Lydia waits out the rest of the school day in the nurse's office with Isaac. When the final bell rings Isaac jacknifes awake and rolls off the cot, jams his feet in his shoes and hightails it out to go to practice without so much as a glance back at her.
Lydia takes her time, slips her feet back into her pumps and takes the stairs up to the library, pushing against the crowd of students going down to the first floor. She spends almost two hours at a back table near the windows working on her history paper, ignoring Allison's questioning texts about where she disappeared to after chemistry.
When Allison doesn't stop Lydia texts her back, tersely explaining that she's fine, she's studying, no, she doesn't need a ride home, and turns her phone off. Lydia wonders if Jackson showed up for practice and doesn't leave the library until 5:30, when practice is over, just in case.
She doesn't want to see Jackson. It's not that she's scared, she just doesn't know what she's going to say yet. Is half afraid that she'll panic and do it, break up with him, just to get everyone off her freaking ass about it.
She trudges her way back to her locker, the arches of her feet aching from her four inch heels. There's pressure building behind her eyes like a cluster headache; suddenly all she longs for is to go home with her mother, take a bath, wash all the product out of her hair and scrub her makeup off.
She's turning the corner down the hall to her locker when she sees him, only a few lockers past hers, wearing his lacrosse sweatshirt and a pair of track pants, lacrosse stick strapped to his backpack.
"Stiles!" Lydia calls out, and slams her mouth shut because she did not mean to say his name out loud, what is she doing?
Stiles whirls around, his eyes widening in surprise. "Lydia, hey!" He quickly walks back towards her as she walks forward, meeting at her locker. "Everything okay?"
She tries to smile but she can't quite get her mouth to do it. "I'm fine, why?"
"You look sad." Stiles reaches out and curls his long fingers over her forearm and that's all it takes, she crumples back against her locker, eyes squeezing shut so she doesn't cry.
"Hey." Stiles' thumb rubs over the thin fabric of her bodysuit. "What's wrong?"
She forces herself to open her eyes. He's hovering over her and she's never really noticed how much mass he actually has. He's lanky, sure, but he's also tall, broad shouldered, with long sinewy arms and beautiful hands.
"I'm just having a bad day," she says, staring resolutely at his chest so she doesn't have to see those eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, like it matters, like he cares.
"Did Jackson come for practice?" It's bothering her that she hasn't heard from him, that the last time she saw her boyfriend he was pummeling Isaac and Scott into the ground, like a rabid animal.
"Uh, no." Stiles shakes his head. "Sorry."
Lydia presses her lips together. It's one thing for Jackson to cut school but he never misses practice. Something has to be wrong.
"Lydia." Stiles' voice is low and tender. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I don't know," she whispers tremulously. The hand on her arm tugs but it's gentle, and Lydia lets the momentum pull her away from the wall of lockers so she's up against his chest.
Stiles' arms come around her and Lydia goes stiff but she doesn't pull away. "What - what are you doing?" she asks nervously.
His arms are leanly muscled through his sweatshirt and he's warm, so warm. "I'm holding you," he says. "You know, embracing. Hugging. Is this like, a unfamiliar concept to you?"
"No," she says, her voice only a little sullen.
One of Stiles' hands' spreads across her back between her shoulder blades and something in her body unwinds. Lydia lets herself relax into him, lets herself believe that she won't regret it later.
"Do you want me to stop?" he offers uncertainly.
"No," she whispers, like it's a secret, like she'd die of shame if anyone knew that she likes it, the way she feels right now. "Please don't stop."
Like she didn't even know what safe felt like before now. His hands on her back, her head on his shoulder, their hearts beating in time with each other.
"Okay," Stiles whispers back. "Okay. I'm hugging you and you're not stopping me. Awesome. That is like, definite relationship progress right there."
"Shut up, you're ruining it," she mumbles.
Stiles huffs out a laugh but he stops talking, and for a while they just stand there, her cheek presses against his chest, breathing in sync. Lydia closes her eyes and just lets herself feel, the tightness in her chest slowly dissolving. One of Stiles' hands floats up to the crown of her head and she can't help the little sound of pleasure that slips past her lips when his fingers start to stroke.
"Is there anything I can do?" he asks quietly.
Lydia blinks, too relaxed to get it right away. "Hmm?"
"To make your day better."
"Oh." She tilts her head back and looks up at him. Stiles gives her a little smile and she can't help but return it. "Drive me home?"
