.

part two: i'm alive, if living's just a beating heart
'cause we won't admit we've taken it too far

The first days aren't as bad. It's mostly because so much is happening it's just going by in a blur. She's numb during most of it, and Stiles picks up where she's slacking. The baby cries a lot, probably sensing that something is wrong but not really knowing . The thought that she might not even be able to miss her parents, because she doesn't even remember, it makes her so immensely sad—it hurts to look at her sometimes.

The funeral is nice, something like out of the movies... their favorite songs playing in the background, the prettiest flowers as far as you can look and their pictures displayed everywhere. The entire time she's checking beside her, expecting Allison to be there to hold her hand through it all. It's a hard habit to break.

Most of the time she just finds Stiles standing there instead, and she doesn't—she isn't mad at him, because it isn't his fault, but she is resentful. Of, of everything. The entire situation. And it's easier to resent him, than something that isn't palpable. She has never felt so lost.

She collapses on the couch after everyone leaves, staring at their pictures on top of the fireplace, and after he comes down from putting Sammy to bed, he sits next to her. He licks his lips, hesitating for a few moments. "Are you ok—that's not…" He closes his eyes, running a hand over his face. "Let me just try that again. I, uhh. Are you, how are you holding up?"

She almost makes a snarky comment, but her heart isn't in it so it's easy enough to repress. When she reaches up to brush some hair from her face she's surprised to find her cheeks wet. She hasn't cried since she found out. That's why, that's why they're talking about it. He must've noticed.

"I'm… coping," she tries out her voice, and it's more strained than she'd hoped for. It's not even the truth, because she's not coping. Not even a little. But, still, it feels like a better fit than 'fine', or 'okay'. "What about you?"

"Coping," he offers her a small smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes and she can tell his jaw is clenched. She closes her eyes for a second, trying to pull it together as she lets out a shaky breath. She opens her mouth, but nothing really comes out so she closes it again. Clearing her throat, she tells him, "I, uhh. I just, I don't—they did everything right. I don't understand, it's not. It's not fair."

"I know," he breathes as he puts his arm around her, pulling her into his chest. She freezes for a second, before resting her head on the juncture between his neck and shoulder and giving in. She knows he doesn't understand either, but he understands her , and it's—it's nice. A nice change to the uncomfortable smiles and empathetic claps on the shoulder, half-meant ' if you need anything, you can always call me 's' and year supplies of soups and casserole. It's not what she needs.

Today they buried their best friends and tomorrow they have to go to court to be granted permanent custody of their child. It's not—it's a lot to take in, so she doesn't blame herself for forgetting to hate him, for just a little while.

.

He's everywhere, all the time. She knows that's part of the deal when you live together, but it's hard to breathe sometimes. With a baby, and a—completely adult person living with her, sharing her life with her. Sometimes it gets too much. Combine that with a lack of sleep, and edible food, and serious case of PMS coming on, and there are going to be things said that one will regret later. The one in this case being her.

"She's going to be here any second," Lydia informs him, having just taken a quick shower to get rid of the mashed carrots in her hair and dress into anything else but yoga pants.

It's still a mess downstairs, and the baby's crying and she's feeling so fucking overwhelmed sometimes that—she just wants to yell, or cry, or both.

"We'll be fine," he tries to comfort her, while he simultaneously tries to shush Sammy. "It's not like she hasn't seen worse homes." It's a lame joke that falls flat. "We just have to convince her we're doing the best that we can, you know, to be her parents, give her the family she needs—" he cuts himself off, probably at the look on her face.

"Are you okay?" He asks her suddenly, probably catching on to the fact she's not really listening, and all she sees is the fucking mashed carrots on the wall behind the kitchen table and the bottle of wine still on the kitchen from last night that'll make it seem like they're alcoholics and Sammy's loud, soul-crushing cries and she just snaps.

"We're not a family, Stiles," she spits, and she feels like the walls are caving in on her, that even Sammy is blinking at her like she's insane. But, God, is he fucking obsessed with her or something? "We're not her parents, we're not married. We're not a fucking family."

Her chest is heaving up and down quickly and her throat feels dry, her bones heavy. He doesn't say anything, just hands her the baby, muttering something about getting changed himself.

