Beacon Hills wins their lacrosse game on Friday night. Greenberg throws the after-party, Allison and Lydia follow Stiles' Jeep from the school parking lot to the house in Allison's car. Allison parks right behind Stiles and Lydia watches the boys pour out of the car, Scott, Stiles, and Isaac, showered and changed into street clothes.
Lydia steps out of Allison's car and yanks self-consciously on the hem of her midnight blue miniskirt. She's wearing a cropped heather grey crewneck sweatshirt with long sleeves but no tights and her legs are freezing. She bounces a few times in her ankle boots, shivering, watching Allison lock the car and walk around to the sidewalk, zipped tightly into her leather jacket, her long legs in skintight dark rinse skinny jeans tucked into her boots.
"Excited?" Allison smiles, the dimples in her cheeks popping, and reaches out to clasp Lydia's hand.
Lydia forgets that's she's mad at Allison. It's impossible to be right now, when Allison's smiling like that, holding her hand like a promise. Up by the Jeep the boys are all standing in a knot, waiting for them. Scott's in the middle, Stiles chattering loudly about something, waving his arms around and laughing, and Isaac huddles closely next to Scott, sweatshirt hood pulled over his hair.
Scott's face lights up when he sees Allison. Lydia can feel it, the way her best friend's body pulls away and Lydia doesn't even think about it; she tugs on Allison's hand to pull her back. Allison stumbles, tripping in her knee-high brown leather riding boots. Their hands get pulled apart from the force and Lydia can only watch as Allison slips away from her.
Scott dives in and catches Allison at the waist before she can fall, one handed, like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"Thanks," Allison says breathlessly, staring up at Scott with stars in her eyes.
Lydia slides her right hand down to her exposed hip and pinches, because she made Allison trip and she deserves it this time, for being envious and bitter, deserves to hurt.
Scott pulls Allison up and runs his hands up and down her arms. "You okay?"
"Fine. You caught me." Allison gives Scott a dopey smile but when she turns back to look at Lydia her lips are pressed into a hard line, and Lydia flushes with shame and turns away.
"Okay!" Stiles claps his hands loudly together and they all ignore the way Isaac twitches at the sound. "Everyone ready to party?"
He holds his arm out to her and Lydia knows an out when she sees one, she slips her arm in his so their elbows are linked. A car door slams, across the street she can see Danny climbing out of Jackson's Porsche, parked in front of the neighbors' sycamore tree.
"Lets go," she says hastily, and turns on her heel so she and Stiles lead the way up the stairs into the house. "I need a drink."
By the time Lydia makes it to the kitchen where the drinks are she's lost all her friends: Allison isn't drinking because she's driving tonight, Scott never drinks because it would just be a waste, whatever that means, and Stiles and Isaac go wherever Scott goes, like teenage bodyguards with lacrosse sticks.
Lydia does a few shots of vodka with some of the other players' girlfriends, idly compares lipstick shades while silently wondering how she used to think these people were her friends, wonders at how vapid she used to be.
Across the room Jackson is talking with Danny and Greenberg, drinking something out of a red solo cup.
A drink gets pushed into Lydia's hand and she doesn't even check what's in it, just tosses some of it back and coughs at the burn. She stays in the kitchen until the alcohol really comes on, her whole body pulsing with warm heat. She can feel her feet on the floor again, like she's just remembering herself; that she's young and beautiful and sexy and she can have anything she wants.
Just choose.
She slinks out of the kitchen, hips swaying, and when she glances back over her shoulder Jackson is staring at her, mouth open. Lydia smirks and flips her hair, chugs the last vestiges of her drink and tosses her cup in the trash on her way out.
It doesn't take her long to spot Scott and Allison. They're making out sloppily against the far wall in full view of everyone. Isaac is sitting on a couch looking uncomfortable while Erica Reyes twirls her fingers through his curls, giggling, the tops of her breasts spilling over the cups of her black lace crop top, and Stiles -
Stiles is sitting on Isaac's other side, and next to Stiles, sitting on the arm of the couch with her feet in his lap, is a girl.
She's blond, with a sweet round face, and she's wearing a tacky pink dress that shows off her slim body. She's pretty. Not classically beautiful like Allison or striking like Lydia, but good looking in her own right. She looks like a teenage boy's wet dream, a California girl next door with glimmering light hair and tanned toned legs.
Lydia stands there, staring, watching as the girl leans down and whispers something in his ear that makes Stiles burst into peals of laughter.
The hand on her neck startles her, Lydia jumps and Jackson is right there, with his perfect blue eyes and perfect cheekbones, leaning into her space.
"You look good," he murmurs, and strokes his fingers against her skin. "Sexy."
She forces herself to roll her eyes at the compliment. She's a rock, she's Lydia Martin and she doesn't spread her legs for generic praise like good, or sexy. "I'm wearing a sweatshirt."
"Yeah, but I can do this." Jackson's hand slides across her bare midriff. Heat pools low in her belly because her body is a traitor; she melts at the slightest kind gesture like a weak little thing desperate for affection.
