AN: And I'm back with chapter two! I'm not going to ramble on and on about anything, but I just wanted to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMANDA! It is your birthday today and I know we haven't talked in way too long, but I hope you're having a great day! ...So enjoy this angst fest. On your birthday. I give the most depressing presents, don't I?
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, any of the characters you recognize or any of the poems featured in the story.
How I Fall Asleep
Written by Becks Rylynn
.
.
.
Chapter Two
.
.
.
''I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color,
but I've seen flowers bloom at midnight.''
- andrea gibson; the moon is a kite
.
.
.
/vi/
but you won't let me let you go
.
.
.
Lydia is not sure how it happens, or when it happens, or why it happens, but when she climbs the stairs after another awkward family dinner - where her mother tried too hard and her father drank too much - and enters her bedroom, Derek's leather jacket is flung across her bed. She sighs heavily, body slumping. ''Of course.''
The next day, she shoves it at Boyd and orders him to ''tell your Alpha I am no one's damsel.''
The jacket is draped across her computer chair when she gets home. The day after that, after another failed attempt, it's hanging on the back of her door. Day after that, it's in her closet, mingling with all of her dresses. It's at that moment, while she stands there, blinking, staring at the jacket in between pink and green, that she gets it.
To tell you the truth, she's a little embarrassed it took her that long.
.
.
.
Isaac looks surprised when he opens the door and finds her standing there, wearing the jacket over her loose fitting purple dress and black tights. ''Lyd - ''
''Hi, Isaac.'' She breezes past him, barely giving him a weak smile. She eyes the apartment critically, disappointed when she sees absolutely no trace of Derek. That's unfortunate. She had been so looking forward to the look on his face when he saw her wearing his stupid jacket. ''Well,'' she says. ''Where is he?''
Isaac's eyes move up, over her shoulder. ''Um.''
She turns her head slightly and purses her lips at the sight of a broad chest. She doesn't even startle at the fact that Derek is nearly pressed into her back, breathing down on her neck. She scoffs instead. ''Because naturally,'' she hums out, carefully stepping away from him.
''Lydia,'' he says, and there it is again. Right on cue.
She looks at him silently, regarding him closely for a minute. She's waiting for him to say something about the jacket. Scowl at her. Order her to take it off. Just acknowledge it. She stands there, fiddling with the sleeve, but he remains stubborn and keeps his eyes locked on hers. She gives up. ''This - '' she holds out her leather clad arms '' - is a scenting thing, isn't it?''
His lips twitch. ''Yes.''
''Riiight, and why are you scent marking me? I'm not a fire hydrant.''
''And I'm not a Pomeranian named Mr. Snuffles - ''
''That's oddly specific,'' Isaac cuts in.
Pressing his lips together, Derek slides his gaze to Isaac, who quickly makes a flimsy excuse to escape, muttering something about homework and laundry before he disappears.
''Derek,'' Lydia stomps her foot. ''Tell me why you're acting like a possessive neanderthal.''
He apparently takes offense to that, eyes flashing red. ''Because,'' he says. There's an uncomfortably long pause and she starts to think that's all he's going to give her. ''Right now you're the weakest member of the pack,'' he finishes. He says it so plainly, so matter-of-factly.
She feels a rush of offense and her cheeks flush in anger. ''Hey! I am not suddenly some fainting weak damsel just because I'm pregnant! Women have been having babies for - ''
He heaves a put upon sigh. ''It's not because you're pregnant,'' he bites out. ''It's because you're grieving.''
She full on stops. One hand automatically flies to her chest, over her heart. It has become second nature for her to begin clawing at her chest in those dark moments, when it all hurts so much, when she feels like she's dying.
''There are certain people out there who will exploit that,'' he says. ''They'll use it against you. I won't let them.'' He says it with a whole lot of conviction.
She has to stare at the floor to catch her breath. ''Oh.''
''Besides,'' he tacks on. ''In case you've forgotten, this town is - apparently - a revolving door of supernatural creatures. It's best for you - and your baby - to have the scent of an Alpha on you. If trouble comes to town - which it will - you'll smell like me, and they'll know you're mine.''
She raises her eyes from the ground slowly. ''Yours?''
His eyes flicker. ''Yes. Part of my pack.''