She puts Sammy in her baby chair and starts cleaning the kitchen, as a way to deal with the nervous knot in her stomach. She feels like a trainwreck, like she might actually be losing her mind, and she feels bad, for pinning that all on him and then the doorbell rings and she momentarily forgets whatever lame cookie-cutter apology she'd thought up for him and just hopes, hopes that they'll pass this inspection and they can keep her.

Stiles comes down freshly showered and in his regular attire (plaid shirt and jeans), like he'd been waiting for the doorbell to ring instead of coming down to be in the same room as her.

They give her a tour of the house, Sammy perched on her hip, and the social worker checks if everything's baby proof, everything meets the requirements, asking them a couple of routine questions now and then that they can answer easily enough before sitting them down on the couch.

"Are you guys together?" She asks, finally, scribbling something down in her notebook and Lydia narrows her eyes, because why in the hell does everyone keep assuming two platonic kind-of-friends aren't perfectly capable of raising a baby together? "We're not."

Stiles tenses up beside her, clearing his throat just a little. The social worker seems just mildly panicked, eyes widening a little. "I'm sorry, I just assumed—you do realize this will make her upbringing even that more difficult?"

"You don't say," Stiles mutters sarcastically, and Lydia elbows him out of reflex, which maybe wasn't the best way to show her that they could get along just fine, romantic relationship or not. They exchange a look before turning back to the social worker. She just eyes them curiously, not elaborating on the matter as she cuts in, "What about daycare?"

There's a few more questions, none in particular that make her tick too hard until the social worker claps her hands together, putting her notebook back in her bag.

"Well, I'm happy to say that however unusual your situation, you've passed the initial inspection." She shakes their hand, then sends them a tense, friendly smile. "You can call the office to make a new appointment within the next two months."

She corners him later, in the kitchen while he's doing the dishes and she's had enough time to sulk on her own. She stands next to him, grabbing a dish towel as she starts drying whatever he hands to her.

After a moment or two, she says, "I'm sorry about what I said. I wasn't in my right mind."

"I think you were," he answers, honestly, scrubbing the plate in his hands just a little too hard, knuckles turning white.

"I didn't sign up for this, okay? I didn't get handed a book on What To Expect When Your Best Friends Die And You Get To Keep Their Child. I know you're natural at this," he opens his mouth to oppose but she cuts him off, "but I'm still learning."

She puts the mug in her hands down, resting her hands on the counter as she lets out a deep breath, rolling her neck in a small circle to release some of the tension. She turns her head into his direction but focuses her gaze on the plate in his hands, "I'm not her mom, Stiles. I was supposed to be her awesome liberal aunt who would teach her how to handle a shot and help her with her math homework. You know, buy her expensive stuff her parents wouldn't give her. That sort of stuff."

"And I was just supposed to be her uncle, but—we ended up here. As, as, whatever you want to call it. Her parental figures. Me, you and her. We're all that's really left of their family. We can't turn on each other when it gets hard, because then—" He shakes his head, swallowing tightly as he shrugs a little, helpless.

"I know," she cuts in, worrying her bottom lip in between her teeth. "That's why I wanted to apologize. What I said to you, that wasn't fair." She licks her lips, trying to be careful with her words, "I just don't want any lines to get too blurry, you know?" She swallows visibly. "For Samantha."

"Yeah, I understand." He presses his lips together in an understanding, close mouthed smile before he splashes some of the water at her, making the corners of her mouth turn up, just slightly. "Apology accepted, but it was mediocre at best. Next time, gravel just a little more."

"Gravel?" She questions him, astounded and a little offended, as she splashes some of it back at him.

"Yeah, tell me I'm pretty, offer to do my laundry for a month, that sort of stuff."

She lets out a huff of air, clenching her jaw just a little. "A week, max."

"Is that all?" He grins goofily, and it takes all she has not to take the spray of cold water and aim it at his stupid face.

"You're moderately attractive."

.

It's been three days since she got custody, in the middle of the night, and there's poop— everywhere. It's the weird, wrenching, green, baby kind of poop. And wailing. So much god. damn. wailing. At this point she's not even sure who it's coming from.

Stiles comes home from his night shift to find her permanently installed in the bathroom, cradling Samantha in her arms, but ready to aim the shower spray if necessary. She hasn't looked in the mirror in three hours, scared of what'll be looking back at her at this point.

"Great, you're here," she announces, handing the baby over as she shudders, looking down at herself. She feels like she needs at least five showers to recover from this, but one will do until she has time to catch up on some much needed sleep.

