apologies for the delay in updating. this did kind of get away from me a bit and is around 9k words- whoops. i'm hopeful that the final part won't take as long to get up, but we'll see.
also, title change! i thought it fit a little better.
note: i've never been to new york, and while all locations are real there are definitely some artistic liberties taken with the descriptions. sorry if that bothers you.
and thanks to anon and laurenthehunter for their reviews on the first part. it meant a lot!
part ii.
Stiles has found himself in stupid situations in the past, both of his own accord and the nature of life of an adolescent in Beacon Hills. But this is on him, a hundred percent. Because no one else can claim responsibility for this one.
As they walked, side-by-side, he can't help but wonder how big of a mistake this would turn out to be. Yes, he wants to be around Lydia Martin—he always wants to be around Lydia Martin. But he knows it's dangerous. Whatever little progress he may have made towards being okay with not being around her since he last saw her is being torn up into little pieces and sprinkled along the sidewalk with each step they take. And as he feels himself stomping the last of it into the pavement, he can't help but dread what it's going to feel like in the morning.
This is turning out to be simultaneously one of the best and worst night of his life.
"How is MIT?" Stiles asks as they come to a street crossing. "Proved the Riemann Hypothesis yet?"
"Not quite," Lydia says, her breath clouding as it leaves her mouth. "But check back with me in about a month. I think I've almost got it."
He smiles at her jest. "Because it's you, I'll come back in a week. I'm sure you'll have it done by then." Stiles is still looking at her as the smile slips from her face. "What?"
"Nothing," she says while biting her lip. "How are the criminal justice studies going?"
Stiles gets the message. "Oh, you know, just one big break away from solving the D.B. Cooper case. But that's after I catch the Zodiac Killer, of course."
Lydia smiles again. "No, seriously, how is it?"
"It's…" Stiles trails off, considering his words. "It's really good. I'm learning a lot—I feel like we've finally gotten past the introductory stuff, y'know, now that we're almost two years into it. It's challenging sometimes, but in a good way."
"That's good. I'm happy you're enjoying it," Lydia says, and he knows she means it. But any warmth the sentiment brings him is wiped away as soon as they come upon their destination.
The Waldorf Astoria is quite honestly the last building Stiles wants to see tonight. And yet, it's the one they need to be at. It looks rich and daunting and he could throw up right there and now on its curb front. But he must go in, he knows this. His reminder steps up confidently to the building, strawberry blonde hair bouncing.
His fingers begin tapping against the outer seam of his jeans. A knot builds in the pit of his stomach. Stiles pauses just as the doorman opens the door for them.
Lydia, seemingly noticing that he isn't next to her, turns around a few steps ahead. "You okay?" she asks.
He coughs, trying to hide his anxiety. "Yeah, fine. Let's go."
But the nerves don't subside as they climb the interior stairs and enter the main foyer of the building. His worn Nikes feel uncomfortably out of place on the marble flooring, his fingers rise to toy with the zipper of his jacket. Lydia, he notices, slows once she's crossed over the mosaic design at the center of the space, admiring the image with interest.
"Your friend is staying here?" Lydia almost balks. "Must be nice."
"Come on." He's desperate just to get this over with. He leads the way up two more stairs, past the front lobby and into the elevator bay. He is already familiar with this path, and Lydia doesn't ask any questions until they step out on the third floor and are greeted with the sight of a hotel employee consulting a clipboard in the foyer.
"Excuse me," Stiles says, "Has the—"
He is cut off almost immediately.
"This event is over," the concierge agent says in a deadpan, not looking up from his clipboard. "In fact, all ballrooms are closed off to the public at this time. Please feel free to return tomorrow if you'd like, given there are no reservations, and you can have a look around then."
"We're not tourists," Stiles matches the deadpan tone for tone. "I was supposed to meet someone after this was over but got lost track of time. How long as this been over for?"
"About forty-five minutes, get a new watch."
Stiles does not respond, turning back to Lydia with eyebrows raised.
"Your friend is staying here, isn't he? Have the front desk call up to his room." She suggests.
They are back in the main lobby within minutes, but the desk is now unmanned. Stiles and Lydia are the only occupants of the space, a massive clock at the center of the room ticking the seconds by almost eerily. Their steps echo as they cross the space.
"There's no bell," Lydia observes, approaching the counter.
Stiles shrugs. "Should we shout?"
"Let's just sit and wait," Lydia suggests. "I'm sure they just stepped out for a second."
She takes a seat at one of the upholstered arm chairs at the center of the room and he follows, sliding into the chair next to hers. The uneasy feeling in his gut had subsided a little in the last few minutes, but he is still having a difficult time sitting still.
Lydia, for her part, is having a difficult time taking her eyes off the details of the room. "I feel like I'm in an Art Deco fever dream."
He supposes he should tell her. She could probably piece it together within seconds of meeting Thomas anyway, so it might as well come from him first. At the very least, he thinks, he should tell her why he was in town in the first place.