She decides maybe it would be best to let him win this one. Just this once. ''I - '' She throws him a scowl of her own, although it's not quite as intimidating as his (almost though - she is still Lydia Martin and she can scare Derek Hale, she knows she can). ''Ugh. Fine.'' She blows out a breath and rubs her forehead. Dealing with him can be so tiring sometimes. ''I should go,'' she sighs, eyes shut tightly. ''I have to go have dinner with my parents and try not to vomit all over my mother's centerpiece.'' She draws in a deep breath and tries to straighten her posture in an attempt to regain some of that untouchable facade she once had. ''I appreciate you trying to protect me.''
''It's not about you,'' he denies harshly - perhaps a little too harshly. ''It's my job.''
She rolls her eyes. ''Whatever, Derek.'' She spins on her heel and flounces over to the door.
''Lydia.''
She stops with one hand on the doorknob. So close. ''Yes?''
He pauses and then takes a few steps towards her. She can feel him getting closer to her. ''You're wearing the jacket.''
She turns to face him. ''Yes,'' she pinches her lips and clears her throat. ''Well. Will it keep me and my child safe?''
He hesitates. ''It'll keep you safe...er.''
She feels a half hearted lazy smirk pull at her lips. ''Will it get you to stop lurking around my house at all hours of the night? Because I think my mother is starting to think you're casing the place. FYI, a Camaro isn't exactly the most inconspicuous car. In my opinion, anyway.''
A slow, crawling smirk of his own weaves across his lips, rivaling hers. ''Cute.''
She really needs to go. She gets one foot out the door before she stops, heart thudding nervously. ''You know, it's funny.'' She keeps her voice low and doesn't dare to turn her head. ''Everyone is grieving right now. The whole pack. But nobody feels it quite like we do.'' She runs her tongue over her teeth and finally turns back around. She remains silent for a moment, watching the way his eyes darken with guilt and grief. He shields his face from her. ''I never said thank you,'' she rasps out.
He looks up, startled. ''For what?''
She sniffles. ''Look, Derek, that whole Kanima thing...'' She swallows and swipes at her eyes. ''Jackson carried that with him. He did. It was impossible not to. He had so much guilt for...for everything. But after... He may have acted like an ungrateful jerk half of the time,'' she chuckles slowly, ''and he may not have been the best beta in the world. And God knows he wouldn't have admitted it in a million years because of his precious reputation. ...But he was happy here. With the pack.'' She nods decisively and offers him a fleeting, feeble smile. ''Happier than he had been in a long time. He was building something. Something he hadn't let himself have for so long. You may have made mistakes in the beginning, Derek, but you gave him that. You're a good Alpha.'' She gives him another smile, watery and sad, but genuine, full of heart. ''You're a good man. I just... Thank you.'' She can't catch her breath. ''Thank you for that.''
She's gone before he can speak.
.
.
.
Here is what she didn't say, what she won't say, what she'll never say: You saved his life. I killed him.
.
.
.
/vii/
can you make it feel like home?
.
.
.
She is not sure why - because he is nothing to her, not really; he is not her Alpha, not really her friend, not really anything - but for some reason it becomes a regular thing.
.
.
.
She shows up the next day with Stiles to help Isaac with his math and history, in an effort to pretend her life isn't currently in the process of unraveling and coming apart under her own touch. Derek isn't there at first, out doing whatever it is that he does (and what is it that he does? Does he have a job? Or does he basically just spend his days stalking minors?) but he shows up eventually, while Stiles is on the phone with his dad, explaining that he's going to be later than expected, and Isaac is getting ready to start pulling out his own hair.
Derek takes one look at Isaac, glances down at the practice test and all of the red ink, and presses his lips together. Without warning, he shoves the books aside and drops a pizza box on the table, taking in the sight of the three frazzled teenagers in front of him. ''Take a break,'' he orders. ''Eat. Right now.''
Isaac looks like he's going to start crying in relief.
Stiles mostly looks hungry, diving for the pizza and letting out an excited yelp of, ''Thank you, sweet baby Jesus! Food!''
Lydia, on the other hand, stares up at Derek with her legs crossed and her hands clasped. ''Derek,'' she starts, adding on a glare for added effect. ''Don't be a caveman. Nobody likes cavemen.''
''Lydia,'' he sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, probably to hide the way his lips twitch upwards for about a fraction of a second. But then he stops, takes a moment, looks at her for a startling amount of time without blinking, and says, ''Please eat something.''
She makes a triumphant noise in the back of her throat and nods slowly in approval. ''Better.''
Awed and amazed, Stiles leans his elbows on the counter and rests in chin in his hands. ''Teach me to be like you.''
.
.
.
The next day, she comes over for Isaac once more, after school, to console him about the test he's bombed. She winds up staying late, eating Chinese food, watching Dateline Real Life Mysteries and trading barbs with Derek.