"Her temperature is high?" He asks, frown on his face and he rocks her, trying to get her to calm down as he maneuvers his hand inside her onesie to put it on her back. He's looking slightly more panicked every second that passes, moving his hand into different positions and hoping for a different outcome. "She's so warm? I can call Kira, maybe she can come take a look, just to be sure."

Right. She's the only one here with an actual doctorate. "I just temped her, Stiles. It's a little on the high side, but it's not too alarming. She's wheezing now and then, but I think it's just because she's tiring herself out with all the crying. It's fairly normal."

He adjusts her in his arms, pressing her head to his neck softly, hoping she'll rest it there. "Scott has, he had asthma though. Are you, don't we need, we should—"

"Stiles, seriously." She's too tired to try and hide the small smile that's formed at his brain going into fifty million directions, as usual, running her hand over Samantha's dark bush of curls before resting it on Stiles' forearm. "She probably just has a small cold. If she doesn't feel better by tonight, we'll call Kira. I'll make an appointment with Allison's GP to ask him about the wheezing as soon as I wake up, at what's hopefully a more reasonable hour, okay?"

Obviously still wary, he searches her eyes, like he's checking to be sure she's not pulling one on him before he finally nods. She squeezes his arm, and he nods again, more confident. "Okay." He presses his lips to Sam's temple, before muttering another affirmative.

She brushes a lock of hair that must've fallen from her messy bun behind her ear, pressing her lips together in a small, amused but sympathetic smile. "I was supposed to be the one worrying about this stuff, remember? I know nothing about babies and you've babysat tiny children since you were twelve."

"I know," he replies, absentmindedly as he wipes a curl from the baby's face only for it to fall right back where it was. "It's just... Different, I guess."

She's finally calmed down a little, nose still red and eyes still teary, but considerably less loud. Lydia smiles half-heartedly, wiping the liquid that had collected on her small cheeks away. It is different. Sammy, she's—she's part of them and she's their legacy. She agrees, "Yeah."

.

"I really need to stop doing this to myself," she mutters to herself as she sniffs, closing her fist around the necklace she found in the laundry basket upstairs. It's an arrow shaped one, a gift of Allison's father when she won the state archery championships during their junior year of high school. She sinks down at the top of the stairs, and squeezes it tightly, resting her forehead on her balled fist.

She could hear Stiles talking to Samantha in the baby's room just a moment earlier, so she's a little surprised when he sits down next to her on the staircase. It's narrow enough that their knees touch.

"Well. At least you look beautiful while doing it, right?" He offers her, hand wrapping around her fist as he lowers it to her lap. Softly, he adds, "There's not a limit on crying, you know."

She unwraps her fingers from the jewelry, shows it to him carefully as she wipes the tears with her free hand. "I know. It just doesn't really do anything for me."

She knows that she shouldn't feel bad for crying. It took her a while to even cry after that day in the hospital, and then when she did it was like every little thing was too much. Every thought she had lead to Allison and Scott and before she knew it she was back to being a mess. And that would be fine, if it helped her, but it just—made her more sad. Kept her from moving on. She's done crying.

He gives her a look like he's not going to get into that one, running his finger over the arrow carefully. His voice is incredibly careful when he offers, "Do you want to wear it?"

She swallows hard, dabbing at the inside of her eyes to dry them as she considers it. She closes her first back around it. "It should belong to Samantha."

"Maybe you can hold on to it for her? Until she is old enough for it to actually fit?" She knows he's only saying it like that because he thinks that's what she wants to hear, and she's glad that he doesn't call her out on it. She wants to carry a piece of Allison with her. Not because she's afraid she'll forget, but because she wants to honor her. Remind herself of the person Allison was when she most needs it. Like now, when she could use a little strength.

"Yeah," she sniffs, quietly and he holds open his hand. She eyes him thoughtfully, but he doesn't falter for a second, doesn't break under her gaze. She hands it to him, fingers momentarily brushing before turning her back to him as she lifts up her messy hair.

He opens and closes the clasp around her neck with some difficulty, before carefully smoothing the thin chain out with his fingers, shooting sparks up her spine and momentarily turning her pulse into a gallop. It feels weird all of a sudden, to share this with him.

