As soon as Lydia realizes that the girl in her dream was Alison, she feels sick to her stomach. She runs to the bathroom, emptying the contents of her stomach. Sweat makes her thin shirt cling to her, stickily. Had it been a nightmare? Or was it something more?
She calls Scott first. It goes straight to voicemail. Lydia doesn't bother leaving a message. Instead she calls Stiles. He answers on the third ring.
"What is it?" He says. No hello. He is alert, as always, like he's been waiting for her to call.
"It's...It's Allison." Lydia says, attempting to calm herself unsuccessfully. She can't seem to catch her breath.
"Allison? Lydia, what's going on? Are you okay?" Stiles asks. He sounds unsure and hesitant.
"I'm fine!" Lydia snaps, used to the speculation involving her "talents". "I just...I need to talk to you and Scott. I need to talk to the pack. It's really important. It can't wait."
"Did you call Scott already?"
"No answer." Lydia's heart is beating furiously. They need to understand. This is of immediate importance.
"Alright. I will be there to pick you up okay? Just stay put. I'll try calling Scott again." Stiles seems to realize that Lydia is in no state to drive. She is too panicked to put herself behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. Before Lydia can answer, Stiles hangs up the phone.
Half an hour later, at Lydia's request, just the three of them, stand in Scott's living room: Scott, Stiles, and Lydia. Allison's absence seems glaringly obvious in this small group. They are stripped back to their 15 year old selves, just kids, alone and afraid. Scott steps forward and kneels in front of Lydia, snapping her back to the present. He takes her hands in his.
"Lydia, what happened?" He asks. She suddenly feels unsure of herself, aware of how insane she's going to sound when she opens her mouth. Unconsciously, she looks up at Stiles, her eyes wide, seeking some kind of comfort. He nods and she steels herself.
"I had a nightmare. But, it didn't feel like a nightmare. It felt real." Lydia begins.
"Like Tracey's night terrors?" Scott asks, his brows knitting together.
"It wasn't a night terror though." Not then and not now. "I saw her. There were these men. They were...there were 3 of them. And there was a girl on the table…"
Lydia describes the dream with as much detail as she can remember. Scott and Stiles listen without interrupting, a real feat for Stiles. His expression, however, darkens with each word that falls from her lips. She finally reaches the end of her story, hesitating to finish. Again she looks at Stiles, and she can tell that he already knows what she's going to say. Scott's eyes are concerned and warm as he looks at her. She meets his eyes, unwilling to hurt him in the way that she knows her words will.
"Who was the girl, Lydia?" Scott asks her. Lydia's heart is in her throat.
"Allison. It was Allison." She answers, holding his gaze, begging him to understand. But, immediately something in Scott's gaze seems to shut a part of him away. He drops Lydia's hands from his own, the absence of his reassuring touch leaving her cold.
"Lydia, Allison is…" Scott doesn't need to finish his sentence. They all know the end of it already.
"I know, Scott." Lydia says. "But,-"
"I know the laws of the supernatural are changing, but someone human back from the dead? Almost a year later?" Scott shakes his head and looks to Stiles who is remaining quiet for once. "Maybe you just had a dream. An actual dream. A lot of stuff has been happening again. Maybe it's just your body trying to figure it all out."
Stiles finally speaks. "I don't know, Scott. If Lydia weren't a banshee, that theory would be a little more believable. But, you can't pretend that Lydia's instincts on these things don't normally turn out to be a little more than accurate."
Lydia breathes a quiet sigh of relief at his words. Stiles will understand. Stiles will listen.
"Banshee instincts tend to deal with death though. This isn't about someone dying." Scott replies, sitting on the end of the couch. Stiles paces in front of them.
"Yeah, but Lydia and Allison were really close. She felt Allison-" Stiles stops, changes tracks. "She knew what was going to happen to her. Maybe there's a connection there."
"Scott, this felt real. This felt like I was right there as it was happening." Lydia implores.
"At the end of your dream, you said they told her to kill me. Allison would never hurt me. I know that for sure." Scott replies. His voice quivers slightly. "And if this actually happened, then she would have attempted to kill me by now."
"Scott, I don't know exactly what we're dealing with. Her memory could've been modified by these doctor guys.. She may look like Allison, but she may not have the same memories. We have no idea how much these doctors can do."
"I know it sounds pretty far fetched, but I mean, we live in a town full of werewolves, kanimas, were-jaguars, kitsunes, were-coyotes...I mean you could pretty much name an animal, put "were" in front and we'd eventually find it lurking in an alley. This is Beacon Hills." Stiles says, trying to be diplomatic.
"Look, for now, we're going to keep this between the three of us, okay?" Scott says. He looks at Lydia sadly. "We have no way of telling if this was just a dream or not. We don't know anything about these doctors or their methods or what they're capable of. So far, there's been nothing to suggest that Allison may really be alive again. I think we just need to focus on helping the people that we know the doctors are attacking. Like Tracey."
Lydia doesn't say anything. Her heart is sinking as she realizes that Scott isn't going to do anything about her vision. The one person she thought would always come to her aid, always come to Allison's aid is refusing to help. With a deep breath, she stands. "I have to go home."
A week passes before anything new happens. Tracey attacks and kills her own father, leaving two others maimed before moving on to someone new. When they finally track her down, Lydia is stabbed with Tracey's kanima claws, rendering her helpless. When Malia comes back from attempting to save Lydia's mother, she tells kira the news: Tracey is dead. The "dread doctors" declared her condition "terminal" and plunged a needle into her throat, leaving her to die. Malia was horrified, both by Lydia's state, and her failure to save Tracey's life, despite it being out of her control. The others don't believe that Malia is innocent of Tracey's death at first. But, when she describes the great metal figures that killed Tracey, they all seem to believe her just a little bit more.