The day after that, there's a pack meeting. After discussing a possible banshee situation, college, Allison and Scott's latest issues, and for some strange reason, the latest episode of How I Met Your Mother, Lydia hangs back with Scott and Allison for their Dinner With the Alpha and ends up proof reading both Scott and Isaac's homework and stealing food off of Derek's plate.
The possible banshee situation turns into a definite banshee situation soon after and then it's everyone to their battle stations. Suddenly, it's almost like life is nearly back to the way it was before with the shiny new Hale pack kicking ass and taking names, and this unnerves her. It bothers her; how everything is just going on, continuing on uninterrupted when Jackson isn't here to continue on with it. Sure, she takes back her throne of Queen of Lore, hunkering down with Stiles at his strangely creepy house to try and figure out how to kill a banshee, but none of it feels the same. It feels like everyone else is moving on with their lives, preparing for college, coping with their own grief, living life, and she is stuck somewhere behind them, feet planted in the mud, unable to move. They are all moving past her, away, and she can't. What it feels like is that some part of her died that night, too; in the rain, with Jackson and sorry about the blood in your mouth and Gerard Argent.
They defeat the banshee like Knights defeat dragons, after she and Stiles find a way to banish the freaky bitch into oblivion, and they all slowly make their way back to the Hale house to lick their wounds, where Scott promptly announces that they need to have a celebration. They celebrate their victory by licking their wounds at the Hale house and coercing Derek into buying them beer, which only happens because Allison and Erica gang up on him and seriously, Allison and Erica should never ever team up. It's terrifying. They're like the two annoying younger sisters you never wanted.
Eventually, Derek grunts and tells Allison and Erica, very matter-of-factly, ''I hate you and everything you choose to be.'' And then he goes to buy them beer.
Lydia manages to make it through most of the night. She makes it through the speech about how much Jackson is missed, accepting condolences like the perfect little widow. She makes it through the subtle but undoubtedly there couple atmosphere. She even snatches up a bottle of beer to keep up the appearances, through she never takes a sip of it. But there's only so much a girl can take. She winds up sitting on the porch with her back against the house, ankles crossed.
That's the thing about grief, you know. About missing them. The pain never stops, it is always there, under your skin, infused into your very being, but it's the quiet moments that kill. In the silence, you feel it the most. That ache, that missing half, that empty space beside you, in your heart and in your head. Lydia Martin has always hated being alone. Now she hates it even more.
She closes her eyes.
''I would've sucked at it.''
Her eyelids flutter open and she turns her head. Her entire body tingles. ''What?''
He shrugs, looking pensive as he stares out into the distance, squinting like he can see something she can't. ''All of it.'' He lets his head loll back to the side and his eyes lock with hers. She inhales. Licks her lips. ''Husband. Father. I would have been a disaster.''
She swallows. She can feel a tired, sad smile flickering over her lips. ''No, you wouldn't have.''
He laughs then, a beautiful eye crinkling, head tilted back laugh that makes her eyes water and her throat throb with pain. ''See, there you go again,'' he chuckles. ''You just keep doing that, don't you, baby?''
''Doing what?''
He sobers and looks right at her. She can feel him sitting beside her. His arm is brushing against hers. His very presence envelops her. How can this not be real? ''Believing in me,'' he says, softly.
''Always.'' Her throat closes up. There are sobs trying to climb out of her throat and she can't breathe properly. Her hands move, instinctively, to cradle her stomach. ''Jackson.'' His name is an exhale of breath; a plea, a prayer, a eulogy and a love letter all rolled into one. The tears overflow and run down her cheeks in rivulets and the sobs bubble over. She lets out a gulping cry of a laugh and her hands fall back to her lap. ''Do you think we would've made it to Athens?''
He brushes a hand over hers, fingertips grazing her skin, and she shivers a wonderful shiver. It feels like coming home. ''Lydia, we would've made it anywhere.'' Another sob tumbles out of her lips and he threads his fingers through hers. ''Someday,'' he says to her. ''You and I are going to make it to Athens.''
She smiles at him. ''Tell me that's a promise.''
''Oh, it's more than a promise, baby. It's fate. You and I,'' he squeezes her hand. ''Are fate.''
She doesn't think he could ever know how much that means to her.
''Lydia?''