Jackson steps a little closer, Lydia leans back against the wall and he steps between her open legs, the hand on her stomach drifting down to her hip. "I miss you," he whispers. "I haven't seen you all week."
"I came to your game," she placates, sucking in a breath when his fingers dig into the spot on her hip that she pinched earlier.
"You know what I mean. Just the two of us." He slides his thigh between her legs and she's definitely a little drunk, her reflexes fail her and she can't help but sigh and open up at the contact instead of pushing him away.
Over Jackson's shoulder she can see Stiles' hand on the girl's knee. Lydia feels a rush of nausea, her body flooding with ice because she's jealous of some trashy girl with terrible highlights. Allison and Scott are still kissing. Isaac is now trapped between Erica and her boyfriend, some hulking dark skinned boy who seems content to watch Erica flirt with everyone in sight.
No one is coming to save her.
Lydia looks up at Jackson. Weighs his actions, the blood his fists have spilled, with the way he's looking at her, eyes burning like a flame, making her shiver. She remembers what she did to Allison, the way she pulled on her best friend's arm without even considering that she might be hurting her, how if Scott hadn't been there Allison would've fallen.
Maybe there's something inside Lydia that's like Jackson, something cold and selfish.
Maybe Lydia deserves to be punished.
Her arms float up, weightless, and loop around his neck. She blinks slowly, peers up at him through mascara-coated lashes, and deliberately pouts her lips. "We're alone now."
They end up locked in a small guest bedroom upstairs. Jackson bends Lydia over a low dresser that's pushed against a full-length mirror. She watches Jackson's reflection reach down and hike her skirt up above her hips, her burgundy lace thong a deep slash of color between her white thighs, like she's been cut open.
He unzips his jeans and presses up against her, leaning forward to lay himself against the length of her back, his hands curling over her wrists to give himself leverage as he begins to roll his hips against her.
Jackson groans.
Lydia stares at her face in the mirror. She blew out her hair before the game with a sleek center part, but now it's all ruffled, a few strands falling across her face. Her eyeliner is smudged and her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. Jackson has his face buried in the side of her neck. She can only see the curve of his jaw, his broad shoulders.
He doesn't say anything, just breathes heavily with his lips against her ear, that athletic body moving in a steady tempo. Lydia can see the veins in his forearms, every carefully sculpted muscle. His fingers are gripping her wrists so hard she knows she's going to have bruises in the morning.
Before she can stop herself she's thinking about Stiles' hands. Those long elegant fingers, how he always touches her so carefully, like she matters, like she's breakable.
Stiles' hand on the girl's knee. Lydia's never seen him touch another girl before. She can't believe how crazy it makes her feel, the idea of Stiles touching that girl, his broad palm cupping over perfect legs.
Jackson scrapes his teeth over her neck and it shocks her back into her body, her breath sucking in as her stomach tightens. He mistakes her sudden inhale as arousal and the hand on her right wrist releases only to slide down around the curve of her hip and under the waistband of her skirt.
Lydia swallows back something sour. She sucks in another breath and shuts her eyes so she doesn't have to look at the girl in the mirror - a girl with tear-filled eyes brimming with pain, a sharp collarbone poking out of the collar of her sweatshirt, hands clutching the edge of the dresser in a white-knuckled grip.
You're here, she tells herself silently. You're at a party and the boy you love is touching you. And it doesn't make your skin crawl and it doesn't make you want to cry because you know who you are and what you deserve, and you love him.
She loves him but it feels like a lie, a sin, something weak and bad that will break her down, corrupt her into - what?
What is she so afraid of, anyway?
A flash of light flares behind her eyelids like Isaac's eyes in the dark, Isaac with his bleeding mouth like a crushed flower and his poor dented skull, Isaac looking at her like he knew, knew that she would end up right here.
Does he tell you he's sorry? Does he tell you he loves you?
Jackson's hand snakes into her underwear and Lydia jumps, her legs crossing together at the intrusion of his fingers. She realizes her right hand is still free and she curls her fingers around his forearm and pulls his hand away from her body.
"What's wrong?" he pants in her ear. "You used to like it when I touched you."
"Well I don't anymore," she snaps, and uses her grip on his arm as leverage to whirl herself around and roll her skirt back down.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jackson doesn't even sound mad, just drunk and confused, a wet patch seeping through his grey boxer briefs.
"I don't" - Lydia blinks, suddenly lightheaded. "I don't feel well."
"Again?" Jackson reaches out clumsily and presses the back of his hand against her cheek. "Are you sick?"
"Stop," she whines drunkenly, and pushes his hand away. "Just stop touching me."
Jackson zips up his jeans, looking dazed in the face of her rejection, like he doesn't even know how to process it. "It's like you don't even want me anymore."
"I can't do this, okay?" The words tumble out of her mouth, inhibitions lowered from the alcohol, half aroused and half disgusted with herself. "I can't be here."
"Then why are you?"
"I don't know," she realizes, her breath catching in her chest. "I don't know anymore."