She turns back to her original position, knee knocking into his as she makes sure the arrow aligns with the middle of her necklace. She avoids eye-contact, "Thank you." She leans back on her hands, and he lays flat on the parquet, putting one arm over his forehead.

"I miss them, so much, I keep thinking I'll never get over this," he mumbles, staring at the ceiling absentmindedly.

She presses her cheek against her shoulder, looking at him over it. She sniffs, puts her chin on top of her shoulder before carefully putting her hand closer to him, fingers twitching. She licks her lips, putting her much smaller hand over his, squeezing softly. "I know."

It's quiet for a moment, the silence louder than ever. They actually give a shit about each other.

"This is weird," he confesses with a watery laugh, and she mirrors him, because this is so weird, throwing his hand back onto his stomach.

"God, you know how to ruin a moment," she says, still laughing, wiping at the bottom of her eyes with the palms of her hands. It doesn't feel like a crime, to laugh, to not feel pain for just a second, and that's good. She pushes at his knee, just for good measure before she gets up. "I have to finish folding this. Do you maybe want to start dinner, please?"

"Wow. A question, not a demand? And a please ?" He sits up, leaning back on his elbows, pressing one hand to his heart. His eyes are crinkled with joy , because he still enjoys riling her up. "I'll hold your hand more often if it means—"

She throws a pair of socks at his head, before picking the laundry basket back up, balancing it against her hip. "Like I said, moment's over, Stilinski."

He's still laughing when she enters the laundry room, shaking her head to herself as she leans back against the door for a moment. She closes her eyes, letting out a deep breath. She's feeling a lot of things right now, things she can't quite put a name on. Most of all, she thinks that—it's not so bad, living with Stiles.

.

When she gets home from work one day, slipping out of her heels and already letting her hair drop from it's bun—Isaac's there. Stiles is mostly just sitting there, arms crossed, staring at anything but him. She knows he's bitter about the fact he was Scott's friend, too, and that he just never showed, but they're supposed to be adults. They're parents. They don't just get to ignore things until they go away any more.

"I came here, to, I guess, to apologize?" He explains, probably at the confused look on her face as she sits down next to Stiles, shoulders pressed together, bouncing Samantha on his lap. He hands her to him just as she reaches for her, obviously distracted, pressing a kiss to the side of her face.

"I kind of, uhh." He avoids eye-contact, frowning as he picks on a loose thread from the couch. It takes a while for him to continue, like he's collecting himself. "I kind of went off the rails when I heard."

"What about Malia?" She forces out, because she kind of still wants to ignore him, too. It would good, to do that. Even though Stiles is usually the one holding grudges, enough for the both them, really. But she knows better, she knows Scott would expect better of them, would not want for them to be mad at him on their behalf. He's really big on second chances, or he was, and Isaac was one of his best friends. He deserves for them to hear him out, at least.

"She, uh, she deals with problems by getting over them and I, I guess I couldn't... I didn't know how to do that." He swallows, tightly, and she understands that for him, at that time, losing both of them, the way he grew up—it was too much. She understands. "So, you two are really raising a baby? Together?"

"Yes," she tries carefully, glancing at Stiles out of the corner of her eye. There's no sign of resentment at her for speaking to him, so she'll take that as a good sign, for now, that maybe he understands why Isaac did what he did, too.

"Still?" He asks, a little skeptic, one eyebrow slightly cocked. She can't fault him for that, since everyone who knew their history would know that her and Stiles—they were like blue and orange. They don't go together. And they didn't, until they had to.

"Yes," Stiles answers before she has a chance to open her mouth, confident as ever, almost challenging Isaac to go up against him.

"Damn," he breathes, running a hand over his face before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I guess I owe Scott a lot of money."

She lets out a huff of laughter, shifting Samantha to her other arm, and watches Stiles smile despite himself as they exchange a look. "We know it's crazy, but we really didn't have a choice."

"You did, though," Isaac presses, carefully, his voice quiet as he focuses his eyes on Samantha. It must hurt him, too, to look at her when she looks so much like them. "But you chose her. I don't… I don't think everyone would've."

Lydia swallows tightly, being careful not to look at Stiles, because that's crossing a bridge that she's not ready for. "It's worth it, I promise."

Isaac chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then looks back up at her, "Could I hold her, maybe? For a second?"

Lydia nods, sending him a kind smile, and to her surprise, Stiles doesn't oppose. "You're welcome any time you want, Isaac. You're still her uncle, and—" she sends co-parent a pointed look, as she puts the baby in his arms, "Still our friend, too."