Stiles runs his fingers down the length of her hair. "Yeah. Of course, I can definitely do that."
She gets her sweater out of her locker and shrugs it back on, packs up her books while Stiles waits patiently next to her, twirling his car keys and shuffling side to side.
"Do you ever stop moving?" she inquiries, checking the state of her lipstick before shutting her locker.
Stiles grins. "Not really?"
They walk out to the parking lot together, Stiles giving her the rundown of every single little thing Lydia missed at lunch all the way through ninth period. It's easy, walking with him, half-listening to him chatter. Not because he talks mindlessly, she's realizing. He's just always thinking, ideas tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
They're almost at the Jeep when Stiles' phone goes off; he pulls it out his sweatshirt pocket and glares at the screen, like he's personally offended to be interrupted halfway through his story about the latest prank the team is planning against Finstock.
Lydia leans up against the trunk of his Jeep. "Are you going to answer that?"
"It's Scott," Stiles explains.
"It's fine, I don't mind." Lydia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and sets her bag down at her feet.
He swipes to answer and puts the phone to his ear. "Hey Scott, I...but...why do I have to?" Stiles spins away from Lydia but not before she sees the expression on his face, like something has seriously pissed him off.
"I can't right now...how that my problem?" Stiles starts gesticulating wildly with his free hand. "I do too! I have a life outside of this stuff you know!"
Stiles opens his trunk with more force than necessary and throws his lacrosse gear into the car. "As a matter a fact I'm with Lydia right now...I am too!" Stiles pulls his phone away from his ear and holds it out to her. "Say hi to Scott, Lydia."
"Hi Scott!" she says loudly, smirking.
"See!" Stiles shouts at his phone, and mouths thank you at her. "No, absolutely not! You know why...I don't know...ugh fine...okay okay, yeah, I get it. I'll see what I can do."
Stiles is silent as Scott says something else and then Stiles says, "Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, you know it, I know it, everyone knows it. You're welcome, you idiot. Tell Allison she can send me a gift basket," and hangs up, scrubs his face and pockets his phone.
Lydia frowns and picks up her bag. "Is everything okay?"
Stiles sighs. "Yeah, we just...he wanted me to do something for him that I really, really don't want to do."
"Are you?"
Something in his mouth twists. "We compromised."
"I hear that's the secret to every happy marriage," Lydia teases, and walks around the Jeep to get in the passenger seat when Stiles unlocks the door for her.
Stiles gets in the driver's seat and turns over the engine, the fingers of his free hand
tapping against the steering wheel. Before he can even shift the car into drive his phone beeps.
"Jesus!" he yelps, digging his phone back out and reading a text. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he quickly taps out a response, all the while beating out a staccato against the wheel.
"Since when are you so in demand?" Lydia asks, regretting it when her tone comes out slightly annoyed, like she's jealous.
"It's just Scott," Stiles says offhandedly, and drops his phone into an empty cup holder.
"Codependent much?"
Stiles shrugs. "He's my bro. And let's face it, the poor guy would be totally lost without me."
"I don't think anyone's disputing that."
"So..." Stiles says, forehead furrowed like he's thinking something through. "If you really need to be home right now I'll take you there but...any chance you're hungry?"
Lydia takes a moment to evaluate- she hasn't eaten since breakfast and now that she thinks about it she's actually very hungry. "Are you offering to buy me dinner?"
Stiles eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. "Yeah, I guess - yeah. We can study for the precalc test?" he offers, like she might need some incentive or tangible reason to eat with him.
Lydia kicks off her heels so she can stretch out her legs on the dashboard. "I don't eat fast food," she warns him.
Stiles doesn't stop her, doesn't even blink at it, the way she's leaning back in her seat with her feet kicked up like it's her car and Stiles is just the chauffeur. Jackson would freak if her bare heels touched the interior of his Porsche.
It makes her feel a little reckless, the idea of pushing more boundaries, just to see what Stiles would do.
"How about the diner on Maple?" he suggests, pulling out of the parking spot.
Lydia shrugs noncommittally. She goes there sometimes to study with Allison. It's clean and the food isn't disgusting. "That's acceptable."
He snorts. "Was that a yes?"
She rolls her eyes. "Yes, Stiles, please take me to that random diner that's been around for so long nobody actually knows its real name, I thought you'd never ask."
"The pleasure is all mine," he says enthusiastically. "They have kick-ass curly fries."
