It is the most nerve-wracking drive of his life and by the time he gets to her house, he has to circle around the block two more times before he can even think about getting out of the car. He knows she's awake- he's seen her through her window both times he's passed the house. He isn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Relieved because he won't have to confess his feelings to a drowsy, possibly drugged Lydia. Disappointed because if she's awake at 4:35 in the morning, then she really hasn't been sleeping since they brought her home. And because now he really has no excuse to just go home and save this conversation for later.
He climbs out of the Jeep and onto its hood, pulling out his phone once he's gotten mildly comfortable. His thumb overs over her contact for a moment, just long enough for him to think that by the time Lydia gets out here, he might be hyperventilating and shaking so hard she'll have to kiss him just to prevent him from passing out in her driveway. He presses send before the thought causes any real damage.
She picks up on the fourth ring. "Hello?" He has forgotten how to speak. "Stiles? Are you there?" She sounds exhausted.
"Oh, hi. Yes, sorry. Um, did I wake you up?" At this point he's just glad he managed something semi-coherent.
"Uh, yeah. I passed out a few hours ago," she replies. Even if he weren't sitting outside of her house and even if he hadn't witnessed up moving around her room up until she answered his call, Stiles would still be certain she's lying. And he tells her just that.
"Lydia, I'm outside of your house. I know you weren't asleep," he says. There's a long pause as he hears several drawers opening and closing. "Lyd- "
"I'm coming down," she says, hanging up the phone immediately. She's walking down the driveway toward him less than a minute later, wearing a fluffy bathrobe pulled tightly across her body. Stiles thinks she's so pretty it hurts.
Sometimes when he spends a lot of time around her he tries to convince himself that he's past the point of getting butterflies in his stomach every time she wears her hair in a messy braid or smiles at him or says his name in a teasing manner. Times like this are what assure him of how very wrong he is.
"So, uh, how's your evening been?" he asks as she comes to a stop in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest.
"What are you doing here, Stiles?" she replies, a bit harshly, might he add.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing," he says, praying she doesn't notice how badly his hands are shaking.
"I'm fine." She looks down the street, away from Stiles. "Look, I know you didn't drive all of the way here to ask me if I'm – "
"Do you have the nightmares, too? Sometimes when I'm sleeping, I'll hear the sound of the Doctors' footsteps. I mean, I know it's not them. I know it's probably just my dad getting ready to leave for work in the middle of the night. But once I hear the footsteps, it's hard to stop the rest of it from hijacking my dreams, too." He dares to glance up from his shoes, but Lydia still isn't looking at him.
"But you're probably fine… And I'm really just making myself sound kind of pathetic at this point, aren't I?" Still nothing. "You know what, don't answer that." He toes the ground with the tip of his shoe, running out of ideas. "I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that if you ever want to talk about it, I'm here. Or if they get too bad, you know you're always welcome to stay with us. I mean, I would take the floor, obviously, and there's no pressure or anything I just figured that we used to make such a good team and maybe if we were together we wouldn't feel as – "
"Yes," she says.
"You…?" He hopes she can't tell that the sound of her voice just about knocked the wind out of him, because it did.
"A- About the nightmares. I have them, too," she finishes. He can't tell if she's stuttering because of the cold or the subject matter.
"Oh, um, do you want to get inside of the Jeep?" he asks and she's already making her way to the passenger side. He nearly trips in his rush to unlock the door. Unfortunately, the silence inside of the Jeep is no less awkward than the silence outside.
She turns to face out the window, and it's only when he notices the soft shaking of her shoulders that he realizes she's crying. And just like that, he feels the tears welling up in his own eyes, and the all too familiar and painful knot begins to form at the back of his throat, and he's about to reach out and touch her cheek and tell her to please, for the love of God, stop crying because he loves her and if he had to name a single substance on the whole Earth that could singlehandedly cause his downfall, it would be her tears. His hand is about six inches from her face when she decides to speak, turning toward him just a little bit faster than he can move it to a less suspicious position. She doesn't seem to care.
"Where have you been?" She asks, her voice breaking more than once as she forces the question out. It cuts into him like knife and he thinks about how doctors used to use bloodletting to treat ailments, and he thinks that maybe the wounds from her words will force all of the emotions out of him, so the way her lip is quivering right now won't make him feel like the sorriest, most horrific excuse for a human being.
Instead he reaches out and snatches her into the most desperate hug he's ever given, burying his face in her hair, and rubbing gentle circles on her back and shoulders until both of their tears have run dry.
"I'm here," he whispers. "I'm here, I'm here. I'm here."