"Lydia" -
"Don't." She pushes him away and stalks out of the bedroom, wiping the edge of her hand against her eyes because she is not going to cry, not at a party, not like this.
Allison is standing at the bottom of the stairs, jacket off to reveal a lavender top she borrowed from Lydia back in August after she came home from France, her expression softening into relief when she sees her.
"There you are," Allison says, smiling, reaching out to her when Lydia wobbles on the last step. "I was wondering where you disappeared to."
Lydia blinks at her. She knows what she looks like right now, knows that blood is pooling in her wrists where Jackson grabbed her, knows that her cheeks are flaming pink and that she's shaking.
Look at me, she wants to scream. How can you not see me?
"Lydia?" Allison prompts. "Are you alright?"
"I want to leave." She's upset but the words come out flat. Lydia can feel herself shutting down, the lid of the box descending over her.
Allison's brow furrows. "Are you sure? It's not even eleven."
"Yes, I'm sure. Can we go, please?"
"Sure, just let me find Scott."
"Allison!" Lydia's throat aches and for one horrible second she's afraid she's going to burst into tears. "You can text Scott later, let's just go, okay?"
Allison's eyes narrow suspiciously at her, like she knows Lydia is lying. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" She's too worked up to sound innocent now, even as she tries.
Allison squares her shoulders. "I don't believe you," she says firmly, a challenge.
"Look, I'm bored and this party sucks and I just want to leave, alright?"
"Okay," Allison says slowly. "I'm going to say goodbye to Scott, and then we can leave."
"Fine, I'll wait outside then." Lydia shifts her feet to escape but Allison grabs her arm, right where Jackson held her by the wrist and Lydia cries out, stumbling back against the bottom step and pulling away from Allison.
Allison's face goes pale. "What's wrong? What did I do, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Lydia hisses. "God, for once could you just be on my side and help me instead of hammering me with questions and running to Scott?"
Allison's cheeks flush, her eyes darting around the room like she's worried other people are listening. "Are you drunk?"
"We're at a lacrosse party, of course I'm drunk!"
Allison's eyes flick upstairs. "Where were you, anyway?"
Lydia scowls. "None of your business."
"Lydia, are you hurt? Did something happen?"
Yes, Lydia thinks, but not in a way that Allison would understand. No one would understand, except Isaac maybe, a little. "I don't want to be here anymore, how difficult a concept is that for you to understand?"
Allison pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay, just stay here, let me get Scott" -
"I don't want Scott! Why do you always leave me for him? Would it kill you to be on my side for once?"
Allison grabs her arm again and this time she ignores Lydia's whimpered protest. "Okay, you need to tell me what the hell happened, right now."
"Nothing happened!"
Allison looks infuriated. "You can keep saying that but I still don't believe you."
"Are you implying that I'm lying?" Lydia says acidly.
"I know you aren't telling me the truth," Allison retorts.
"Well you're not exactly in a position to talk about that, are you?" Lydia's just drunk enough to feel superior, even if no one else is aware of her brilliance she is, and if Allison wants a fight Lydia's just worked up enough to crush her.
To her surprise though Allison backs away, her eyes going very wide. "What are you talking about?"
Lydia sneers. "Really? You're just going to pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about."
"Talking about what?" Scott appears from out of nowhere, with Stiles right behind him, pushing through the crowd.
"Nothing," Allison says quickly. "Lydia wants to leave."
Scott frowns, looking between her and Allison. "What's wrong?"
It feels like everyone at the party is looking at her. Lydia wants to disappear, wishes she had waited and asked Stiles for a ride instead, because he wouldn't ask her questions, he would give her anything she asked for.
Stiles, laughing, his hand on the blond's knee.
When Lydia tilts her head up she can see Jackson upstairs, standing in the hallway, watching all of them, knives reflecting in his eyes. Lydia staggers back, stomach threatening to crawl up her throat.
"Allison." Lydia's voice breaks and she has to cover her face with her hands to hide her distress. "Please."
"Lets go outside," Scott suggests, sliding his arm around Allison's shoulders.
"But" -
"Allison." Scott's voice is gentle but it's firm too, and whatever Allison was going to say dies on her tongue.
It's like Lydia's trapped, she watches Scott and Allison move through the room like time has been suspended, Jackson watching her from the top of the stairs like he's frozen in place. Hands curl lightly over the tops of her shoulders and Lydia inhales sharply, her whole body shuddering reflexively at the unexpected contact.
"Lydia." It's Stiles. His voice is very soft when he says her name, like he's speaking to a wounded animal. "C'mon, we're going outside to talk."
Stiles. Stiles is touching her but it's okay, she forces the fear back down her throat.
Stiles is safe.
She tries to say something, or nod, something to acknowledge that she knows he's here but Jackson is watching, and she's out of moves.
He beat her. She walked away first but she still feels like she's lost.
Lydia hates losing.
"Hey." Stiles turns her around by guiding her with his hands and he looks terribly concerned, his beautiful eyes full of worry. "Lydia, you're shaking."