Isaac smiles at her, timid but thankful, holding Samantha like she might break any second, gaze full of awe as the baby splutters. "I don't know how you guys do this."

It's Stiles who beats her to an answer, voice more forgiving than she had anticipated. "You'll get the hang of it."

.

She's in the middle of the baby food aisle, deciding between what kind of baby food would make her less hated by the mom community (they're more judgemental than she was in high school, which is saying a lot) when Stiles comes up to their cart, arms full with product and dropping them in.

They decided to team up today, so they could do half the work in less time and have more time at home to sleep and maybe do the dishes so they don't have to eat of paper plates anymore, if they feel like it.

She takes a peak in the cart, to her surprise, discovering not just candy and chips, but also her favorite kale juice (she's that person), Haägen-Daz ice-cream (cookies and cream), cereal bars (strawberry and yogurt flavored), carrot cake, favorite brand yogurt and past-time snack almonds.

He takes out one soft breadstick and hands it to a babbling Samantha, sitting in the babyseat in the front of the cart so she can nibble on it a little even though it'll probably end up on the ground at one point or another.

At this point, she realizes she's looking a little dumb, multiple baby food jars stuffed in her arms and blinking into a cart stupidly. "How did you know all my favorite products?"

"Well, besides the fact we've been living together for a while now, I remember things," he grins, putting a finger to his temple as he pushes the cart towards the next aisle. She quickly puts a few jars back in the shelves, hurrying back over to Stiles, dropping a few random ones in that she hopes Samantha will like as she just blinks at him again.

Sometimes she doesn't even remember her own last name—she's that busy/exhausted/all over the place and un-put together—let alone what kind of food Stiles likes. Plus, she hasn't had Haägen-Daz ice cream in years , because she tried that stupid anti-sugar diet that had her more cranky than energized for a while.

"You remember things?" She frowns, grabbing hold of the strap of her bag so it doesn't slide of her shoulder, throwing her messy braid on the other shoulder, and she can't help but get a little annoyed now. His events of their story doesn't add up with the facts. "We hated each other. Whenever Allison mentioned you, I basically just tuned out."

"I don't know, I guess… We got off on the wrong foot, mostly because of me," he answers, not thinking about it too long. She huffs, because you don't say? He ignores her, continuing, "So I didn't really have any reason to hate you personally. You were mostly justified in your dislike of me. I mean that, and you're smart, successful, ambitious, genuine and beautiful. You went to South America to teach kids English, like—what's there to hate?"

She swears to God it's hotter in here than three seconds ago, a flush creeping up her neck. It's not even what he's saying, it's the way he's saying it. Like it's a matter of fact, like she should already know this. It makes her feel like she missed a lot of signs that her dislike for him wasn't as two-sided as she'd thought all this time. Luckily, Samantha garbles a little, tiny fists reaching for the breadstick in her lap so she can focus her attention on her instead of having to look him in the eye. "So why were you? An asshole, I mean?"

He snorts at her abrasiveness, rubbing the back of his neck as he starts to explain, "Well, the ankle was a one off, and with the dress, what happened, that too. I'm just very clumsy, and at that point you already disliked me so bad I could've given you the wrong drink and all hell would've broken loose."

"Mhm," she replies, not wanting to cut him off in the middle of his thought process but trying to let him know she acknowledges the fact it might've been an accident. She'll give him that much. She wipes some breadcrumbs off Samantha's chin as she slows her pace enough for him to walk and think at the same time.

"I used to date Malia, I don't know if you know this but, the first date Allison and Scott set up? Well, we'd just broken up like, two weeks before. And it wasn't a bad break-up or anything, it was a mutual acknowledgement that we didn't really feel about each other like we used to," he throws some cereal into the cart, collecting his thoughts before continuing. "It's just that… She was my first real girlfriend, and Malia, she… Her parents were very abusive, kept to themselves, never let her out of the house. She's really bad with people because of it, sometimes even naive, and that night she got into a fight at some bar with a few sleazy guys. A mutual friend called me and that's how I ended up late at a date with you, smelling like I had a fistfight with a sixpack of beer."

