The same dream haunts her for a week: she races, haphazard, through a forest, the moonlight filtering through the trees, lighting her way. A piercing scream directs her attention to somewhere westward. Racing toward the sound, she practically stumbles into a manic Mr. Harris who, mid-scream, is met with untimely death in the form of strangulation against a tree.
At first, it is merely a dream, just a horrifying nightmare brought on by the investigation she's been doing with Stiles, but then one morning, she wakes up with dirt covering her hands and feet, and a mere dream it can no longer be, no matter how hard she scrubs away the evidence.
"Are you sure this is even the right part of the forest?" Stiles sighs, exasperated, as she leads him around the next afternoon. He's been complaining since she high-jacked him that afternoon, but she's begun to think it has less to do with missing cross country practice, and everything to do with his fervent hope that she has nothing to do with the sacrifices.
Of course, Lydia hopes that too, so she just chooses not to think about what it means if she has, in fact, been killing people unwittingly.
"Lydia -" Stiles tries again, moving forward, to put a hand on her shoulder.
"Hush!" she hisses, slapping his hand away to concentrate on the sounds of the forest around her.
A piercing cry echoes faintly around them, to the west, just like the one in the dream. Lydia grabs Stiles' hand, still suspended in mid-motion, and pulls him closer.
"Did you hear that?" she demands in a furious whisper.
Stiles swallows nervously at the closeness of their proximity. "Uh, no?" he whispers back. "What, uh, what'd you hear?"
"A scream," she murmurs, creeping toward the sound as it echoes again. She tugs Stiles along behind her, admittedly a little grateful for the comfort of his presence. "Like the one in the dream, but...fainter. I - " Another scream, louder this time. "This way!"
Clasping tightly to his hand, she drags him after her as she races through the trees, the screams getting louder as they approach -
"Oh god," she breathes as they clear a few trees and find themselves faced with a very-dead Mr. Harris, killed in much the same manner as the other sacrifices. He's obviously been here for more than a few days, probably since his disappearance from the school.
Letting go of Lydia's hand, Stiles takes a step forward to get a closer look at their - former - teach, bringing on a wave of nausea, and he bends over, putting a hand up to cover his mouth. "He's so dead."
"Yes, thank you, I can see that, Stiles," Lydia snaps, though it's not as harsh as usual. The sight of Mr. Harris' corpse, so exactly as she saw it in her dream, is enough to terrify at least a little bit of the meanness out of her. "Oh god," she says again, turning away and passing a hand over her eyes. "So it's the druid."
"As we expected," Stiles replies in agreement.
"What do we do?"
"I should call my dad," he decides, pulling out his phone to dial his father's number, but Lydia stops him with a hand on his arm.
"What if," she asks, her eyes big with fear. "Stiles, what if I did this? What if it's been me the whole time?"
"It's not you, Lydia," he assures her, putting a hand over hers in comfort. "I mean that. Even if it's, I don't know, something inside of you, this isn't you, okay?"
Lydia takes her hand back, nodding, and curls her arms around her middle. Days like these, she wishes she could go back to before - back to Jackson, back to shoes and formals and the facade of unawareness she used to wear so well. She'd like to go back to sleep, for a while, to forget all she now knows about the world.
When Mr. Stilinski shows up, it's with questions, questions, questions, and her head is spinning too quickly to think, so she lets Stiles answer them. Poor Stiles, she thinks briefly, everyone always depends on you for everything. In the end, she and Stiles are sent home with a strict warning to, "for god's sake, stay at least in town for the rest of the evening."
They escape with haste.
...
The fall formal is upon them before they even have time to blink, and for once in her life, Lydia doesn't have a date - along with six potential back-ups - because Jackson's in London, and because, quite frankly, no one's asked her. Not one single boy. She wonders, not for the first time in the past year, where all her friends went. Then again, she thinks, maybe she never had any. Not really.
It's also odd, she thinks, that Stiles has yet to ask her. She might be in denial about the level of affection he feels for her, but, in any case, they do spend most of their waking hours together. Plus, Allison and Scott are going together, even if it's as "just friends" (and Lydia highly doubts that will last the night). It's only logical that they go to formal together.
She assures herself that it's only a matter of time before he works up his nerve, but three days before the dance, he still hasn't posed the question, which is why, when he leans against the locker next to hers and starts in on the odd phone call the police station got last night, she slams her locker shut and, quirking a very stern eyebrow, demands, "Stiles, why haven't you asked me to formal yet? What are you waiting for, the apocalypse?"
Stiles cuts off mid-sentence, his jaw slack for a moment before he stutters, "I, uh, w-what? What did you just say?"
Lydia rolls her eyes and huffs out a sigh. "You aren't stupid, Stiles, and as far as I know, you aren't deaf. Now answer the question."
Suddenly, his expression turns pained, almost apologetic. He runs a hand through his hair, and Lydia's stomach drops. "Actually, uh, I kinda already...asked someone else."