"So, listen," Stiles exhales slowly, turning in his seat to face her. She tears her gaze away from the octagonal clock to look at him. "I wasn't actually just supposed to sit at Grand Central all night. Scott and Kira planned their night because they knew I had plans anyway, and it's why I knew Thomas would be here. There was a career seminar for Criminal Justice majors tonight that I was supposed to be at, but…" He trails off, unable to finish. But Lydia just smiles softly.
"I know," she says. Stiles blinks.
"What?"
Lydia points behind him, where a sign reading, "George Washington University Criminal Justice Career Seminar and Banquet, 7:00 Jade Room" is propped near an ornate floral arrangement. Stiles turns back to her. "Huh," is all he gets out.
"So," She rests her head in her palm, elbow propped up on the armrest of the chair. "Why didn't you go?"
He considers telling her everything, eyes running over her wide eyes and long hair. But he looks away when he responds, hands picking at his nails. "I just forgot my resume and letters of recommendation, and there wasn't a point in going without them."
"Your campus is literally two blocks from the White House," Lydia says, pushing right past his lie. "Wouldn't it make more sense to have this seminar back in D.C., where there is more access to national security offices? Internship opportunities?"
"Hey, I don't plan things, I just receive the invitations. Besides, if I wasn't here, what would you be doing right now?"
She raises an eyebrow and shrugs a shoulder. His point is understood.
From the corner of his eye, Stiles spots movement at the front desk. A woman emerges from the back room and takes a seat at one of the computers. Motioning to Lydia, Stiles rises from his chair and makes a beeline for her station.
"Excuse me," he says. "I have a friend who's staying here, Thomas Alcott. Would you be willing to tell me what room—"
"We don't give out that information."
The response was given so suddenly and automatically that Stiles is taken aback. "Uh, right, but I know him and can probably call up there—"
"Sorry, can't help you. You'll need to get the room number from him personally, but since you're friends that shouldn't be a problem, should it?"
"My phone is about to die."
The desk clerk shrugs.
"Listen, I was supposed to be here for that criminal justice thing, alright?" He points over Lydia's head to the sign on the table. "I couldn't make it, but my friend Thomas attended and he's staying at this hotel with fifteen of my other classmates who can afford this castle. If you would just tell me what room—"
"Sorry, against our policy."
Lydia steps up from behind him, looping her arm around one of Stiles' and begins to pull him away from what she could no doubt sense was about to become a less than cordial customer service exchange. "We understand, but thank you for your time," she says sweetly.
"No, we don't understand," Stiles whispers to Lydia as they begin to turn away. "It's absurd."
"Do you want to be kicked out?" She hisses back. "Just play nice, we'll figure something else out."
But there isn't anything else, he wants to tell her. It was either this or he couldn't help her at all.
"Hey! Are you looking for your college friends? The ones in overdone business casual and reeking of pomposity?"
Stiles and Lydia look up at the new voice.
A bellhop leans casually against the other end of the counter. He grins at them expectedly, waiting for a response.
"Uh," Stiles manages, sparing a glance to Lydia. "I think so? Yes?"
"Does your particular friend not know how to tip?" The bellhop adjusted his cap. "That might narrow it down for me."
The desk clerk glares. "You're not supposed to talk bad about guests—" But the bellhop waves her off.
"If you make me carry all five of your suitcases up to your room one by one by hand and then don't tip me at all I think I'm granted a little right to complain."
The woman grumbles, scooting her chair back up to her computer in a clear sign of distancing herself from the conversation altogether.
"Was he tall? Blonde hair?" Stiles presses.
"Bottle blonde, you mean? Yes, sir. He and few other of your mutual friends went too hard on the complimentary drink service and got themselves quietly escorted out of the ballroom—which is odd because the drink service was punch. They stumbled out the door a few minutes after that."
"Do you know where they went?"
The bellhop shrugs, looking nonplused. "I think they slurred something about looking for a club. They were already pretty wasted, so I'm not sure how far they could have made it."
"Oh, great," Stiles presses his palms together. "Nice. How fantastic for them."
"You wouldn't happen to know what clubs are in the area and which way to go to get there, would you?" Lydia steps up to his side and he's taken aback by a sudden sense of déjà vu. They always had been a good team, even in instances as small as this.
The bellhop exhales. "There isn't anything around here within walking distance so they probably cabbed it somewhere, maybe in Midtown. I made some suggestions, but really, they could be anywhere."
That idea didn't sound ideal in the slightest. "Well, where did you suggest?" Stiles asks.
The bellhop doesn't respond, only extends a gloved hand—palm upward, fingers rubbing together. Stiles scoffs before he can stop himself. "Really," he deadpans.
The bellhop merely shrugs.
"Oh, we don't really have any money on us," Lydia says, almost meekly. "That's why we need to find our friend."
He simply shrugs, retracting his hand. "Well, then you'll have to find him on your own."
Stiles huffs, reaching for his wallet. "Listen, buddy, all I have is a nearly empty metro pass and an almost filled Starbucks punch card from Christmas."