"Can we leave now?" Her voice sounds reedy, like she might break at any moment.
"Yeah." One of his hands slide down to her back, gentle pressure urging her forward towards the door. "Yeah, lets go."
Stiles leads her out of the house and down the front steps, muttering careful, careful, like she's never walked in heels while under the influence before. Allison and Scott are standing closely together on the sidewalk waiting for them, his arms around her, talking into her ear while she nods. Allison looks like she's close to tears and her spine is held very straight, like she's this brittle thing about to break in Scott's hands.
You did this, Lydia thinks to herself, remembering what Scott said to her the other day. This is killing Allison.
She's standing on the sidewalk with the three people who care about her wellbeing the most, besides her mother, and she doesn't deserve this, she doesn't know what to do with this. Lydia is a conqueror, an ice queen. Lonely and slowly bleeding out on a throne of lies. She doesn't know what to do, how to strip herself bare and show them, all the parts of her that are raw and begging to be healed.
"Okay." Allison's voice is thick, like she's going to cry. "We're outside. Can you tell me what happened now?"
Suddenly Lydia is just so tired; she wants to lie down on the cement and go to sleep right here, outside Greenberg's house. She's read about this, people who get stuck outside in the cold for too long, explorers who stop walking because they're just so cold, their survival instincts stop working.
They lay down in the snow and go to sleep and they don't wake up.
Lydia could do that. It might even feel good. To just surrender. She sways sideways and Stiles slides his arm down to her waist to hold her upright at his side.
"Easy," he murmurs. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." It's so painfully obvious that she's lying, her lips are stretched into a plastic smile and a stray tear betrays her and escapes from the corner of her eye. "Allison," she says a little louder. "I said I'm fine."
"Lydia," Allison says sharply. "Just tell us what happened."
"I told you, nothing happened, so you can stop freaking out over nothing!"
Instead of looking at her Allison's eyes slide to Scott, eyebrows raised like she's asking him a question telepathically, and Scott quickly shakes his head, once. Allison presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and lets out a muffled exasperated sound, like she wants to yell but won't let herself.
"Lydia," Stiles says again, and when she looks up at him he raises his thumb to her cheek and wipes off the tear.
She freezes. She wishes she could disappear inside of him, hide behind his sternum until Allison isn't angry anymore. It feels unspeakably intimate, her jaw cradled in his big hand like this.
"Stiles," she whispers, because she doesn't know how to say, help me.
"It's okay," he reassures in a whisper, so Scott and Allison can't hear, and runs his thumb along her cheekbone. "No one's mad. She's just worried about you."
It's enough to make her curl against him even though his hand on her knee and her feet in his lap and Stiles laughing. Stiles adjusts his arm, slides it across the back of her shoulders and Lydia reaches up and grips the fabric of his navy and green plaid flannel.
"Lydia, come on," Allison pleads. "Just talk to us. I'm not stupid, I know something happened."
Her body feels weighted down, it's taking everything in her not to drop all her weight onto Stiles. Lydia blinks heavily at Allison. "Can I go sit in your car?"
Allison's mouth drops open. "Are you serious?"
"Please, Allison." She lowers her head down to Stiles' shoulder, only tall enough to do it because of the heels of her boots, and hears the little noise of surprise he makes at the contact. "I'm so tired."
"I can't believe you." Allison looks beyond exasperated. "You are really being unbelievable tonight, you know that?"
"Allison," Stiles says sharply. "C'mon, cut her some slack."
"I'm her best friend, don't tell me she needs me to cut her a break!"
"Allison." Scott says her name like a warning.
"What, do you really expect me to give her enough rope to hang herself with?" Allison snaps. "Jesus Lydia, what am I supposed to do, wait until there's nothing left of you to step in?"
"Allison, this isn't helping." Scott sounds tense. "Maybe we should" -
"Are you seriously going to say what I think you're about to say?" Allison looks outraged. "After everything that happened last spring?"
"I think we have to reconsider" -
"Scott, we agreed! This was your idea, you made me promise"-
Stiles clears his throat loudly, right hand anchored on her shoulder, his left warm on Lydia's back, sliding his fingertips up and down the exposed spine of her lower back. "You guys, I really don't think this is a great time to" -
"Shut up Stiles!" Allison and Scott say at the same time.
"Unbelievable," Stiles mutters, looking up at the sky.
"Look, I'm just trying to keep everyone safe," Scott says defensively.
"And we could, if Lydia would just be honest with us!" Allison snaps.
"We've all lied, Allison," Scott counters. Lydia can't tell whose side he's on anymore, one minute he's backing up Allison and the next he's arguing with her.
"Yeah, to keep her safe, not so she could end up as Jackson's punching bag!"
"Stop," Lydia whispers, and turns her face into the crook of Stiles' neck to make Allison go away. "Please stop."
She's fourteen again, trapped between her screaming parents. Lydia Lydia Lydia, your daughter, she's your daughter, your fault, no it's your fault, all your fault, Lydia honey just talk to us, talk to us, talk to us, why won't you talk to us?