And she is forced to open her eyes. For real, this time. There is no warm hand in her own, no shoulder brushing against hers, no dead boyfriend. She is sitting on the cold ground alone and aching. She lifts her eyes to Stiles. He is staring down at her with a soft, sweet expression on his face, sympathy and understanding illuminating his eyes in the dark. Her first instinct is to paste on a bright smile and tell him that she's fine. She doesn't think he would believe her if she tried. So she doesn't. She licks her lips and places her hands in her lap, avoiding his searching gaze.
Stiles doesn't hesitate to plunk himself down beside her, stretching out his long legs and burying his hands in the pockets of his red hoodie. Uncharacteristically, he doesn't say a word. But his shoulder bumps against hers and when she looks at him, big eyes practically pleading for him to give her some kind of comfort, he smiles at her and takes his hand out of his pocket to tangle it with hers. He is not Jackson, but he's Stiles and he's comfort all the same. She breathes in deeply, the scent of rain and dirt thick in the air, and leans her head on his shoulder. ''Thank you,'' she murmurs under her breath, after a peaceful moment of calm silence.
''Hey,'' he lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ''Us Pack Moms have to stick together.''
She forces out a watery laugh. ''...Can I ask you a question?''
He peers down at the top of her head. ''Absolutely.''
''How long until it gets better?''
Wrong question.
He stills. She can feel his body tense and stiffen. She looks up at him and watches him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing, like he's trying to swallow all of the bad memories of hurt and pain. For a fraction of a second, she catches a glimpse of a totally different Stiles. One light years away from acerbic wit, quick lighthearted jabs and curly fries. This Stiles, the one with hollowed out eyes and a jaw clenched in sorrow, is the one who lost his mother, the one who constantly worries about his father's well being, health and safety, and the one who runs with wolves, caring not about his own safety but the safety of his pack. They say one man can't be an island. Clearly they - whoever 'they' are - have not met Stiles. ''You know I can't answer that, Lydia,'' he says, full of regret. ''Grief doesn't work that way. It's not cut and dry. It's one of those stupid things that's different for everyone, and it's something you can never prepare for.''
''I hate that,'' she whispers, and there are crystalline teardrops caught on her eyelashes.
He nods. ''...Yeah...''
''But it gets better,'' she says, with finality. ''The pain dulls. ...Right?''
He licks his lips slowly. ''You really want me to tell you?''
She moves her head from his shoulder and stares into his gravely serious eyes. She gulps nervously. She nods anyway. ''Tell me,'' she begs.
He gives her a look that says he would give anything not to have to tell her this. ''The truth, Lydia,'' he begins, in a certain tone of voice that reminds her of classrooms after dark with killers in the hall and school dances and Werewolf Problems. ''Is that you'll hollow out a space in your heart for him - you'll carve it out with your bare hands - and you'll carry him around with you for the rest of your life like a badge of honor, or maybe like a warning label. Some days, you'll pull out your own hair and scream into your pillow and your throat will still feel heavy and full of pain and grief. And you won't ever understand why. Why this happened, why it was him, why it had to happen to you, why it had to happen period. But you'll live. At first, it's automatic. Like muscle reflexes in coma patients. You'll live your life, fill awkward silences, go to school, critique people's fashion sense, watch Project Runway, fight supernatural critters in your downtime, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. And there'll be days where you wonder what the point is. If it even means anything anymore - which it does. Someone will tell you that. I'll tell you that. And gradually, with time - with a lot of time - you'll find yourself smiling or laughing or enjoying the little things. And you won't ever let go Lydia. You won't. But you'll go on.''
His eyes sparkle like diamonds in the light, but his jaw is set and determined and he so obviously believes in everything he is saying to her that it makes her believe too; in him. She tries to say something, thank him, tell him that she hopes he's right, anything, but all that comes out is a high pitched whine sound. She is openly crying by the time he finishes. Not delicate, pretty tears trailing down her cheeks and making delicate, pretty tears either, but loud, gulping, messy sobs complete with gross snot and everything. Stiles doesn't seem to care, wrapping her up in his arms and letting her cry into his chest.
''I'm sorry,'' he says into her hair, a noticeable hitch in his voice. ''I wish I had something better to tell you.''
''No.'' She shakes her head and pulls away from him, accepting the tissue he hands her that he has seemingly conjured out of thin air. ''I like what you said,'' she assures him. She wipes away her tears, making her best attempt to mop up the mess, the loss of control, on her face. Her head aches from the crying and she's exhausted, every part of her feeling heavy, but she feels better. Things are - life is - a little bit clearer. She balls the tissue in her hand. ''People keep telling me that I'll feel better one day - like I'll wake up one morning and suddenly be happy. They keep telling me to think positively, keep my chin up, like I can choose not to grieve. Thank you for not bullshitting me.''