Lydia drops two crumpled dollar bills and a handful of change onto the counter. "I have two dollars and…" she considers the pile. "…thirty-one cents?"
Taking a moment to look at the pair of them, the third man merely blinks. "Wow, you guys really are broke. Keep that," he pushes Lydia's money back to her, "and I'll just help you out of the kindness of my heart, okay?"
"How considerate," Stiles quips. He is ignored as the bellhop reaches for a pen and a tourist's map of the city from a display behind the desk.
"The one I recommended is called the Marquee—they typically have better DJs. It's a bit expensive for my taste but your friends are rich so I figured they'd be fine. But it is over in Chelsea," he starred a street corner in the western part of the city, "so unless you're both trained marathon runners you should probably get a car."
Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. "Great. Know any that run for free?"
"Charge it to your friend's room." The bellhop shrugged. "You said he was rich, right? We have a car service. In fact, he might have taken it earlier." At this suggestion, the clerk from earlier lets out an audible noise or irritation. It is ignored by all of them.
But however morally questionable the plan was, it was still a plan, and before Stiles can respond Lydia has taken the map from their guide. "Great, thank you so much. You've really helped us out, you have no idea." Her eyes are beaming from what Stiles assumes must be the prospect of going back to Boston. "Could you call a car for us?"
"Sure," the bellhop nods, reaching for the phone. "Just do me a favor and borrow a little extra on my behalf."
Stiles and Lydia step away from the counter. As soon as they were out of earshot, Lydia smiles at him. "That was nice of him—out luck is actually starting to turn around." Stiles just smiles at her excitement, the first of it he has seen all night. But no sooner had it arrived did it leave again, worry now causing her brows to crease. "Do you think your friend Thomas will mind that we're charging a car to his account?"
Shrugging, Stiles slipped his hands into the pocket of his jacket. "Doubtful. His parents pay for most of his credit cards. It's probably why he was one of the few of us who could actually afford to stay at this hotel."
The answer appears to satisfy her, but her brow remains knitted.
"Come on, it's fine. And if he is mad I'll deal with it."
"But you shouldn't have to—"
"But I will," he simply says. "You can mail me a check later if you feel you really need to."
Lydia looks as if she's about to protest again, but the return of the bellhop informing them of the car's arrival prevents her. Stiles sends her what he hopes was a comforting look before leading her back out onto the street.
He is not ashamed to admit to himself that if needed to he would do more for her.
But if he thought the issue was completely resolved he was mistaken, for not soon after the sleek town car provided for them at Thomas' expense pulled away from the Waldorf-Astoria did Lydia turn to him again.
"I'll ask for the money myself," her voice is low, no doubt feeling just as conscious of the suited driver behind the wheel as Stiles is. "I can pay him back later, it's fine."
"Lydia, really, it isn't a big deal," he says. "I've borrowed money from him before. There shouldn't be an issue."
"Stiles," Lydia puts out her arm, the light pressure from her grip feeling heavy at the crook of his elbow. "I'll borrow the money. You don't need to put yourself on the line like that for me, okay?"
He lets out a small scoff. "Lydia, I met Thomas in an entry level Biology class, not a darkened alleyway. He's not a loan shark, we're friends. It's a non-issue." She still looks skeptical. Stiles tilts his head, exhaling. "He's also not a crossroads demon, and I don't have to sell my soul to get you your money, okay?" He can feel the driver's ears perk up at his remark.
"Don't poke fun," she chides. "And besides, how would you know for sure?"
"I think after a year of being his friend I would know."
-x-
The façade of Marquee is set among industrial-looking buildings. At first, Stiles is convinced the driver dropped them off at the wrong address. But the pulsing bass reverberating onto the streets was a dead giveaway for the club's presence.
"Still have your fake?" He asks Lydia, reaching for his wallet. She pulls hers out wordlessly, and together they head for the front door marked only by the small line headed by an imposing bouncer.
"There's probably going to be a cover charge," Lydia says to him as they get in line. "Can we make that?"
"Probably, I have fifteen dollars that I neglected to tell that bell hop about. That with your two thirty-one, we should be set." He grins at her.
The line moves at a relatively past pace and within moments they are at the front. The bouncer inspects their I.D.s with minor interest, handing them back almost instantly after they had given them to him.
"She can come in," he points to Lydia, but stops Stiles before he can continue forward, "but there's a ten-dollar cover for you."
Stiles wordlessly hands the bouncer two of his five dollar bills. He then joins Lydia in walking through the open door and into the darkened club entry.
He feels Lydia's hands on his arm, her breath tickling the side of his neck and she leans in to him. "I'll pay you back for that, too."
"Hey, that was for me," he says back. At their new proximity he can smell her hair. "Don't worry about it."
"But you wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for me," she counters.
"Lydia—" She stops him.
"Stiles, just shut up and take the money, okay?"
He does just that.