Lydia moans and cups her hands over her ears.
"Okay Allison, I get that you're upset but if you don't unlock your car I'm driving Lydia home myself," Stiles declares.
"Stiles," Scott starts. "We have to"-
"Not tonight," Stiles says firmly. "Come on, you guys. Look at her, she can't do this right now."
"This isn't over," Allison threatens, but she takes her keys out of her jacket pocket and unlocks the car. "Fine, go, I need to talk to Scott for a minute in private."
"Come on," Stiles whispers, and reaches up to pull Lydia's hands away from her ears. "Everything's okay."
Lydia rubs her eyes, too late to remember she's wearing eyeliner and it's probably smudged all over her face. She doesn't want to pull away. Stiles is warm and it's so easy, to let herself fall forward into him, her face pressing into the hollow of his throat.
"Oh," he says, sounding surprised that she doesn't want to pull away from him. "Okay, I can work with this, you just do whatever you've got to do. I've got you."
Stiles walks her backwards down the sidewalk like they're doing an awkward dance, Lydia's face pressed into his chest to spare herself the humiliation of Scott and Allison looking at her like this: teary eyed, makeup ruined, a girl about to dissolve into pieces.
Stiles opens the passenger side door for her and turns with his whole body to get her into the car, nearly smacking his head on the roof of the car as he lowers Lydia into the seat.
"Okay," Stiles mumbles, and leans over her, face practically in her chest, to buckle her seatbelt for her like she's a child, and actually slides two fingers between the belt and her chest to make sure it fits right. "Nice and tight?"
Lydia blinks but his face doesn't resolve into anymore more than plush lips and a constellation of moles. "What?"
Stiles chuckles. "You're totally wrecked, aren't you?"
"It's a lacrosse party, since when don't people drink at lacrosse parties?"
Stiles reaches out to brush a strand of hair off her forehead and Lydia pushes up into his hand. Through the windshield she can see Scott and Allison arguing quietly, their foreheads almost pressed together.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you to say no to peer pressure?" Stiles teases lightly. There's something comforting about the weight of his palm on her forehead, like he's keeping her grounded in her body.
"Maybe if I had friends like you..." Lydia lets her eyes flutter shut for a moment, relishes the way his fingers stroke the top of her head.
"I am your friend," Stiles says softly.
"I know," Lydia murmurs. "You keep saying that."
"You seem to keep needing a reminder."
When she turns her head he's crouched against the open door, practically in her seat, left hand braced against her headrest. She takes a moment, just to really look at him - the gold refracting in his amber eyes, the slope of his nose, the focused intensity of his expression, like she's the only one he sees, like the pretty blond girl at the party was just a hallucination.
"Hey," he says gently, his lips curving up into a grin. "You with me?"
On the sidewalk Allison yells something and stamps her foot. Scott throws his arms up in the air and Allison jabs her index finger vaguely in the direction of the car. Lydia flinches, like Allison could hit her from ten feet away by the force of her will.
"Lydia," Stiles coaxes. "Look at me."
Her eyes flick back to him. "I'm sorry," she rasps.
"Hey, Lydia, no." Stiles' expression melts back into concern. "This isn't your fault, okay?"
Lydia shuts her eyes because she is a queen with a heart of stone, and heartless girls don't cry for love. She kicks off her ankle boots so she can put her feet up on the seat and leans down to pillow her cheek on her knees.
She's not going to cry. She's not. "Promise?"
Stiles makes this sound, like she's hurting him, and she tenses when both of his hands come down to her wrists. She sits there with lead in her stomach, waiting for him to roll up her sleeves and prove her a liar.
He doesn't, just wraps his fingers around her wrists, very lightly, so she could break away if she needed to. "It's never your fault," he says, and shakes his hands a little to emphasize his point. "Please tell me you know that."
"I feel like I don't know anything anymore," she says hollowly.
"Yeah," Stiles says heavily. "I know what you mean. But Lydia." His fingers stroke across the thin skin on the undersides of her wrists. "This? This isn't okay. Okay?"
Lydia sniffs. "Okay."
Stiles sighs and turns his head towards Scott and Allison. "Allison's coming back."
Lydia nods. "You should go."
Stiles releases her wrists but he hovers next to her until Allison comes back, and leans back into the car to give her a half-hug, one arm around her back, and drops his cheek to the top of her head for a second. "It's going to be okay," he whispers.
He squeezes her shoulders quickly, gives her a little reassuring pat and pulls away. "Goodnight Lydia," he says softly, and stands back on the sidewalk and shuts the car door.
Lydia can see him say something to Allison through the window. Allison says something back that Lydia can't hear, gives him a quick hug and walks around the front of the driver's side and gets into the car. Lydia's beyond words now, she's past trying to defend herself. She just closes her eyes and waits for Allison to rain down on her like a hurricane.
It's quiet in the car for almost a full minute, and when Allison finally speaks, all she says is, "My mom's out of town for the weekend. Business trip."
Lydia lifts her head off her knees in surprise. There's no vinegar in Allison's voice, she just sounds tired. "Your dad always makes pancakes when she's out of town."
