I Don't Want to Be a Star, I Want to Be the Sun
Summary: In which an ambitious assassin is placed in the body of the strawberry blonde goddess herself and proceeds to wreck canon. Peter/Lydia
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or anything else mentioned in this. None of it is mine.
Warnings: Profanity, Violence
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Chapter 1: I Don't Believe In Fate, Only Choices
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She remembers running, bare feet slapping against leaves and dirt.
Cold, frigid air invades her lungs as she breathes, the lining of her throat burning with each inhale.
"Lydia? Lydia!"
Murky green eyes snap to the voice, cataloging details in seconds. Male, young, standing with an older man, Sheriff of Beacon Hills his jacket claims in faded gold, the red and blue lights of an ambulance.
She isn't whoever this Lydia person is but that's who they believe her to be.
She decides to take advantage of it for now.
"Well," her voice comes out in a rasp, pain flaring through her throat as she shifts her arms slightly, still covering as much of her chest as she can manage. "Is anybody gonna give me a coat?"
She stays quiet as the Sheriff comes over, bundling her into his jacket gingerly, and leads her over to his cruiser, helping her into the back.
At least she isn't in handcuffs this time, she thinks bemusedly, remembering the last time she was in a police cruiser.
Her hands tighten on the jacket and she pulls it tighter around her, wishing she had at least a pair of pants or something.
Nudity doesn't normally bother her but she's feeling a bit too exposed for her comfort, vulnerable.
As the others-the same boy from before and the Sheriff-pile into the front seats, she stays quiet and sinks into her thoughts, ignoring the worried glances being thrown at her in the rearview mirror.
Her mind whirls, taking stock of her situation and breaking down what information she could gather.
She was attacked by-No don't think of her name-by someone.
She woke up in the hospital and her only thought had been to escape, to get as far away as she could. The forest had been the closest and she'd sprinted through the trees, panic thrumming through her as she searched for a place to hide.
Now, she's in the back of a police cruiser-with a Sheriff and who she assumes to be his son in the front seats-with only the man's jacket to cover her and her skin is tingling, numb from her dash through the woods.
A flicker at the window catches her attention and she stares, eyes widening in surprise.
Her reflection isn't who she's used to it being.
There's a girl, no more than seventeen, staring back at her with wide, murky green eyes, face still holding the baby fat of youth, framed by tangled and knotted strawberry blonde hair, dead brown leaves sprinkled through it like confetti.
She reaches for one near her left ear and watches the girl do the same.
The crisp brown leaf crunches in her hand as she runs the pad of her thumb over it, noting the missing calluses and soft skin.
Clearly, she's missing crucial information.
"Who-" her voice breaks and she coughs, grimacing at the burn in her throat.
"Lydia, don't worry. It's okay, you'll see your parents soon," the Sheriff reassures, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. He's using that voice that she hates, the one that people use on victims, broadcasting comfort and soothing vibes.
So he knows this girl, whoever she is.
She doesn't know what's going on but she can work with this.
"Who's Lydia? Where am I?"
That question earns some priceless reactions.
The Sheriff stares, eyes wide, and the boy next to him twists abruptly to face her, peering back at her.
"What-what do you mean who's Lydia? That's you! That's your name! You're Lydia Martin, the queen of Beacon Hills highschool, the most gorgeous and the smartest girl I know, though you hide that for some reason. I'm Stiles, remember? We went to the dance together a few days ago."
She stares at him, eyes wide, surprised at the alarm he was showing. Clearly, whoever this girl is, he cares about her.
It doesn't take much to summon the tears-her hands are still shaking and she's still teetering on the verge of a complete breakdown when she thinks of why-and she blinks them back furiously, meeting hazel eyes.
She slowly shakes her head, voice quiet and raspy. "I don't remember….I'm sorry."
It's a blur from there as they drive her to the hospital, where she's greeted by her parents. The woman, Natalie Martin, is genuinely relieved to see her as she pulls her into a hug. She accepts it unsurely, uncomfortable.
She doesn't want to be touched at the moment and her skin feels like it's cracking and peeling but she grits her teeth and endures it, knowing that the woman deserves to hug her daughter, even if she isn't actually her.
The man, on the other hand, David Martin, is more annoyed than relieved. He doesn't try to hug her-thank God-but there's agitation in his eyes as he ushers her back into the hospital room, the others following.
He ushers her onto the bed and she perches on the edge, eyes darting all around suspiciously.
The doctor comes in and David moves to usher the Sheriff and his son-Stiles-out of the room.
Thinking quickly, she blurts out, voice breaking halfway through. "Stiles?"
He halts, turning to look back, ignoring the impatient huff of her father. "Yeah?"
She bites her lip nervously, glancing around at everyone before meeting his eyes, pleading.
"Will you-Can you stay? Please?"
Exposed and vulnerable, surrounded by strangers, she sees the one person in the room who seems to actually care about her-even if it's just the girl she's apparently stolen the place of-and she takes the chance.
She's relatively sure that he doesn't mean any harm to her-the sheer relief in his eyes when she stepped out of the woods and the alarm when she asked that question was too real-and she's going to take any allies she can get at the moment.
Stiles seems to see some of that as his eyes soften and he nods, moving closer.
