rises over the course of his rant, and by the end he's shouting. Lydia doesn't seem to take it personally, but her eyes are huge and sad, and he's knows that's because of him. He's hurting her, and he's taking her hope away, and all of this is his fault but he can't seem to stop. When her eyes drift to his hands, clenched tightly into fists, his follow and register the shaking.
Slowly, cautiously, she crosses the room and takes his hand in both of hers, flattening it.
"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." There's a practiced cadence to her words, the mark of something recited from memory, something that's been read a hundred times. He stares at her.
"Is that-are you quoting Sherlock Holmes?
"This is what I know," she murmurs, voice low but firm. "We're here. And the only explanation than anyone can come up with for how we got here, and why, is that you are a Voyageur. Those are the facts, Stiles. You're a detective, if you only had one lead to go on, even if it sounded impossible, what would you do?"
He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through his fingers and up his arm where she's touching him. If either of them were an angel, it seems a glaring mistake that it wouldn't be her.
"I'd follow it. I'd pursue it until I either found an answer or a dead end." He admits, opening his eyes and looking down at her.
She nods.
"Why don't you start by checking your e-mail?"
Right. The e-mail from Chris. That's something he can do, he thinks. Baby steps. Sitting at the desk, he flips his laptop open and scrolls through the e-mails he's been getting from work until he finds one from the hunter. And as he scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls, his brow furrows. The Argent had made it seem like there was hardly any information on these voyageurs, but it seems like there are maybe two hundred pages attached to the e-mail.
"Um," he mutters. "I think we might need to use the printer."
Fifteen minutes later they're huddled in the business center off the lobby, Lydia standing warily by the door in case anyone decides to come check out what they're printing.
"I think someone's coming," Lydia hisses, and Stiles turns back to the printer in a panic.
"There are still like fifty pages left!" He whispers, peering anxiously through the glass door. The man in question walks up to the door they're both half-pressed against, then walks past it without a second glance. Lydia visibly relaxes, and beside her, Stiles slumps against the wall.
"You know, I doubt anyone would actually ask to see what we've printed," she points out. "And even if they did, we could just say we're writing a novel or something."
He grunts noncommittally at that, eyes trained on the printer's LCD display. Twenty pages to go.
"I don't think we're supposed to be printing two hundred and fifty pages of anything. And honestly, I don't think I have it in me to explain this tonight," he eventually replies tiredly, collecting the thick stack of paper as the printer finally shuts off.
"We've taken on a pack of alphas, a Nogitsune, and a Darach, but you're worried about the concierge?" There's something so familiar about Lydia's dry tone that he actually finds it soothing.
"Would you just-come on, let's get back to our room before anyone sees this contraband," he says, waving the pages at her.
She rolls her eyes at the word contraband, but follows him back into the elevator. That overwhelming pressure from earlier, the fear, it's starting to fade. The doubt still lingers in the back of his mind, but he's beginning to accept that if this their only chance to get back to their own time, he'll have to get over his reservations.
A few hours later they're both laying on the bed, pages of biblical lore and anecdotal evidence about les voyageurs scattered between them.
"Have you found anything about how to actually control the time travel thing?" Stiles asks blearily, scrubbing the back of his hand rough across his drooping eyes.
All he gets in response is a groan, and when he glances over, he sees her curled into a ball, eyes closed, hand still clutching a crumpled page. Sighing, he collects the mess of paper and drops it in a pile on the nightstand. Carefully, he slides the comforter out from under her, and then tugs it right up to her chin. She makes a soft noise of contentment, the last shred of tension melting out of her face as she slips entirely into sleep. There's something about it, the childlike innocence on her face, the way she still trusts him so completely, even after everything he's done, that has his heart constricting painfully. He's just letting her down, again.
He gets up to turn off the light, tugging off his shirt and jeans, and slides into bed beside her. She rolls over, into him, face pressing into his chest. He's halfway gone when she speaks, a mumble so low he almost mistakes it for a snore.
"-nothing," is all he catches at first. Tentatively, he glances down at her but her eyes are still closed.
"Lyds?" His whisper is soft, not wanting to wake her if she's still asleep. But she just moves closer, tighter, lips moving against his skin.
"You're not nothing, Stiles. You are everything I've got." And the way she says it, so sincere yet so offhand, is the last piece falling into place for him. Whatever she needs him to be, he'll be.