Lydia makes a face. "Do I look like the kind of girl who eats processed carbohydrates?"
"You don't like french fries?" Stiles sounds scandalize.
"I didn't say I didn't like them, I said I don't eat then."
"But-but they're so good!" he protests. "Seriously, what's better than curly fries?"
"Fitting into my jeans," she snarks. "Not all of us have the metabolism of a teenage boy."
"You'd still look beautiful," he says sweetly.
"Oh," she says stupidly, like some love struck moron. "Thank you. I think."
Stiles pulls his eyes away from the road long enough to throw her a shy smile. "That was definitely meant as a compliment."
Lydia leans up against the window and presses her cheek against the glass, watches Beacon Hills fly by as Stiles drives.
"Milkshakes," she says after awhile.
"What?"
"Milkshakes," she repeats quietly. "I like milkshakes."
Stiles quirks an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
"Yes, okay? I like ice cream, and yes I am aware that the sugar content makes it about as unhealthy as a deep fried potato."
"Hey, no need to get defensive!" Stiles is all-out grinning now. "I completely respect your right to enjoy a milkshake. It would be my honor to buy you a milkshake."
"Alright then."
The diner is packed, lots of students at Beacon Hills High hang out there after school and Lydia and Stiles get stuck behind a group of cheerleaders waiting for an open table. Lydia glares openly at them, they're so irritating with their coiled ringlets and perky Minnie Mouse voices.
They remind her of the girl she saw Jackson with at Danny's party, with their glossy beribboned ponytails and long lean legs. Girls that make Lydia want to stare at her naked body in the mirror, wondering if she's really enough, tilting her head back and forth to figure out the angles of her face.
Stiles, unbelievably, doesn't even seem to notice them. He stands shoulder to shoulder with her, pointing out that there are seven different milkshake flavors written on the blackboard in chalk behind the pastry counter.
"I like strawberry," she says casually, shifting her weight back and forth in her heels.
The chattering of the girls in front of them rises sharply in pitch, like a flock of twittering birds, and it only takes a glance up for Lydia to see why. There's an older guy trying to leave, pushing through the group of cheerleaders, so attractive it's almost unnatural. Half of the girls are flat out staring at the guy and he actually has to move one dumbstruck girl out of his way by gently lifting her by the waist.
And then the guy stops right in front of Lydia and she is confronted by a wall of muscle clothed in an army green henley and a leather jacket. She looks up and catches herself in pale eyes that give her a sharp evaluating look before sliding over to Stiles.
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Stiles."
Lydia glances at Stiles in surprise; he knows this guy?
"Hey Derek." Stiles has kind of a mad grin on his face, like he's nervous and trying not to show it. "How's it going?"
"Fine," Derek says tersely, and after a moment, like an afterthought, he says, "and you?"
"Oh, fine, just dandy, no complaints here," Stiles rambles amicably, but he gently shoulders his way in front of Lydia so his body is between her and Derek's, like he's trying to shield her from him.
"How's your engine?" Derek asks.
Stiles blinks. "Huh?"
"I talked to Scott, he mentioned you were having some problems with it. That you thinking about upgrading?"
"Oh!" Stiles eyes go wide. "Yeah, yeah. I'm hoping that it won't come to that but you think that would be possible? Like, worse case scenario only, I swear."
Derek tilts his head. "Have you considered your other option?"
"My other option?" Stiles looks confused.
"Yeah. Get rid of the car altogether."
For some reason Stiles glowers and reaches out his arm towards Derek only to drop it at the last second, like he wanted to poke him but thought better of it. "Dude, we are not getting rid of the car, how many times do I have to explain to you that that's not a viable option?"
Derek shrugs. "Have it your way."
Stiles huffs. "So can you help with the engine or not?"
"It's not really a question of can I, Stiles." There's a bit of a smirk on Derek's face.
"Fine, will you?"
"I'll think about it," Derek says neutrally.
Stiles looks relieved. "That's all I'm asking for, man."
"There's something else you should consider before you make a decision like that," Derek mentions.
Stiles squints and pushes his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. "Yeah?"
Derek nods. "If you upgrade the engine, the car will have more power. But the engine is only one part of the car, and all of those parts are the sum of the whole. I can do the engine, if it's really necessary, but the rest of the car has to be compatible."
Stiles looks concerned. "Compatible?"
"Yes," Derek says tightly. "And that's something you won't know for sure until installation."