"Sure, I can do that," he agrees before stopping awkwardly, looking at her parents. "Er-as long as that's okay with your parents-I mean, yeah."
"Well actually-" David starts but Natalie speaks over him, eyes warm and approving as she smiles at Stiles.
"You're welcome to stay, Stiles. If it helps Lydia, I'm more than okay with it."
He nods jerkily, blushing, before shuffling over to stand at her bedside, next to her mother.
Her smile is shaky but genuinely grateful as she looks at him and he smiles back, relaxing.
After the Sheriff leaves-leaving his jacket with her-the doctor starts checking her over. She sits stiffly and allows it, her nails digging into her thighs as she fights the urge to snarl at him.
"Well, from what I can tell, your two day stroll through the woods hasn't torn open any stitches," he informs, standing back. "Are you having any pains or aches, Miss Martin?"
"No," she answers, biting her lip as she continues slowly. "But there is one thing. My memory…it's gone. I don't remember anything."
"What? That's preposterous!" David scoffs, gesturing to her angrily. "She's clearly just doing this for attention."
Well she was trying to put this delicately but the gloves are off now.
"I'm not sure who you're supposed to be but you can't possibly be my father and if you are, I'm not sure I want to remember any more interactions with you," she snaps with a glare, her temper flaring. "This isn't a claim for attention, of all things. My memory is legitimately gone. I couldn't even remember what my name was until Stiles told me, for crying out loud!"
"It's true," Stiles nods, backing her up at Natalie's questioning look. "She really doesn't remember anything, Mrs. Martin. I don't know if it was trauma or if she hit her head somewhere during her marathon through the woods but her memory is gone. She didn't even recognize me or my Dad."
Natalie gasps, covering her mouth as tears fill her eyes. "Lydia, you don't…you really don't remember us? Oh sweetheart."
She shakes her head and sniffles, digging her nails deeper into her thighs. "I just woke up in the hospital and my first thought was to get away. I don't even know who I am or what happened to me to put me there."
From there, things blur as the doctor prescribes medication for the wound on her side and her mother ushers her and Stiles into the car to drive them home, David storming out complaining about her selfishness.
She says goodbye to Stiles when they get to his house and thanks him for staying, genuinely grateful that he did.
He gives her his number, telling her to call him in case she needs anything.
The drive home is silent. Natalie, her mother, isn't entirely sure what to say to make this better and she stays quiet, letting the older woman process the information.
When they arrive at a very large brick house, Natalie is quick to excuse herself for the night, claiming that she's going to bed and will see her in the morning.
She knows the woman is overwhelmed so she doesn't protest as she peers around curiously, noting the spotless living room area that seems to have been brought to life from a magazine.
Climbing the stairs, she pokes her head into a bathroom before continuing on to a room at the end of the hall.
It's Lydia's bedroom, she realizes, as she spins in a slow circle, taking in everything.
The walls were painted a soft eggshell white with a matching white headboard of the massive queen size bed, the matching comforter folded and tucked in neatly.
She scrunches her nose up at the color. Of all the colors in the world, white is so bland. If she's going to wear white, it's for a purpose.
"That's tacky," she comments upon seeing the different colored lipstick prints on frames hanging on the wall above the white dresser. "Why is there so much white? I feel like I'm in a psych ward."
Moving over to the vanity, she scrutinizes the pictures taped to the mirror.
One is of Lydia in the arms of a blue-eyed, blonde-haired boy, both smiling.
Dear God, she hopes she doesn't have to play high school romance with a kid. She's twenty-six, not sixteen, and that is wrong on so many levels.
There's another of the same boy and Lydia with a tanned boy of Hawaian heritage with a nice smile, the three huddled together.
That must be her friend group.
The next one is of Lydia and a rather pretty brunette with a dimpled smile. It's clearly a newer picture, the material glossy and smooth against her fingers as she runs a finger over it.
So a new, more recent friend, she concludes.
There's something about the face of the girl that bugs her.
There's something itching at the back of her brain, a realization that she has yet to face.
It hits her with all the force of a wave, tugging her under, as she recognizes that face.
"No fucking way," she breathes, whipping her head around in disbelief as she eyes the books on the desk, noting the Beacon Hills High yearbook. "You've gotta be kidding me. There's no possible way."
Snagging the sleek laptop that lay on the desk, she clambers onto the bed and opens it.
It's as easy as breathing to navigate the internet and find what she's looking for.
Numerous articles pop up when she puts Hale House Fire in the search box and she scans through them methodically, eyes trailing over the words as she absorbs the information.
"...eleven people perished…."
"...cause declared to be an electrical malfunction…"
"...only survivor….Peter Hale…."
"...in a severe coma….fourth degree burns…."
She stares, eyes wide, as she checks the reliability of the sites.
They're legitimate, the information real and published, not taken off a Wikipedia article about a fictional television show that she hasn't seen in years.
A television show that she barely remembers beyond the big pilot points, having watched it on and off through her life.
A television show that she recognizes only because she recognizes Allison Argent, having absolutely despised her character for most of the series.
"Oh no this is so much worse," she chuckles, a tad hysterical as she stares in disbelief at the screen. "What did I do to deserve…Oh wait, I probably did deserve it. Fate's probably taking some payback."