"You could've told me," she accuses him, just a little, because it doesn't feel too fair like this. They've been living two completely different truths all this time. Her rightfully calling him out for being late because he was seeing his girlfriend, ex or not, right before their date sounded a lot better than, her being a bitch to him because he heroically saved his ex-girlfriend from a night in jail or a visit to the hospital. That makes her the villain in the story.

"You were already so," he regards her carefully, wincing a little as he adds, "judgemental? And my brain was so full from what happened that night I didn't really have the energy to go against you."

She was judgemental because he was 1) late, 2) reeked of beer, 3) was late because he was with his ex. Those are serious red flags. In hindsight, they were explainable, but still. At the time nobody would've blamed her. After waiting for him for so long, maybe she wasn't so clear headed anymore, too.

"And then I broke your nose," she grimaces, and he laughs, like it was also funny at the time. "Yeah, thank God I don't depend entirely on my looks, because those were a difficult six weeks."

"It was self-defense," she presses, as they stop in front of the crates of all kinds of fruit. He huffs, shaking his head as he heads over to the bananas while she gets some apples. When he returns to her side it's quiet for a moment as she pushes the cart towards the vegetables.

"And the bet ?" she forces out finally, indignant, because if he's in a confessing mood, she wants the whole truth.

He winces at the thought, closing his eyes as he sighs. "That was—I don't want to sound like I'm making up excuses or anything, but—my dad just got diagnosed with cardiac disease and ever since my mom died he was all I really had. And I, I just wanted to feel something else, anything else. I didn't really think you were going to go for it anyway, so it'd just be a good opportunity to get a laugh out of Liam and maybe make myself feel better in the process. But I enjoyed talking to you, too and then you just punched the living shit out of me. Which I deserved, rightfully so."

"You're really good at that," she mumbles, just a little upset he wasn't as bad as she always made him out to be, for whatever's that's worth right now.

He cocks an eyebrow, "Making an ass out of myself?"

"Expressing your feelings," she elaborates, and she can't deny she's a little envious of him. For that.

He grins half-heartedly, but then it fades. "Do you ever really think about it, you know, what if? What if Liam hadn't exposed me for the fraud that I am, or I hadn't twisted your ankle that night?" His voice starts of humorously, but is more serious by the end of the sentence. Like he's given this a lot of thought.

"Sometimes yeah," she answers, honestly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear before pushing the cart around the corner. She doesn't let herself go there often, but. Now and then, when she's lonely and in a shit mood. "It would've been easier, maybe." Not to get the news that they did, but in the beginning, when they weren't as in sync as they are now. It just added unnecessary difficulty to a situation that was already too hard for words.

Samantha's breadstick falls on the floor as some sort of sick mic drop, and they exchange an anguished look before the baby starts bawling, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

"No, no, shhh," Stiles starts, picking her up from the cart and cradling her in his arms, bouncing her up and down a little. Lydia rubs her back with tiny, circular movement, also whispering little comforting words into her direction.

After a while (and a new breadstick that Lydia digs up from the bottom of the cart), there's a final sob as she rest her little head against Stiles' neck. Lydia shakes her head with a smile, leaning in to kiss her on the temple as she brushes her hair back from her forehead. Satisfied, with the attention, Sam starts nibbling on the breadstick.

"You're such a cute family," an older lady in what must be her seventies mentions as she passes them, basket tucked under her arm. Because ladies her age can never keep their damn opinion to themselves, no matter what the implications might be for the people she's giving it to.

Lydia is about to correct her, and Stiles must know this, because he freezes up, shoulders stiff and mouth firmly shut. Instead, Lydia realizes there's not much inaccuracy to the lady's statement. They are a family. Minus the romantic relationship, but that was only implied, not mandatory. So, she just thanks her, and pretends not to notice the surprised look on Stiles face as she rolls the cart towards the dairy aisle.

"I thought we weren't a family," Stiles interjects, because he's Stiles and he can't let it go and let it rest.

"Did you want me to hire an ad in the newspaper?" She snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't know when she started feeling differently about the topic, she just does.

"I thought you said—" He tries, a little incredulously. Lines blurring, he's right, that's what she said.

"Feelings change," she cuts him off, with a stern look, pressing, "It's just an old lady in a store, Stiles. Please don't make this a big deal." It's not a confession of love, if that's what he thinks.

He nods, lips pressed together in a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Whatever you say." Then, like nothing's happened, "I think we should get more breadsticks. They've proven to be very useful to get her to be quiet. It's great coercing material."