The answer is unexpected, yes, but what's worse is the way her stomach twists, the flush to her face, the way she wants to be anywhere but here. And worst of all: the way she can't determine whether this feeling is one of humiliation or jealousy. Since when does she get jealous over Stiles?
"Oh," she says, wanting so desperately to recover, to brush it off like the big deal it totally isn't. "Wh-who?" She clears her throat. "Who is it?"
"Amy Miller," Stiles offers sheepishly. "Allison told me she might be, uh, interested, and I just kinda figured you were going with Aiden, so..."
Lydia feels all the blood drain out of her cheeks as she hears this last bit of information.
"Yeah," Stiles says, his tone suddenly a little biting. "I heard you guys were, you know, a thing or whatever, and that's really fucking stupid, you know." He lowers his voice, glancing around. "I mean, what are you thinking, Lydia? He's an Alpha. You know that, and you know that by now, he has to know that you know."
Lydia glares at him, blushing violently. "Keep your nose out of my romantic affairs, Stilinski. I didn't ask for you input." Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she makes a beeline down the hall and to her next class.
"Lydia!" he calls after her.
"Have fun with Amy Miller!" she sends back, not bothering to turn around.
After all, she's Lydia Martin; she practically owns this school. And Stiles Stilinski? He's no better than the dirt on the bottom of her shoe.
...
Come on, Eileen, oh, well he means / at this moment, you mean everything...
The music pumps out over the speakers of the gymnasium as Lydia leans back in her chair at the outskirts of the dance floor. Aiden leans idly in the seat next to her, bobbing his head to the music. From their specially-chosen seats, she can easily survey the action of the entire evening - and by that, of course, she means Scott and Allison, currently spinning freely to the music, and most definitely not Stiles and Amy Miller, who look sickening adorable in their matching purple accents.
Aiden glances at her. "Wanna dance?" he asks casually.
Lydia lets out a humorless laugh that sounds more like a sigh, and rolls her eyes. "Ummmm - no."
Aiden shrugs nonchalantly. "Okay then." He stands, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm gonna go get some punch."
"You do that," she mutters, and then she is alone. She isn't really alone much, these days, which is odd considering how few friends she can count amongst her company. She spares another glance towards Stiles, and quickly looks away, rubbing a hand to her temple.
Another song passes and suddenly Lydia is jerked out of her musing by someone leaning over her table and saying, loudly enough to be heard over the music, "Lydia? Why are you sitting here all by yourself?"
She looks up into the eyes of Stiles, who, damn him, looks at least somewhat genuinely concerned.
"Where's Aiden?" he asks. She rolls her eyes half-heartedly, shrugging and looking away.
"Shouldn't you be getting back to your date?"
He shrugs. "Her best friend was having some...freak out, and I thought maybe it was best if I let her handle it."
"Huh. Fascinating."
He sighs, grinning a little. "Do you wanna dance?" he asks.
She laughs at him. "As if. Why, exactly, would I want to dance with you? You're like King Midas, you know, except that instead of gold, everything you touch turns to loser."
At one time, this insult might have actually hurt his feelings, but, as it is, now he merely crosses his arms and says, "Aren't we passed that yet? I'd really thought we'd gotten passed the whole you hating my guts thing." He takes a step around the table, holding out his hand to her. "Come on, dance with me."
She glances down at the hand, then back up at him, bored. "We've played this game before, Stiles."
"Yeah, and if I remember correctly, I won, so come on. Dance with me."
She wants to argue more, wants the tension to increase enough to let her walk away from this, whatever it is, partnership, friendship, without feeling like she's lost something. Because, really, what does she lose if she loses Stiles? A mediocre friendship based upon the investigation of the supernatural? She's pretty sure her life was infinitely less complicated and more enjoyable before all of that became such a major player in her extracurricular activities.
But her mouth tastes like metal as soon as she lets that thought pass through her brain, and she knows what a big lie it really is.
"Why are you always so nice to me?" she asks, searching Stiles' face for the answer to a question she hasn't yet formulated.
"Because sometimes I think you need it," he answers gently, offering up his hand once again, and she accepts, following him out onto the dance floor.
"You look beautiful, by the way," he says as he spins her around. She does not blush.
"I know," she says, grinning. Aiden and Amy lay forgotten, at least for a little while.
...
"Called it," Lydia says, lying on her bed after the dance, having just heard Allison's confession that she and Scott made out in his car before heading out to get ice cream with everyone else post-formal.
Allison rolls her eyes. "You did not call it."
"Uh, yes. I did. And so, by the way, did everyone else in the tri-state area. I mean, come on, Allison, you just don't go to a dance with your ex and not have something major happen. Either you were going to kill each other or suck face - much as I detest that term - and you chose to suck face. Congrats."
Allison grins, shaking her head. "Well, thanks for all of your support, bestie."
Lydia smiles genuinely, bumping her shoulder against her best friend's. "You know, I mean it. If you're happy, I'm happy. And Scott is...well, a much better person than I ever realized." She frowns. "I seem to be realizing that a lot these days."