The short passage from the club's entrance opens to a wrap-around balcony overlooking the main dance floor. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a massive LED screen dominated the far-side wall. With the strobing lights and what looked to be the work of a fog machine it was hard to make out any details in the crowded dance floor below. Sties leans over the railing, Lydia following suit.
"So what is he wearing?" Lydia asks, still leaning into Stiles to make her voice heard over the music.
"Don't know!" he shouts back.
"Who would he be with?"
"Don't know!" Stiles searches the dance floor below eagerly, looking for any trace of his friend. "But he shouldn't be too difficult to spot, especially if he's already had something to drink."
"We should go down," she suggests, "it's hard to see anything from up here." He nods, and together they head for the stairwell.
When they reach the ground floor, the thickness of the crowd becomes even more apparent. "Stick close," he says into Lydia's ear. He feels her arm go to gently grab at his elbow.
He guides her through the club, navigating the perimeter of the dance floor while trying to search the faces in the strobing lights for anyone he recognizes. He isn't positive how many from his class would be here, if they even are at all, but what he did know what that is they all they would likely be congregated together. And it was a good bet, considering how he knows Thomas to be a social partier.
His assumptions pay off, for a little while after starting their search he starts to make out his name being called from the grouping of tables at the far corner.
"Stilinski! Hey, Stilinski!"
He turns to the sound. A group of his classmates, congregating around a table just at the edge of the dance floor, wave him over. At the front of this effort is Thomas Alcott, all tall, blonde, and lean muscle.
Stiles looks back at Lydia, who's grip on his arm had slackened. "Come on," he says, and leads her to their table.
"Stiles, hey," a sandy blonde boy, Jake, is the first to greet them as they approach the table. "Good to see you. We just ran out of drinks."
"That's okay," Stiles responds. "We're not really here to party."
"Hey man, where were you today?" Thomas is yelling over the music, clapping an arm on Stiles' shoulder. The question goes ignored.
"Can we talk please? I need your help." He gestures behind him to Lydia, who nods to Thomas in greeting. The gesture is returned enthusiastically.
Thomas leans into Stiles' ear. Stiles winces at the smell of alcohol assaulting his senses. "Hey, who is that?"
"An old friend," Stiles avoids turning around to gauge Lydia's reaction to his friend's antics. "But, listen, hey—" He has to regain Thomas' attention after the other raises his arms to call for another drink. "We need your help."
"Sure!" Thomas is enthusiastic at the idea. "Anything for you, man, especially after that Criminal Law final. What is it, what do you need?"
Stiles sighs and leans in closer. "Money. We need to get a car to Boston, tonight."
Thomas looks confused. "Boston? Why on earth do you want to go to Boston tonight? The party is here, Stiles! Does this have something to do with why you didn't show up tonight?"
"No," Stiles says hurriedly. He just needs to get Thomas to focus. "Unrelated, but it's kind of urgent."
"Here," Thomas thrusts a shot glass full of vodka he snatched from the table into Stiles' hand. "Drink this."
"Yeah I don't think that's a good-"
"Drink it."
Stiles obeys, downing the shot.
"Anyway, Thomas," Lydia cuts in, having to lean forward to be heard over the thundering bass. "Can you help us out or not?"
Taking another shot himself, Thomas winces. "If you mean money, I'm sorry but I can't help you there. I'm a little strapped for cash myself. Do you remember my new step-mother, Stiles? Well she apparently thinks that I should have to earn my weekly allowance. What kind of bullshit… We all know she's just using his money to fix her face, which honestly needs it but, still. That's our money. Anyway, I was told they are only helping with the hotel bill for this weekend as it's 'bettering my education' or whatever."
Stiles exchanges a look with Lydia who appears to be fighting down a smile.
"But you know, Stiles," Thomas wags a finger in his face, looking pained. "You know I'd a hundred percent help you if I could. You're my bro, Stiles."
"You're his bro," Lydia repeats at Stiles, low enough for only him to hear. She's grinning. "How sweet."
He ignores her. "It's okay Thomas, thanks anyway. Could we at least have your room key to the hotel? We could use a place to crash for a while, until we figure out what to do next."
"Oh," Thomas looks between Stiles and Lydia with suggestively, smiling. "Well if you opened with that…"
"That's not—" But Thomas is already fishing for his wallet in the back pocket of his pants, oblivious. Stiles quickly shoots Lydia an apologetic glace but thankfully she seems to be more amused than annoyed.
With some difficulty, Thomas retrieves his room key and holds it aloft triumphantly. "Found it! Here," he pushes it into Stiles' hand. "Take it. 'Crash for a while,' or whatever you kids want to do. I probably won't be back for a while. Right guys?" The group of criminology students around them let out a loud "woo!" at his statement.
"I—" Stiles stops. "You know what, never mind. Thanks for the key, Thomas." He doesn't hear him as Stiles turns away, facing a grinning Lydia.
"What, you don't want to stay?" Her eyes are gleaming, her teasing mood almost contagious.