Lydia lays in a hospital bed, her side aching and itching, watching Malia fiddle with the strings of her hoodie. She can tell that Malia still feels guilty even though she shouldn't. She can tell that the doctors scared Malia as much as they scare her.
"It's not your fault. You did everything you could to save her, Malia. You did everything right." Lydia says, reaching out to pat Malia's arm.
"She was so afraid. I could feel her fear and confusion. It was overwhelming. My first instinct was to kill her, but then I saw her...and all I wanted to do was take it all away. Take her pain and loneliness away." Malia says, her voice quivering, her eyes downcast. "She was just scared and alone."
Lydia's heart breaks for the dead teenager, far too young for such heavy things. Her mind drifts to Allison, only 17 and gone. Then her mind turns to her dream and she thinks or maybe not, hating herself for allowing a small shoot of hope to blossom inside her. A gentle knock sounds on the door and Stiles peeks his head in, dark circles beneath his eyes. Unable to visit her in the ICU, Stiles had taken to sitting in the waiting room during his free periods. Now that he can visit Lydia, now stable, he seems to do rarely else.
"Hey, you doing okay?" He asks, looking at Lydia.
"I'm fine." She answers, rolling her eyes in an attempt to divert his attention. Looking at his concerned expression makes her heart ache. It's almost worse than the stabbing pain in her side.
"How about you, huh?" He asks, turning his attention to Malia. She nods her head absentmindedly, standing. Stiles moves towards her, planting a kiss on her forehead. "You should go on home and get some sleep. You need it, okay? Sleep helps you heal. Even if it isn't physical."
Malia nods again, her eyes tired, her face drawn. "Yeah. I'll shower and sleep for a while. My dad is going to start worrying." She kisses Stiles, moving towards the door. Before she leaves, she turns around and looks at Lydia. Then, she does something she's never done before; she moves to hug Lydia, wrapping her strong tanned arms around her gently, careful not to touch her injured torso. She smiles a little, then leaves Stiles and Lydia alone.
"Holy shit." Stiles jokes. "That's progress." He sits in Malia's vacated chair and begins chewing on his thumb.
"Would you please stop looking at me like I'm dying? I'm going to be fine. It looks a lot worse than it actually is. As soon as they can ensure that there's no real risk of infection, I'll be out of here. There are bigger things to worry about." Lydia says. Stiles gives her half a smile and leans forward, resting his arms on the bed and his head on his arms.
"You can't blame us for worrying okay. You don't heal, Lydia. Banshee or not, you don't heal. We're allowed to worry." Stiles says, his warm, honey colored eyes staring up at her. Lydia feels a pang in her lower belly, entirely unrelated to the gash on her side. Her cheeks flush slightly, and she looks away from him. "While it's just us, I actually wanted to talk to you about something."
Something in his tone sets Lydia on edge. She meets his eyes again, but doesn't respond.
"Have you had anymore dreams about Allison and the doctors?" Stiles asks gently.
"No. Not since the first one. Not really. I've had moments of remembering bits and pieces of the first one, but nothing new." Lydia says quietly, feeling self conscious. In reality, Lydia had not thought of much else since having the dream. It is constantly weighing on her mind, a stone on her heart, stopping her breath.
Stiles nods his head, rubbing at his jaw absentmindedly. "I went to Allison's grave." Lydia sits up, her eyes widening in anticipation. "I checked everything. The soil, the grass, the flowers you planted there...There's nothing. No change whatsoever that I could see."
Lydia sighs, in disappointment or relief, even she's not sure. She feels incredibly touched that Stiles would take the time to check for her. The fact that someone has taken this hunch seriously is enough, but that he took an extra step for her leaves her feeling warm.
Lydia is able to drive herself home four days later, after her surgery. Her mother offers to drive her, but she refuses, determined to show both herself and her mother that she is okay. The closer she gets to home, the odder she begins to feel. There is a strange tightness in her chest and she feels lightheaded. There is no scream in her lungs though. She feels as though she is out of her body. Lydia's fingers tighten on the steering wheel, proving that she is here.
When she finally reaches her doorstep, she fumbles in her purse, searching for her keys in the dark. As she unlocks the door and steps over the threshold, she feels a crunch beneath her feet. There are dried flowers on the doorstep. They crumble to dust as she tries to pick them up; roses, violets and lilies slip from her fingertips, falling to the ground like snow. They are the same kinds of flowers she placed on top of Allison's casket at her funeral…
Lydia drops her purse at the door and slips off her shoes. She turns all the lights on and walks around the house, looking for anything out of place. There is nothing; the books on the coffee table are exactly where she left them, the kitchen is still spotless. She strains her ears, trying to listen for any odd sounds, but hears nothing. Once she is sure the main floor is clear, she sweeps up the dead flowers and makes her way to her room, turning off lights as she goes. Just as the last light goes off, she notices a glimmer at her bedroom door. There is something stuck to it. When Lydia reaches it, she notices that the door is ajar and sprouting from the pristine white wood is something familiar.
A black arrow, tipped in silver.
Lydia braces her hand against the door and yanks the arrow from the punctured wood. Lydia doesn't have to look to know that there is a fleur de lis on the tip. She's been staring at this same arrow for almost a year now, mounted on her wall in remembrance.