''I don't bullshit,'' Stiles says plainly, and then smirks. ''Much.''
She manages a half laugh, still trying to catch her breath. ''You're a good friend, Stiles.''
Instead of reacting like a wounded puppy dog like he would have a couple years ago, he grins in response to that and nods his head in agreement. ''I totally am, aren't I? Now, come on,'' he rises to his feet, movements languid and smooth, and offers her his hand. ''Get up off the dirty filthy ground. You are Lydia Martin, for God's sake. Derek Hale's termite eaten skeletal front porch is no place for your perfect self.''
She smiles again - this time a real genuine one that reaches her eyes - and takes his hand, allowing him to haul her to her feet. As soon as she's standing, he yanks her over to him and brings her in for one last hug, whispering in her ear a firm, ''You're still my fabulous, flawless Queen, you know that?''
She sighs into his shoulder and hugs him tight. ''And you're still my knight in shining armor.''
''Better freakin' believe it, girlfriend.'' He drops a kiss to her right temple and squeezes her hand gently before pulling away. ''We should definitely take over the world together sometime.''
She sniffs and does one of those hair flips. ''I'll clear my schedule.'' Then she holds her head high, and feels a cheeky little smirk crawl onto her lips for the first time in who knows how long. ''So, have you seen the new Downton Abbey...?''
.
.
.
/viii/
the distance between two points
.
.
.
Derek winds up driving her home sometime around eleven thirty, partly because he looks like he needs a few minutes of peace and quiet away from the rest of the rowdy pack, and partly because she digs her fingers into his lower back while the rest of the crazy people are embroiled in a frighteningly cut throat game of Twister and hisses in his ear, ''Take me home before this gets violent.''
Because it will get violent.
''This is,'' Stiles declares from his spot tangled around Isaac with his face in Erica's boobs, ''probably the closest I will ever get to an orgy. I'm sure of it.''
On the couch, holding the pointer, Boyd bursts into booming Boyd-like laughter and not even five seconds later, Scott breaks, dissolving into hysterical giggles, which sets off Isaac and then there is a chain reaction, resulting in a literal dog pile and Allison's triumphant victory lap. This event then leads to Erica completely losing her shit because apparently nobody else is allowed to win anything ever when Erica is present. Least of all Allison. Who Erica still has issues with. Probably doesn't help that Allison and Erica are both disturbingly competitive when it comes to board games, especially with each other. (Literally like sisters.)
Luckily, Derek manages to steer Lydia out of the house seconds before Erica throws the Twister box at the door and announces, in no uncertain terms, much to the dismay of everyone, that they are going to play Boggle and she is going to kick their asses because she is the Boggle Queen.
A few months ago, the simple act of Derek driving Lydia home would have been an extremely unusual and highly suspect occurrence. Now it is simply the new normal. She's grown used to the rest of the pack occasionally dropping in to check on her, but Derek is still the one who is the most constant visitor. Also the most silent visitor. But constant. Oddly enough, she finds she doesn't mind all that much. This is probably because he is the only one who doesn't ask her if she's okay or if she needs anything every two minutes.
There are lights on in the house when he pulls up in front and she lets out a disappointed breath at the sight. She had been hoping her parents would be asleep by now. It's been a long day full of banshees and breakdowns and she's not all that sure she's up to polite conversation.
Beside her, Derek is staring at her, studying her every movement, her every breath, the way her hands are resting comfortably on her stomach, the way she's biting her lip. It's like he's trying to read her like a book. ''Your parents don't know.'' It's not a question.
She scoffs. Keeps her eyes on her big perfect house that holds the tiny flawed family. ''They don't know anything,'' she spits out venomously. Perhaps a little too venomously. ''Sometimes I think my mother might suspect, but my father's clueless.'' She thinks about her father's callousness, his determination to live out his shattered dreams through her, his insensitivity towards anything Jackson... She presses her lips into a tight line. She remembers the way he acted after the funeral, like it didn't matter, like she didn't really love Jackson anyway, like she couldn't possibly know what love means at her age. She narrows her eyes. ''It's for the best,'' she says to the silence. ''My father's a jerk.''
Derek hums in thought and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes make their way over every inch of the house, lingering on the brightly lit windows, like he really is casing the place. ''My father's dead,'' he counters.
Lydia levels him with an unfaltering, unwavering stare. ''You win.''
His fingers stop drumming. He shakes his head. ''It's not a competition, Lydia.''