"What, you do? Be my guest." He gestures back behind him to where Thomas is pounding Jello shots. Lydia winces at the scene.
"Ooh, those won't be fun for him in the morning."
"They most definitely will not." He watches the spectacle for a second. "But, you know, not normally like this. He's way less obnoxious when he's sober, please believe me."
Lydia eyes him under the club's lighting. "There isn't anything for you to defend him for, he's just having fun."
"No, I know," Stiles says. "It's just that he's helped me out a lot. He's a good person."
"Stiles," Lydia says. "You don't need to convince me. I trust your judgement. And he handed his room key over which is really all the proof I care about tonight."
A look is shared between them, one that Stiles is having a hard time interpreting in the club's lighting. She tilts her head, signaling to leave, but they're stopped before they can make it even two steps.
"You guys are leaving?" It's Thomas again, who had apparently looked up and noticed they had started to leave. "Oh, come on! Stick around for a bit. It's not like you're going anywhere anyways. I've hardly seen you all day, Stiles!"
"Oh, that's okay," Stiles says as Thomas comes bounding back at them. "We should really be going—we're kind of beat."
"Stiles, we've talked about this." Thomas claps him on the back. "We've had many conversations last year about your need to loosen up. And I haven't even gotten to know your friend yet. Lydia, was it?" At her nod, he is newly energized. "Great! See, I already know her name. Progress."
They look at each other, considering.
"One drink?" Lydia proposes, leaning into his ear to be heard. Her breath tickles his neck. "As he said, it's not like I'm going anywhere tonight."
"Alright," Stiles notices how the flash of a red strobe light lit up her hair. "If you want."
"Woo!" Thomas shouts for a second time. His call sets off a chain reaction in the group of people immediately around them. "'Atta boy, Stilinski! What do you guys want, vodka shots? We have more of those. Well," he looks back at the table, considering, "had more of those. I guess they've gone already. But we can get more! We're on a tab. Well, Jake's on a tab because I'm newly broke, as I told you."
"I can go," Lydia offers.
Thomas lights up at her suggestion. "Great! You can say you're with Jake and they'll put it under Jake's tab. He won't care, probably."
With a final departing glance, Lydia turns and melds into the crowd as she makes her way to the bar.
"So, is that Lydia Lydia," Thomas says lowly into Stiles' ear. "Or is her name just a coincidence?"
Stiles, who had been watching the top of Lydia's head as she fights her way through the dancing mass, turns back to Thomas as if cold water had been poured down his shirt. "What?"
"Please, you think I don't remember?" Thomas scoffs, tapping the side of his head. "I may be a little drunk right now but not enough to put the memory of last year's spring semester out of my head. In fact, you were the one who was a little drunk most of the time—"
"Okay, okay," Stiles cuts him off. The music in the club changed to something with a faster tempo. "First, I wasn't drunk most of the time. And second, yes, that is Lydia, but don't—" He has to grab his friend's arm to regain his attention, as Thomas had excitedly turned to look after her. "—say anything to her about last year. Pretend you've never heard of her, okay?"
Thomas gives him a look which could only be described as one of disappointment. "Stiles, you're killing me. I can't even try to help you out at all?"
"There is honestly nothing you could do that could help the situation. I don't even think there is a situation. I just ran into her tonight and said I'd help her get back to Boston."
Thomas says nothing, staring at Stiles with eyebrows raised.
"Stop it," Stiles says.
Lydia returns to the table, following in front of a bartender carrying a tray full of shot glasses filled with a clear liquid.
"Nice." Jake leans forward and takes one after it's slid onto the table. Everyone around them follows his lead, and Thomas holds his aloft.
"A toast!" He says. "To Stiles and his friend Lydia!"
Stiles shoots him a look as they go to clink glasses but his attention is pulled away by a brief flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Lydia, foregoing the toast, downs her first shot, picks up a second glass, and Stiles watches it disappear almost as fast as the first.
"More," Lydia says, placing the second empty shot glass down with a small 'clink'. "Let's get more."
"Yeah, that's the spirit!" Thomas says. He looks to Stiles excitedly. "I like her."
Stiles says nothing, watching as Lydia disappears towards the bar again. He takes his own shot, wondering if perhaps he should be concerned as warmth spreads down his throat and into his stomach.
"She's great," Thomas says, re-echoing his sentiment from earlier. "Really. Why do you two even need to leave so badly?"
"Because…" then he trails off, because truthfully he doesn't exactly know what this is all for. Lydia, of course, had been enough of a reason for him to tag along in the first place. "She just has to get back, so I'm helping."
Thomas, for his credit, doesn't say anything in response to that.
Lydia returns with the second full tray of shots. She takes only one this time—not that Stiles is paying attention or anything. What he does happen to notice, however, is her lack of engagement with other people. She stares out across the dance floor on the fringe of his group of peers, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, expression blank but eyes swimming. Thomas and Jake start to talk about job offers and bureau representatives and Stiles finds himself inching towards her instead.