"Yeah." Allison puts the keys in the ignition to turn the car on but her hands rest on the wheel, the car still in park.
"I love your dad's pancakes," Lydia says lightly.
"I know." Allison's eyes slide to her. "Your bag's in the trunk right?"
"Yeah."
Allison nods. "You should sleep over. You know he always makes more food than the two of us can eat."
It's an offering, an olive branch, and Lydia reaches out with both hands to take it. "Well, I wouldn't want any pancakes to go to waste."
Allison drives them to the Argent's big looming house and parks in the garage. Lydia follows quickly behind Allison, heels clacking on the cement floor. The Argent's garage creeps her out; it's full of Allison's archery equipment and racks of shotguns on the walls. She knows it's just for Allison's parents' work but it still makes her a little sick, thinking of all those bullets, how there are enough weapons in the house to arm a small country's military.
They tiptoe up the stairs to Allison's room in the dark. Allison flicks her lamp on, holds her hand out to take Lydia's bag and dumps it on the armchair next to her bed. They brush their teeth and take their makeup off in Allison's bathroom side by side. Lydia watches Allison in the mirror, her easy grace as she moves around the small space.
"I'll be right back," Allison says, spitting into the sink. "You can borrow a shirt to sleep in."
Lydia opens the second drawer from the top of Allison's dresser, where she knows Allison keeps her tee shirts. She finds a threadbare grey long sleeve with Peoria High School Track and Field emblazoned down one arm. Lydia peels off her sweatshirt and bra, rolls her miniskirt down her legs and carefully folds her clothes, placing them on a stack on the armchair next to her bag, and pulls Allison's shirt over her head.
Allison comes back with a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. "Take two," she instructs and Lydia's too tired to argue, she shakes the pills out into her palm and tosses them back.
"I didn't know you lived in Illinois," Lydia comments, placing the glass of water on the nightstand.
Allison squints at the shirt for a second and laughs. "Oh my god I totally forgot about that. Yeah, we lived there for a few months my freshman year. I hated it."
"Why?"
Allison peels off her jeans and top and changes into one of Scott's practice jerseys. "Winter in the Midwest is brutal. And everyone had to play a sport, it was mandatory and of course they didn't take archery, even though I was nationally ranked."
She waits for Lydia to crawl into bed before flicking the lamp off and getting in next to her, sliding down under the blanket. Lydia blinks at the darkness, comforted by the familiar smell of Allison's white and green patterned sheets, the feel of Allison's calf brushing against her shin.
Allison curls over on her side, facing her. Moonlight is slicing through the window, throwing shadows over her pale face. She looks like a Picasso, disjointed, one big eye here, a slash of her mouth there.
"I love you," Allison whispers, and she's her again, the girl Lydia hand selected to be her best friend when Lydia saw her standing in the hallway on her first day at Beacon Hills High last year, looking mildly terrified and out of place.
"I know," Lydia whispers back.
"If I've lied to you, it's only because I'm trying to protect you," Allison says quietly, her voice a little hoarse. "Can you understand that?"
Lydia thinks about every time Jackson's hands made a mark on her skin and she never told Allison, because she knew it would hurt her and Lydia could never bring herself to do it, shatter Allison's innocence like that. Allison Argent, the princess with a killer right hook and deadly aim (Lydia's seen tapes of her old archery competitions and Allison was terrifying, in an awesome badass chick kind of way).
Allison, who believes in true love and soulmates, who's only known the tenderness of Scott McCall's hands on her body.
"Yeah," Lydia says softly, and turns her face into the pillow. "I understand."
/
When they come downstairs in the morning Allison's father is in the kitchen, a pot of coffee already made, and he's standing at the stove flipping perfectly browned pancakes onto a serving plate.
"Well if it isn't my two most favorite girls in Beacon Hills," he says cheerfully, and takes a sip of his coffee with his left hand while sliding a stack of pancakes off the pan and onto the plate with his right.
"Dad," Allison groans, like his affection is embarrassing her, but Lydia smiles and follows Allison across the room to get a mug for her coffee.
Lydia secretly adores Mr. Argent, even if he is kind of strict. He's always made Lydia know she's welcome, seems thrilled that Allison has made such a good friend. He took them out to dinner at an expensive French restaurant after she and Allison aced their finals last spring to celebrate, and when the maitre'd commented on his two beautiful daughters Mr. Argent smiled broadly and said thank you instead of correcting him.
He makes Lydia wonder what it would be like to have a real father, someone who knows all her friends' names and cooks for them on the weekends, someone who would stay.
Lydia pours herself a cup of coffee and helps herself to the almond milk in the fridge. She spends almost as much time here as she does her own house, has no problem taking what she needs while Allison attempts to pour her coffee one-handed while reading something on her phone.