"And if it's not compatible?"
Derek looks grim. "Then the car won't run again. Ever."
Stiles looks horrified. Lydia is baffled, as much as Stiles is absurdly proud of his piece of crap Jeep he really didn't strike her as serious car guy.
"Seriously?" Stiles asks. "Are you sure?"
Derek jerks his head in confirmation and slides a pair of aviators over his face. "Think about it. It's a serious decision."
"Yeah," Stiles says. "Okay. I'll, uh, talk to Scott about it, see what he thinks."
Derek snorts. "You do that."
Stiles' upper lip curls in distaste. "I will."
"And I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to any third parties."
Stiles looks irritated. "Excuse me?"
"I had a potential costumer looking around earlier. He wasn't happy when I told him I couldn't help him."
Stiles' eyes are huge. "I can imagine - oh look, there's a table open, bye Derek!" And he grabs Lydia's hand and pulls her away before the other guy can even say goodbye.
"Okay, who was that?" Lydia hisses, following him to a small booth towards the back of the diner.
"Derek Hale," Stiles grumbles, flopping into the booth and dropping his backpack down on the vinyl seat.
"Hale? How do I know that name?"
"Like the Hale fire Hales." He slouches back in his seat, suddenly looking exhausted.
"Oh," Lydia says softly, because she's heard stories about it, children died in that fire. "How do you know him?"
"Ah, he knows Scott." For some reason Stiles looks distinctly uncomfortable.
Lydia frowns; if Scott were friends with Derek Allison would've mentioned him by now. "Scott knows him?"
"Yeah, they're kind of like, distantly related," Stiles says, his mouth twisting up, an amused look on his face like he's making a private joke.
"And he's a mechanic?"
Stiles blinks. "Huh?"
"I'm assuming that was why you asked to replace your engine." Lydia narrows her eyes at him. "And by the way, if you're driving me around in a car with an engine that could blown up I will destroy you."
Stiles looks alarmed at the accusation. "No, it - its fine, it's not like that, I'd never drive you in an unsafe car Lydia, Jesus."
"Then what the hell was that all about?"
Stiles shrugs. "Derek's into cars." Like that explains everything.
The waitress saves him from further awkwardness, swooping in and taking Stiles' order of a cheeseburger, fries and a coke, and a spinach pecan salad and strawberry milkshake for Lydia.
Stiles pulls out his calc book and for awhile they study together, although Stiles is actually pretty good, because when Lydia scans his problem set all his calculations are correct. Their food comes and Stiles makes a big show of eating his fries, moaning around each bite like he's having a sexual experience.
"C'mon," he taunts, holding a fry out to her. "You know you want one."
"I already told you" -
"No processed carbs, yeah, I heard you. C'mon Lydia, live a little. I won't tell anyone."
She looks at it, his hand outstretched, hating herself when her stomach cramps hungrily. "I don't want it."
"Wait, no, I have a great idea, hold on," he says, and dips the french fry into her milkshake.
Lydia's mouth twists in disgust. "What are you doing?"
"You mean you've never dipped a fry in a milkshake before?" Stiles look mildly outraged.
Lydia sneers. "Of course not."
"But it's so good."
She cocks a doubtful eyebrow. "It doesn't look good."
Stiles is grinning. "Sometimes things you wouldn't think would be a good combination that end up being a perfect combination."
"I don't know..."
"Just try it," he coaxes. "If you hate it I will never make you eat a processed carbohydrate again, promise."
Lydia takes the milkshake-soaked fry from him and tentatively folds it into her mouth. It's a sensation of opposites - hot and cold, sweet and spicy, creamy and crunchy.
Stiles was right. It's amazing.
"Do you hate it?" Stiles asks anxiously. "You can spit it out if you hate it."
Lydia swallows and takes a sip of water. "I didn't hate it. And I'm a lady, ladies don't spit."
He grins. "Oh yeah?"
"Of course not," she says sweetly, and runs her tongue across her bottom lip salaciously, just for her own amusement. "Ladies swallow."
Stiles chokes and spit-takes all over his calc homework.
/
Jackson is back at school the next morning, swaggering through the hallways. He finds Lydia on the way to chemistry and slings one arm around her shoulder but it doesn't feel nice, it feels heavy and oppressive.
"What are you doing?" She scowls at him and tries to duck under his arm but Jackson's fingers tighten around her shoulder.