"Is it okay if we leave?" Stiles asks her. "I'm getting tired."
She only nods to this, but he takes it as it is.
"Hey, we're going to head out," Stiles says to Thomas and Jake.
"Alright," Jake says. "We'll see you Monday!"
"Thanks for the help," Stiles says to Thomas.
"Bye Lydia!" He waves at her, and the gesture is returned halfheartedly.
Stiles extends his hand behind him. "Come on." She slides her palms against his, the skin-on-skin contact shooting tingles up the length of his arm which he decides could be attributed to the base of the club's music.
-x-
The ride back to the hotel was shaping up to be a quiet one. Lydia had slid across the seats, detached her hand from his, and has been sitting quietly looking out the window ever since. Stiles, for his part, has been staring out his own window wondering what he should say. But the pressure is taken off him:
"Sorry for being a downer," she says, breaking the silence. "I don't know, I just all of a sudden…" She trails off, and she's still looking out the window when he turns to study her. She looks almost defeated, and Stiles can't figure out if that's a fact that surprises him or is a feature he expected.
"I know," he says, and then doesn't know how to explain it further.
Lydia turns towards him with the softest hint of a smile on her face. A second goes by, and then, "I guess I'm not going home tonight, am I?"
Her use of her word "home" stops him for a moment, but the feeling passes as he realizes she's probably right. "No, it doesn't look like it. I'm sorry."
Her expression goes unreadable. "Well," she sighs. "At least we have somewhere to rest. Until Scott calls, or Thomas comes back."
Stiles wishes there was something more he could do. But when you're twenty and broke there isn't much you can offer someone apart from yourself. And as they climbed the front steps of the Waldorf-Astoria for a second time, a thought crosses Stiles' mind that he wishes almost instantly he could take back.
He can't really look at her directly as they stand on opposite sides of the elevator (Thomas' room is on the twentieth floor) and instead he's focused on the ornate carpet pattern on the floor.
"You know, I don't remember you or me telling Thomas my name," she says suddenly, eyeing him from the other side of the elevator. "And yet he just knew it."
"I didn't introduce you?"
She shakes her head. "I don't remember it if you did."
He shrugs, not knowing how to proceed. Of course, Thomas had no doubt come to know her name very well over the past year he has been Stiles' friend. He was there when they broke up, he was there throughout most of last year.
"Anyway," Lydia continues, "he seems nice. A bit of a lush, but nice."
"Uh, you had three shots in what, ten minutes?"
"Were you counting?" She doesn't look mad, just playful, her already bright eyes glinting with mischief. It's contagious—he can feel the corners of his mouth pulling outwards. "It's not like I have anywhere to be. And I think you had three too, so I don't know why you're on my ass about it."
Stiles scoffs. "It was just an observation. And I had two."
She shakes her head. "No, three. Thomas gave you one when we first got there and then you had one during both rounds."
He cocks an eyebrow. "Oh, now who's counting?"
She smiles, but before she has a chance to respond the elevator slows at the 14th floor and the doors open.
A man is revealed, standing sheepishly in a wrinkled tuxedo and clutching a pair of dress shoes. "'Evening," he greets, stepping into the elevator. Lydia scoots along the back of the elevator to make room, coming to stand next to Stiles. Their new passenger presses the button for the 19th floor, and the doors close again.
"Rehearsal dinner," the man says as a sort of explanation. A smirk plays long his clean-shaven face. "Just getting to know the bridal party."
Stiles takes in his wrinkled attire, the bowtie hanging untied around his neck, the socked feet, and has to hide a scoff of laughter with a cough. Beside him, he can feel Lydia turn into his arm. He looks down to see that it's an attempt to hide her own smile.
The elevator slows once more as they reach the 19th floor. The man raises his shoe-less hand as a goodbye as he steps out.
"Have a good night," he says, stumbling over his feet. "And use protection, take it from me, it's not worth it. Oh shi—"
The elevator doors, which had been closing during his words of farewell, cut off his expletive. Sitting on the floor of the elevator was a single dress shoe, left behind by its careless owner.
Lydia burst out laughing. Stiles, unable to resist at the sight of the lone shoe and the infections sound of her laughter, follows soon after.
-x-
They're still laughing by the time they make it to Thomas' room, so hard that Stiles has a difficult time aiming the room key into the slot on the door. But he manages, and they both sloppily spill through the doorway and into the room.
Whatever that saying is about how every hotel room is the same never considered the Waldorf Astoria, which is something Stiles figures out even before Lydia flips the light switch on. The window on the opposite wall was the first thing he noticed—tall, dominated, framed with curtains and hinting at the city and its lights in the streets beyond. Next was the bed, large and fitted with white sheets and pillows that looked so fluffed and inviting that Stiles' eyes drooped at the sight. Thomas' bags were already placed around the upholstered armchair and loveseat sitting area in the corner, a closed laptop resting on the desk.
"Well," Stiles says, closing the door behind them. "It's a far cry from the diner."