Lydia helps Mr. Argent set the table, ignoring Allison's snide little eye roll at her willingness to help, like she thinks Lydia is purposefully kissing her dad's ass. But it's just nice, to have someone who actually cares that she eats a meal. It's such a little thing, to be helpful. It's something Lydia secretly delights in, the calm domesticity of a set table, maple syrup and butter laid out neatly in the center
"Allison, no phones at the table please," Mr. Argent admonishes gently, when Allison plops down in a chair next to Lydia and helps herself to a stack of pancakes while her thumbs fly over her phone.
"Sorry Dad," Allison says meekly, and drops her phone into her lap, where Lydia can see her text under the table.
"So," he says cheerfully, dragging a pat of butter across his pancakes. "What's on the agenda for today?"
Lydia carefully spreads the thinnest layer of butter over her singular pancake and follows with the lightest drizzle of syrup, watching Allison purse her lips around the rim of her mug.
"We're going to The Bookstall," Allison says. It's the only independent bookstore in Beacon Hills, at least half of Lydia's books are purchased there, but she knows for a fact Allison has never set a foot inside, she's lazy and orders everything from Amazon.
"We are?" Lydia asks, and is punished for her question when Allison kicks her under the table.
"Yeah, I need that book for my history paper and they're the only bookstore in town who carries it, remember?"
"Right," Lydia lies, clutching her mug. "What's your topic again?"
"The Russo-Japanese war and its influence on the revolution," Allison spits out, grinning proudly.
"That sounds wonderful, sweetheart," Mr. Argent says. "I'm sure Mr. Yukimora won't know what hit him."
"That's the idea," Allison says, and shoves a huge bite of her pancake into her mouth.
"Well I have to run some errands in town today so when you're ready to go let me know and I'll give you a ride," he says.
"Dad, you don't have to do that," Allison protests weakly.
"Oh, I don't mind," he says mildly.
"Dad"-
"End of discussion," Mr. Argent says quietly, and Allison slumps back into her chair and pouts for the rest of the meal.
"What the hell was that about?" Lydia asks, when she and Allison are back upstairs changing in her room.
Allison sighs and tugs a pink and navy patterned thermal henley over her head. "He's freaking out about me and Scott."
Lydia steals Allison's pair of grey cable knit tights out of her underwear drawer and yanks them on, folding the fabric at the bottom over a few times, and pulls her miniskirt on over them. "Again?"
Allison steps into a pair of worn faded jeans and rifles through her dresser. "Scott's mom found his condoms when she was cleaning his room last week. Collective parental freak-out."
"I'm sorry," Lydia says sympathetically, reaching behind herself to fasten the clasp of her bra.
"It's fine. My dad just needs some time to cool off; you know how he is. Here." Allison passes her a cream vee neck jersey tunic with little gold embroidery stitched around the collar. "You can borrow this."
"Thanks." Lydia puts on the borrowed top and digs out her hairbrush out of her bag. "Are you sure everything is okay?"
Allison smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Everything is fine."
/
When Mr. Argent drops them off at The Bookstall half-an-hour later he rolls down his window and says, "I'll pick you up in an hour," and drives away before Allison can argue.
It turns out that Allison actually does need a book; she tracks it down while Lydia finds a table in the back of the store to sit at. She pulls her book on the Romanov family out of her book bag, fingers flipping through the pages to find her place.
"Found it!" Allison's holding up a tome of a book with a photograph of a barren winter landscape on the cover, looking relieved. "Thank god they have this, I'm so behind."
"Maybe you're spending too much time with your boyfriend," Lydia says lightly.
"Oh screw you," Allison says, but there's no venom in it; she just sinks into her chair and pulls out a highlighter.
Lydia picks up reading where she left off and it's easy to get lost in the Winter Palace, playing in lavishly decorated rooms with four sisters and a fragile baby brother. When she looks up after almost half an hour Allison's on her phone, the fingers of her left hand tapping against the table.
"Bored already?" Lydia asks with a smirk.
"I need more coffee," Allison says abruptly, pushing away from the table, and slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"
Lydia shrugs in acknowledgment, flips another page and watches Allison walk through the children's section in the direction of the coffee bar attached to the far side of the store.
Lydia goes back to reading her book, annotating quotes she plans to use to support her thesis, and when she checks the time on her phone she sees that they only have fifteen minutes until Mr. Argent gets back.
Where is Allison?
Something is gnawing at Lydia, she feels compelled to put her book back in her bag and get up to look for Allison, even though by doing so she's forfeiting one of the only open tables. She walks through the children's section, a warm affectionate feeling blooming in her chest as she passes the stories of her childhood: Anne of Green Gables, the His Dark Materials trilogy, The Westing Game.
She's in the center aisle, the coffee bar directly ahead of her through an archway, when someone calls out "Lydia?" and when she turns she sees Stiles a few feet away by a wall of comic books, holding a huge iced coffee.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, and winces internally at how rude she sounds.
"I'm here with Scott," he says. "Are you" -
"With Allison," she confirms. "Let me guess, coming here was Scott's idea?"
Stiles slaps his palm against his face. "Did Allison desperately need some random book they only carry here?"
Lydia bites her lip, pushing down a wave of fury - Allison lied to her just so she could have a quick hookup with Scott? Really?