"Uh-oh, is this going to turn into a conversation about you and Stiles?" Allison asks, rolling over onto her stomach. Lydia glares at her.
"No because there is no 'me and Stiles,'" she replies.
"Really."
"Yep."
"Not even a little bit?"
"Not even a little bit."
Allison sighs heavily, flopping onto her back. "Whatever you say, Lydia, but I think you're an idiot."
Lydia isn't so sure she entirely disagrees.
...
"Drive faster!"
"I'm trying!"
"Well, clearly not hard enough!"
"Next time, you try driving while we're being chased by werewolves!"
"Look out!"
Lydia hangs a sharp left to avoid hitting the side of a building as she slams her foot back onto the accelerator. When Stiles had hopped into her car to explore the site of what they thought was a kidnapping by the druid, she hadn't expected their evening to end in a car chase with werewolves close on their tails. Who knew werewolves even owned cars?
She slams on the breaks when she realizes they've reached a dead end. Stiles groans in terror.
"Oh god, we are dead. We are beyond dead."
"Shut up, Stiles! Let me think." She glances around in desperation, but she knows the only way out is forward or backward. In front of them is a building with a single glass window that, by some stroke of divine providence, might actually be big enough to fit her car. Taking a deep breath, she puts both hands on the steering wheel and says, "Stiles?"
"Yeah?"
"If we don't make it out of this - "
"Oh my god, don't say things like that!"
" - I just want to say..." She looks him directly in the eye. "Thank you."
Before he can even respond, she's hit the accelerator once again and they're through the window, alive, and the Alphas are stuck outside the building, their car too large to make it through the window. Just as they begin to get out of the car to chase them down, sirens sound around the corner, and they all scatter, unwilling to face the cops for a pair of nosy teenagers.
Lydia and Stiles both release the breaths they've been holding and Lydia, nearly sobbing from relief, undoes her seat belt at lightning speed, launching herself over to the passenger's side and into Stiles' arms. He embraces her back with equal fervor, happy - overjoyed, really - to even be alive. He pulls away before she's really prepared, but she lets him. The cops will be upon them any moment and they need to get their story straight and -
And suddenly, he's kissing her, desperately, like it's more vital than anything else he's ever done in his entire life.
She pushes him away, however gently. "What are you doing?" she asks, stunned. He just looks at her, equally thrown. "Why did you do that?"
"I - " he falters and she escapes from his embrace, throwing open the car door and clambering out rather ungracefully. Her legs feeling like jello, again, but this time it's from the adrenalin rush and not the way his eyes sparkle when he has a secret.
Stiles is out and coming around the car towards her faster than she can comprehend.
"Lydia, I - "
"No, it's really fine. Heat of the moment. It's fine." She's going to faint, she thinks, but she stays standing, eyes trained on his.
Stiles looks a little hurt. "Is that what you really want?" he asks. "What you really want to be true? You want to pretend that everything that's been going on between us is a lie?"
Lydia takes a deep breath. "It is a lie, Stiles, because there is nothing going on. We're partners. Friends. That's - that's all."
He shakes his head, persistent as only he knows how to be. "Maybe for you it is, but, god, Lydia, you want to know the truth? I love you. I'm in love with you."
"No!" Lydia snaps. "No, you're not. We just had a near-death experience, and that is what you are feeling right now. Stop shaking your head!"
The cops have arrived by now, headed by a murderous Sheriff Stilinski. He marches straight towards the pair of them, but it does not cease their argument.
"Why is this so hard for you to accept? I know you have feelings for me too!" Stiles is saying, angrily, as his father approaches. "I mean, come on! You're trying to tell me that you weren't just a little bit jealous that I asked Amy to the dance and not you?"
"Stiles, please -"
"Why can't you just admit to it? Would it really be that horrible to have feelings for someone like me? Really?"
"Yes!" Lydia spits in his face, tears threatening to spill over onto her cheeks, but she holds it in. "Yes, it would." She takes a deep breath and continues calmly, "But it doesn't matter, anyway, because I don't have feelings for you, and I never will."
At this point, the Sheriff has halted a few feet away, watching the exchange between them with concern, his eyes lingering on the way his son's shoulders suddenly slump and how he wipes his arm across his eyes before turning toward his father.
"Are you two okay?" he asks, glancing between.
Lydia nods. "We're fine," she says curtly, trying to taking a step forward. "Though I think I might have a concussion." As she tries to move forward, her head spins again, causing her to nearly trip. Stiles catches her before she can make it very close to the ground, though, and Lydia hates herself a little when she sees the concern in his eyes. How is it that he can just continue to care so much about her, no matter what she does to hurt him?
A/N: Okay, so I lied. It really was going to be two parts, but then my ideas got away from me and, long story short, now it's three. Plus possibly an epilogue. So here's part two. Part three should be up within a few days.
Additionally, thank you all SO MUCH for your kind comments. If I could write for Teen Wolf, I totally would, and I would be in some kind of heaven, let me tell you. :)