Lydia immediately throws herself on the bed, sighing with content. "This feels incredible. My feet have been killing me."
"It's the shoes," Stiles says just as she kicks the heels off. "I told you years ago, invest in more flats."
"Every inch of height is worth it, Stiles."
Stiles walks over the window, shaking off his jacket as he crosses the room. The room's view overlooked Park Avenue, a street that was sparse at this time of night.
"I feel like I've been awake for days," Lydia remarks from the bed. She has her arms spread wide, the white of the down duvet contrasting with her hair. "Is it even still Friday?"
Stiles checks his watch and he leans against the wall to unlace his own shoes. "It's been Saturday for a while, if you want to get technical."
She's propped up on her elbows when he looks back in her direction, seemingly watching him with interest. "What?" he questions, suddenly feeling insecure under her stare.
"You don't have to stand, you know." Lydia pats the open half of the bed next to her. "Come enjoy the five-star accommodations. It really is quite something."
Lydia Martin, inviting him to bed. He thinks he should point out that the room has plenty of chairs but his shoes are off and jacket down before he can think himself out of it. He moves like it's a dream, the alcohol from earlier still warming his veins and fueling his motions forward.
She settles back down once his head hits one of the soft, feathered pillows. They're laying side by side, both staring up at the ceiling above them. It was like sinking into a dream.
"Wow," he remarks. "So this is how the other side lives."
"Yep," she says, voice as close as it has been all night. "I'd kill for a bed this nice in my apartment. But I guess I probably shouldn't be telling a future federal agent that."
"Yeah." His forced chuckle dies in his throat. "Listen, I am really sorry you can't get back tonight."
"Don't worry about it," she says. "It was my fault to begin with. I'm sorry for hijacking your entire night of sitting in a train station while our friends hook up."
She is clearly deflecting, but the look on her face in the station is stuck with Stiles. The desperation, the panic that was present on her face was something he isn't certain he will ever be able to wipe from his mind. And he couldn't fix it. "Right. Well, I could tell it meant a lot to you. I'm sorry it didn't work out."
"Mm," Lydia hums in response, the frequency of which Stiles can feel in his bones.
He lets that feeling carry over into the silence that settles between them. He feels warm. Maybe it's the effects of the alcohol from earlier on his nerves, but he feels looser. Something within him, building from the events of the day and of this night, wants to be set free. But he can't quite put a finger on what it is. Yet before he can classify it, before he can allow himself to make a rational decision on how much of an influence he was going to allow this feeling, he is speaking.
"Lydia, can I tell you something?"
He can feel her head turn on the pillow next to him, feel her eyes as she takes in his profile. "Of course you can."
He licks his lips—his mouth feels dry. "I've always felt like I knew what I was going to do for the rest of my life, but…" he trails off as the words start to come at him too fast for his brain to process. He has never vocalized this before, he realizes. He's unfamiliar with what it takes to get it out.
"Stiles?"
And she says his name so gentle and so caring that he is briefly convinced that he has been hallucinating the entire night. What has he done to deserve her appearing back in his life out of nowhere?
He tries again, and this time he can feel a stronger sense of surety in his voice. "When I said I didn't go to the job fair because of a forgotten resume and letters of recommendations, that wasn't the entire story."
There's the shortest of pauses, then:
"You're kidding," Lydia deadpans.
Stiles can feel himself smiling (he still couldn't get anything past her) but doesn't respond to her teasing. "I couldn't walk into that ballroom today because I couldn't pull myself away from this nagging feeling I have that I'm not cut out for it. I know we all act like Scott is the only one crazy enough to want to stay in Beacon Hills, but honestly part of me wants that too." He swallows. "That was what I was good at—helping people directly, fighting the supernatural and the weird and whatever else that town wanted to throw at us. I can't go a day without texting Liam and checking in—I've missed class before to do research for them. I don't want to spend my career sitting in a desk and filing paperwork or something else equally useless or passive. I want to help people, like how we used to. And I don't know if this is the way to do it anymore."
"I get that," Lydia says, still staring at the ceiling. "I want to be useful, too. Unfortunately, when there's no dead or dying people nearby I don't really feel like I'm helpful at all."
"Lydia, you're a researching mathematician who's getting their undergraduate degree two years early," he says, turning his head to look at her profile lying next to him.
She doesn't respond to him.
"Also you do remember that you can knock people out simply by screaming, right?"
That one elicits a small laugh from her. "I can't exactly go around screaming at people all day. If it was Beacon Hills I could probably get away with it, but out here, I don't think it would go down as well."
"Honestly it's amazing that no one in Beacon Hills figured out what was happening."
"I know. Didn't Scott transform in the middle of the crowded library once?"
"Yep. But your mom told them it was a cougar or something and it was forgotten in a matter of days."
They share a short laugh.
"I wish I was that blissfully ignorant," Lydia says. "Life would be a million times easier."