"Hey," Stiles says. He's wearing his red hoody and his hair is extra messy today. "How are you doing?"
"Fine," Lydia bites out.
"Lydia." Stiles shuffles closer to her, his Converse sneakers squeaking against the floor. "How are you really?"
"Why didn't you tell me you have a girlfriend?" she spits out, shocking him so badly that Stiles chokes on his coffee.
"Why didn't I - tell you a -what now?" Stiles gapes at her.
Lydia squirms in place. "I saw you with her last night. At the party."
"At the party? Oh..." Comprehension dawns over his face and then to her surprise he flushes. "That's not - I don't - that was just Heather."
Lydia crosses her arms tightly against her chest. "And who's Heather?"
"She's just a friend," he says meekly. "I've known her my whole life, we used to like, take baths together when we were toddlers."
Lydia can't help but feel suspicious. "So she's just friend?"
"Uh, yeah." Stiles bobs his head. "Pretty much."
"Pretty much?" Lydia mocks. "What does that mean?"
Stiles sighs, looking supremely embarrassed. "I lost my virginity to her last year," he says quickly.
"You had sex with her?" It makes her feel like breaking something, the idea of Stiles with that girl, whispering sweet things into her ear, making her come, holding her in his arms.
"Once?" Stiles squeaks. "It was kind of a situational-specific moment."
Lydia tilts her head. "Details."
"Oh my god." Stiles groans and covers his face. "Seriously?"
Lydia slinks up to him a bit, closing the space between them. "Well, we're friends aren't we?"
Stiles peeks out at her between two fingers. "So?"
"So friends tell each other things," she says sweetly. "I'm curious, indulge me."
"Ah, okay, well." Stiles gulps, looking nervous. "It was her birthday, she wanted a hookup, I wanted to lose my virginity. We're friends, we trust each other. It was mutually beneficial to both parties."
"So she's not your girlfriend."
Stiles lets out a dry laugh. "I'm as single as I've always been, Lydia."
"That's not a bad thing," she says lightly, offering him a tentative smile.
Stiles shrugs. "I guess it's hard not to feel left out sometimes, you know?"
"I'll make sure you don't get left out," she says and almost regrets the words, because they sound vaguely like she's making a promise of some sorts, but then Stiles is smiling at her, really smiling.
"You know you can tell me stuff too, right?" he offers.
Lydia nods, absentmindedly rubbing her wrists. "I know." Through the window she can see an SUV pull up to the curb and realizes with a flash of horror that it's Mr. Argent.
"So, Lydia"-
"Shit!" Lydia exclaims, and pulls out her phone to text Allison. "Sorry, Allison's dad just got here."
Stiles nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket. "I'll text Scott. Saturation bombing seems to be the only technique they respond to."
"Thanks," she says, and then she's just standing there with him, almost toe to toe, and it feels like something big but she doesn't know why.
"So," Stiles says. "I'll, uh, see you on Monday I guess?"
"Yeah." Lydia cranes her head but she can't she Allison anywhere. "I better go out there and stall."
"Okay." Stiles makes an abortive movement with his hand, like he wants to touch her but is too tentative to do it.
Lydia remembers his hands on her last night, how he was so gentle, so nice to her, and he's not with that girl, he said so himself. Lydia rises up on her toes and carefully puts her arms around him, finds that space between his neck and shoulder where her face fits perfectly. "Thank you," she whispers. "For last night."
Stiles wraps his arms around her and one of his hands comes up to cup the back of her head. "Anytime," he says, his voice shaking a little.
She hesitates for a moment, mourning his loss when she finally makes herself pull away. "Bye Stiles."
His hand smoothes over the back of her head as she pulls away. "Bye Lydia."
Outside Mr. Argent has gotten out the car, he's standing on the curb and leaning against the passenger side door with his arms crossed, his face a mystery behind tinted aviator sunglasses. "Lydia," he nods, his voice polite but also a little sharp. "Where's" -
"Sorry, sorry!" Allison burst out of the entrance closest to the coffee bar, holding a cardboard to-go tray with three cardboard coffee cups. "The line was insane. Coffee, Dad?"
"Thanks sweetheart," Mr. Argent says wryly, but he takes the cup she offers and walks around the car to get in the driver's seat.
"Where were you?" Lydia hisses.
"Not here," Allison hushes her, pushing a latte into her hands. "Later."
Lydia rolls her eyes but follows Allison into the backseat of the car. Allison is chatting loudly, telling her dad a load of bullshit about her paper and how the barista was new and there were like, a million people ahead of me and I'm so sorry but you did get here five minutes early Dad, don't you trust me even a little...
Lydia stares out of her window, fingers playing with the lid of her cup. When Mr. Argent pulls the car out the parking space Lydia can see Stiles, nose up against the glass door of the bookstore, Scott right next to him, watching the car, one hand flat against the glass, like he's waving at her.
They pull out into traffic and Lydia presses her palm against her window, watching them recede in the review mirror, until they're gone, like she imagined them.