She leans in close to him and keeps her eyes on his, flat out refusing to let him look away from her with simple intensity and a pucker of her lips. ''Everything is a competition.''
He looks away. Rolls his eyes. ''You should go inside.''
She shrugs carelessly, grabs her purse and reaches for the door handle, only to freeze suddenly as a thought violently slams into her. ''Derek...'' She pauses, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ''Stiles told me that we carve out spaces in our heart for loved ones that we've lost.''
He tenses and his face does that thing where he looks homicidal but it's really just a front for a deep, oozing infection of pain. His fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel briefly and then fall limply. ''Stiles says a lot of things.''
''He said we carry them with us. Badge of honor or warning label.'' She automatically reaches for her neck where Jackson's key isn't and tries to swallow down that same sting of loneliness and emptiness that she is not convinced she will ever be able to shake. ''What are you?''
He doesn't look like he has an answer she'll like. ''I've carved out so much space in my heart for people that I've lost that I'm honestly surprised I still have even a piece of it left to call my own.'' He gives her a look, eyes hooded and dark, full of shadows. ''Trust me, I am way past the point of badge of honor or warning label.''
''...What are you, then?''
He looks impossibly flummoxed. His eyes keep darting between her and the house. ''I don't know,'' he heaves a put upon sigh. ''A tornado? A time bomb? Something poetic and broken? Why are you asking me this?'' The tone of his voice rises slightly, growing annoyed.
She instantly raises her walls with a huff. ''I don't know,'' she snaps out defensively. ''I just thought maybe... I don't know, okay?''
''You're Lydia Martin. You don't say anything without knowing exactly what every syllable means,'' he fires back. She watches his eyes close and one hand comes up to rub at his forehead. ''I can't teach you how to be broken,'' he says quietly, almost inaudibly. ''How to live with grief. It's not something you learn. You just do it.''
She scowls and folds her arms like a petulant child, even as heat rises in her cheeks. ''I wasn't asking you to tell me how to live with - ''
''You're lying. I can hear your heart.''
''Well, stop listening to my heart! My heart is not yours to listen to. It's mine.''
''...Get out of my car, Lydia.''
And there is it again. That weird inflection in his voice when he says her name. Not a growl, not quite a whisper, but it's something. It's definitely something. It's... If he were anyone else, it almost might sound like fondness, affection, attraction; something akin to lustful fascination. But he's not anyone else, he's Derek, and that is the most illogical, ridiculous thought in the world. ''Why do you keep saying my name like that?'' She can't help but ask.
''Like what?''
''Like it hurts to say.''
He doesn't answer her. ''You need to go get some rest.''
''Ugh!'' She throws her hands up in the air. ''I am so sick of people constantly telling me to get some rest! I don't want to get some rest! I've had enough rest.''
He looks at her slowly. Such an odd thing - it sounds improbable. You can't look at someone slowly. You can only look at them. But everything about the way he looks at her - meeting her eyes first, then moving his gaze down to her chest; not her breasts, but where her heart is, where he can hear it beating - is slow and steady and careful. There is something about it, something about the way he leans in just barely closer, that is nearly animalistic. It's...different. ''Well, what is it that you do want?''
Her chest tightens. There is a flare of pain that erupts inside of her like a volcano and she has to blink to keep it all from spilling over. ''I want Jackson,'' she says. ''I want my life to go back to normal. I want to not act like a zombie. I want to be happy. I want to be...'' Her shoulder slump. ''...Not alone.''
Derek says, very quietly, still looking at her slowly, ''You're not alone, Lydia.''
Her fingers claw at her neck, for the key, for Jackson. She says, breath catching, ''I have to go.''
.
.
.
The mornings will pass,
the anguish will pass,
other stones and sweat
will bite into your blood-
it won't always be like this.
You'll rediscover something.
Another morning will come
when, beyond the clamor,
you'll be alone on the lake.
You are also love.
Made of blood and earth
like the others. You walk
like the one who won't stray far
from your own front door.
You watch like one who waits
and doesn't see. You are earth
that aches and keeps silent.
You have bursts and lapses,
you have words - you walk
and wait. Your blood
is love - that's all.
- cesare pavese; two poems for t
.
.
.
end chapter two
AN: ...I couldn't not do an angsty Lydia/Stiles scene. They are, after all, the two fiercest members of the Broken Hearts Club.
vi: from Center of Attention by Jackson Waters
vii from Born to Die by Lana Del Rey
viii from song of the same name by The Glitch Mob