Would it? Stiles thinks. In many ways, it would be, and obviously so. And he has to admit he's thought about it a million times before—what it would be like if this impending sense of responsibility at the risk of world's doom had not been pressing on them like thousand-ton boulder since they were sixteen. But it was a reality that was hard to grasp given what he knew, what he has seen. He shifts his back, nesting back further into the bed.
They couldn't change what has happened. They couldn't change the lives that were lost or the innocence that was taken from them.
They lay there next to each other in the silence that settles for a moment. From the corners of his peripheral vision, Stiles can see the edges of her hair, haloing her head and glowing red under the lights from the street outside. He could flex his fingers and graze her arm if he dared, that's how close they are.
Getting used to not having someone in your life is difficult—especially when they were such a constant presence for years. Stiles had struggled for months trying to come to terms with not being with her anymore, not being able to talk to her like they used to anymore. In ways, the distance had helped him understand the physical divide, yet the pull he felt towards her emotionally was worsened. Several times a day he would think of something to call or text her about—something funny, something sad, and sometimes even nothing at all. But he couldn't. The day he finally deleted her phone number from his contacts was the day he thought she was out of his life for good.
And yet, here he is, lying on a bed next to Lydia Martin. He just can't shake her.
She exhales, slowly, a sound that relaxes him. "You're thinking pretty hard over there," she says. Stiles smiles in the dark.
"Just trying to imagine what it would be like to not know what we know. Surprisingly, it's a very hard image to grasp."
"Mhm," she breathes. Stiles turns his head to look at her. "You know, I like what you said about wanting to help people. I understand that—I feel it, too. But I think you're fixating on this idea that it should be immediate. It's not going to be like it was a few years ago. There's not going to always be a new, focused goal every few months. We all have to think of ways we can be useful—don't worry if it doesn't happen immediately. Just go after what you know you want and it will all figure itself out."
Her words linger in his mind. She always had a knack for making things seem so simple, whether it be calculus or supernatural monster wrangling. It is an absolute truth that whatever Lydia Martin did Stiles would be left amazed and burning with a profound sense of pride. And here she was doing her very best to lay to rest all of his apprehensions and fears. And as usual, her very best was working.
Her hand, which had been resting up near her head, shifts. He feels the tips of her fingers brush the hairs at the sides of his head. Lydia retracts quickly as if the contact had burned her. "Sorry," she manages weakly.
He can only stare at her in the dark.
And then, he is kissing her.
It doesn't immediately feel stupid. Though it should, probably. She tastes like vodka, something he's almost sure is reflected in his own mouth. His hands cupped her face, tips of his fingers resting in her hair. Alarms are going off in his head. He should pull away, he's ruining it. Stupid, stupid—
But he feels the weight of her hand as it goes to rest on his cheek, and he's sighing into her mouth and kissing her harder, rolling until he's partially on top of her.
Her hands are as soft as he remembers against his face, gently tracing his jawline. This is too far, he thinks again. This is too much. Yet his hands are still at the back of her head, tangled in a mess of her hair and he was having a hard time trying to care about anything other than the feel of her mouth and the taste of her breath.
The reservations he has vanish for a second time as he feels her fingers run through his hair. He smiles against her mouth.
He was bringing one of his hands lower, ghosting the column of her neck when she catches him off guard and flips them over without once breaking away from him. A noise of surprise sounds in his throat but it goes ignored as she kisses him with more fervor, her hands running down the length of his face until they're dusting the tops of his collarbones. Her lips kiss a trail from his mouth down to the pulse point on his neck, his own hands running up and down her waist as he tries to just mentally keep up with her. She goes lower, kissing and lightly sucking down his neck and to his collar bone. A hand tugs at his shirt, wanting it off, and it's before he complies that he pauses.
"Wait," he gasps out, her hands hovering under the hem of his shirt. He catches her face with a hand and pulls her back to eye level.
Her eyes are dark, pupil's dilated, the green irises swimming.
He leans forward and presses a kiss, slowly, gently, against her lips. Then one on her jaw, beneath her ear, on her–
Lydia pulls back abruptly, until she's sitting back and up on her knees. It's only now that Stiles realizes she had been straddling him.
"What's wrong?" He asks, sitting up on his elbows. She just looks at him, breath hitching, eyes unreadable.
"Hey," he tries again, gentler, sitting up beneath her fully. "Lydia, what is it?"
It's when her eyes start to pool that he knows it's over before she even says anything.
"Stiles," she says quietly, "I'm sorry, I can't."
She's detached from him and off his lap in a matter of seconds, during which he's realized he could not move. "Wait," he says weakly, watching as she's collecting her purse and jacket. "Lydia–"
"I appreciate all your help tonight Stiles, I really do." She's not looking at him, fussing with the straps on her shoes. "But I… I have to go now."
"Where are you going to go? Lydia?"
She's at the door by the time he has enough sense to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
"Lydia," he tries again. "Wait, please, I'm sorry—"
It isn't until she has hand on the doorknob that she looks back at him. "Goodbye, Stiles."
The door opens, then closes, and Stiles sits in the hotel room alone.