"What, aren't you happy to see me?" His tone is warm and teasing but it's not cute anymore, Lydia can't remember why she used to find him so charming.
"No," she says icily. "I'm not."
"Oh c'mon, you're really mad about the other day, are you?"
"You hit two of your teammates! You probably gave Isaac a concussion."
Jackson snorts. "Lahey already probably had a concussion, and not because of me."
Something is squirming inside her, something oily and insidious, like revulsion. She stops still, turns to give Jackson her haughtiest look. "I want to be with a winner, not a bully."
"You've never cared before," Jackson points out.
Lydia realizes with a horrible sinking feeling that he's right. She's never even noticed it, never used to care how Jackson treated other people because it didn't matter, because there was only her, and Jackson, and getting to the top was more important than the way she got there.
"Well I'm noticing now," she says flippantly. "And I want it to stop."
Jackson smirks. "Yeah, you've made that very clear."
She narrows her eyes at him. "What does that mean?"
Jackson leans in, lips an inch from her face. "It means I'm your boyfriend, not your bitch."
"Whatever," she snipes, and stalks away towards chemistry but Jackson grabs her arm.
"C'mon, just relax, why are you always so pissy lately?"
"I don't know, why are you always being an asshole?"
Jackson's eyes darken. "First I'm a bully, now I'm an asshole? God, take a Midol Lydia." He scratches at collar of his shirt and a sliver of white appears from under the edge of the fabric, like a bandage.
"What happened to your neck?" She reaches up but Jackson is quicker, catching her hand and holding it tightly.
"Nothing, it's fine. Practice got a little rough."
Lydia tense. "Practice."
"Yeah. Lacrosse practice?" Jackson is staring at her.
"You went to practice yesterday?"
"Yeah, Lydia, we have a game on Friday."
Except he didn't, Stiles said so.
Lydia tugs on the hem of her cream and burgundy rose printed dress. "So what happened?"
Jackson subtly scratches at the bandage. "What?"
"To your neck."
Jackson looks away. "It's just a scratch."
He's lying to her, Lydia's sure of it now. Jackson's always worn his battle wounds proudly, he'd never put a bandage on a scratch, if anything he'd be bragging about, showing off, he's always looking for opportunity to broadcast how tough he is.
"Lydia, are you coming or not?"
"What?" She feels like she might throw up, maybe she should go back to the nurse and reserve a cot for the rest of the week.
"Chemistry."
"I don't feel well." She steps back away from him. "I'm going to the nurse."
"Seriously?" Jackson frowns, a look of concern on his perfectly symmetrical face. "You never skip chemistry."
"Take notes for me?" She offers him her widest fake smile, clutching the strap of her bag.
"Yeah," Jackson says, looking a little suspicious, but not enough to ask further questions. "See you at lunch?"
"Alright." Lydia stays frozen, watching his retreating back as he walks away from her.
The bell rings and Lydia stops in the empty hallway, lightheaded, places one hand on the wall and slides to the floor. The light is coming in through the windows.
It's so simple, once you know how to do it. She just makes herself forget. Locks Jackson up in a box along with Isaac Lahey's bruised and bloody mouth, Allison's tears, Scott's concern, Stiles' gentle hands.
She doesn't know what she's doing in the hallway. She doesn't know what she's doing.
She sits, staring at the light, like she could open her skin and let it inside of her, like a blessing. Reborn clean. A better Lydia, a doll that isn't hollow inside. Like there isn't something deep and aching in of her, begging to be filled.
Look at the light.
She makes herself forget about the pain, Jackson's lies, everyone's lies, the absolute certainty that all her friends are deceiving her. That she's nothing but something to be manipulated, a tool, pretty and useless.
She makes herself forget Stiles' eyes glinting in the sunlight like warm melting honey or whiskey in a crystal highball, watching her like she's a fiery goddess deigning to spend time among mortals. Like he would sacrifice anything for her, to her, carve out his heart in her name and serve it on a silver platter.
She makes herself forget the way he makes her feel inside. Like she's melting along with him, like she can deceive herself into believing that she really deserves something like that, devotion, worship, like she'd fall on her knees for him but not like with Jackson, no, she cannot imagine Stiles ever wanting her that way.
Look at the light.
Lydia sits on floor of the hallway for the entirety of the class period and watches the light streams through the windows, cutting shapes across the floor, particles dancing through it; wishing it could take her apart like Jackson's hands. That she could be something like that. Weightless, free.
Illuminated.