.

Kira takes her out for drinks one random Friday night, ambushing her at home with a new dress and a bottle of cheap wine she loves a lot. (That sneaky little witch knows she loves it, too.)

"What's this?" She narrows her eyes suspiciously at the two people in front of her, putting her bag down on the kitchen table as she takes in the scene in front of her. It feels like an intervention of sorts.

Stiles doesn't look up from feeding Samantha applesauce or something like it, pulling weird faces at her so she'll open her mouth as he sits across from her baby chair. "Don't look at me."

Kira sends her a cheeky smile from where she's standing behind Stiles, hands behind her back. "I'm taking you out. It's been a super long while since you've been out this house for anything else besides work or—grocery shopping! Which isn't bad, but it also means your only company has been Stiles, a baby, and a bunch of hormonal teenagers who hate math." She holds up the bottle of wine, a stern look on her kind face, "Soooo… You're going to drink a glass of wine, get dressed into something else than any teenage boy's teacher fantasy and come with me. No complaining."

Lydia eyes Stiles helplessly, but he just shrugs. "Hey. It'll be good for you." Him too? Ganging up on her just like that? She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest before uncrossing them, balling her fists against her side. "What if… I can't leave her. Work's different. I have to go to work. I don't have to go with you."

"She's seven months," Kira presses incredulously, already getting a wine glass out. "Not that she can remember or even register it, but she's not going to hold one night against you"

"Besides, are you going to not leave home for the next…" He pretends to think really hard, eyebrows raised. "Seventeen years and five months?"

Kira nods her head along to every word he's saying, pouring the wine into the glass, "Yeah, exactly ! What he's saying."

"Look," Stiles gaze softens, his voice more reserved as he momentarily stops feeding Samantha. "You don't have to go if you really don't want to, but I think you should."

She looks at him for a second, then at Samantha and back to him. She sighs loudly, reaching for the glass and downing half of it in one sip. "There better be a lot of alcohol otherwise I'm going to be too distracted by Sam to even think of having fun."

"Yay," Kira exclaims, hugging her from the side as she jumps up and down. "I laid out a dress for you on your bed." Lydia glares at her, that sneaky little… "You're a snake, Kira."

"You'll thank me later," she sings, pushing her towards the stairs with a pat on the butt and a loud, smacking air kiss. She can get just two pecks on Sam's chubby cheeks in before Kira is pushing her again. "Hurry up, I made reservations."

Twenty minutes later, she comes down in the tight, velvet green bodycon dress Kira laid out for her. It comes to just above the knee and has a tiny split on the side. Her hair is down is big waves, minimal makeup on her face, just some mascara and a little red cherry lipbalm.

She knows she looks good, but the way he's blinking at her makes her just a little self-conscious. She bites down on her bottom lip, fidgeting with her necklace. "Is it too much?"

"No, no, you look great," he stammers, clearing his throat, and she holds eye-contact just a little too long. His dark brown eyes almost longing—for something, maybe to say more. Her mouth feels dry all of a sudden, breathing just a little more difficult, feeling just a little hot.

Luckily, ever obvious Kira whistles and it breaks some of the tension, and definitely their little staring session, "Yes, ma'am! You're going to break a few hearts tonight!"

Lydia laughs, as Kira throws her arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm encouragingly as she hands her her black coat with her other hand. Lydia just about gets to lean down for three seconds to kiss Samantha goodbye before Kira's guiding her towards the front door, throwing a careless "don't wait up!" over her shoulder as Lydia just sends a sheepish wave over her shoulder, trying to not think too hard about the look on his face. (A little sad, maybe? Or maybe just relieved. Right, she wasn't going to think about it too hard.)

It takes her about fifty minutes, three drinks, and five shameless attempts at trying to get her number before she's making out with the sixth. Kira is dancing with some girls on the dancefloor and Lydia was supposed to be getting new drinks for them when she got ambushed by—

"Aron?" She tries, pushing him off her a little so she can breathe . They're sitting in a booth in the corner of the bar, pressed dangerously close.

"It's Aiden," he corrects her with a smirk, hand moving down her back to her ass.

"I'm not really looking for something…" she searches his face, trying to come up with the right word. Her brain is just the tiniest bit fuzzy from the pink cocktails she's had. "Permanent."

"Great." He presses his mouth to the column of her neck, moving his way up before sucking on her skin just below her jaw. He pulls back, and the glint in his eye isn't goofy, or full of admiration, or—what she's used to. "Neither am I."

Her hands are on his shoulders, and she feels kind of numb so she squeezes, just to make sure he's really in front of her and she's not making this up in her head. Kira was right, it had been a while, and it would feel good… To feel something else for once. To be seen in a different light. Not as a mom, or a co-partner, or a teacher.

So, decisively, she presses her mouth back against his, moving her hands up to his face. Ignoring the little part of her that reminds her it's not quite right, it doesn't quite fit. Completely disregarding the suggestion it gives her instead.

.

Lydia hates Dora. She fucking hates the tiny, Mexican trollop and her damn talking backpack and her stupid monkey and what the hell—she hasn't slept, like had an actual good night's sleep in so many days. She's lost count.

She's almost eight months now, she should be able to sleep through the damn night.

Right now Stiles putting her back in her crib, and Lydia wants to cry she's that tired but instead she's watching Dora The Explorer, because it's the only thing that will shut up Samantha for more than two minutes. She can't risk shutting it off, because it feels like she would be jinxing it. If she shuts it off now, Stiles will come back down with a crying Samantha because she shut it off. Which sounds stupid, but she's so sleep deprived everything sounds legitimate at the moment.

"She's probably teething," Stiles sighs, sinking down on the couch and leaning his head back with his eyes closed, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger.

"I'm just glad she's stopped crying for a sec—" Lydia murmurs, shutting off the tv as she sits down sideways next to Stiles, putting her feet next to his leg. As if on cue, there's crying coming from both upstairs, and the babyphone. She groans, resting her forehead against his shoulder as she pulls her knees closer to her chest. "God fucking damnit."

He inhales sharply before sitting up quickly. "I'll go get her, I guess. Maybe you can get one of those teething rings from the freezer?"

"No, wait—this is her attention-cry," she says, pulling him back down on the couch. She keeps her hand on his forearm, just to make sure he doesn't stand up again and because he's like, nice and warm and she's so tired . "Just give her a minute, to put herself to sleep."

"You recognize her different cries?" He exclaims, appalled, dark circles under his eyes. She can tell he's just the tiniest bit jealous.

"Yeah, I guess," she answers, lamely, proud smile forming on her mouth despite of her tiredness.

"It's not a competition," he reminds her, but it's more to reassure himself of the fact.

"I know," she says, but she's still smirking and her voice an octave too high, too teasingly. He turns his head to glare at her, knocking his shoulder against her knee as a lazy, half-hearted attempt to get back at her.

"God, I'm so tired," he whines, making sounds as if he's sobbing. She ignores him as she leans her chin on her knees, hugging them close to her chest as she takes him in. He does look really tired.

"Would it make us bad parents if we just give her a little bit of that attention that she craves?" He peaks through one eye at her, grimacing. She puts a hand to her forehead, pushing her hair back from her face as she thinks it over.

"A good night's sleep would actually benefit our parenting skills because we'd be more attentive and alert during the day," she wonders out loud, biting down on her bottom lip.

He nods, agreeing immediately, already sitting up. "Plus, we don't want to end up like those parents that stand on top of the stairs and seriously consider dropping their babies down to get them to stop crying because they're that sleep-deprived."

She shrugs, getting up from the couch, "Just for one night, right? What harm could one night be?"

That's how she ends up in Stiles' bed on top of the covers, with Samantha in between the both of them, still sobbing quietly but not full on screaming anymore, so that's a plus.

Funnily enough, she couldn't be more wide awake right now. His eyes are closed, but he's still absentmindedly stroking Samantha's back, making these little comforting shushing sounds that are really bad for her heart.

She adjusts her head on the pillow, thinking how this all just feels familiar in the newest way. She hasn't really considered it before, or hasn't let herself, but Stiles. Stiles is really attractive, from his freckles and pale skin to his beautiful brown eyes. And those hands—it's probably just the lack of sleep talking, but it feels good to admit that she notices. With all the ways he looks at her, it isn't weird for her to admit that.

They fall asleep in the same bed, but not for one second does Lydia feel like they're crossing a boundary they can't uncross. She just has one of the best nights of sleep (more than four hours!) in a long while with her co-parent who she might or might not platonically love lays next to her and—their kid.

.