Act 1, Scene 1 - Lydia & Chris

Satellites shine over the city of Clarksburg but Lydia wants to see the stars. Back in Beacon Hills, in that smaller county there's fewer satellites overhead, that doesn't technically mean there's more stars, but it felt very different. The air is clearer. Even if the twinkling starlight shining down was signals sent from stars long since dead, when city lights aren't in the way it feels like there's out more of them. Back home wishing on stars doesn't seem like the craziest thing. Lydia rarely feels it but when she feels homesick for Beacon Hills, she feels it for less than a handful of people but mostly misses the starlight.

"Can't sleep?" over her shoulder Chris has been watching for quite a while, waiting for her to notice him. But vigilance was not the sort of thing she was trained.

"Jesus Christ," she leans back in the lawn chair, a hand to her chest and her startled voice keeps low. "You enjoyed that didn't you, sadist."

"A little," his smirk gives way to a soft frown. "What's going on in your busy head?"

Side stepping the question, "what are you doing here?"

"Just checking in on you," the timbre of his voice is so calming, he's skilled at withholding, "I can see your insomnias back."

"That's not exactly what's keeping me up," her glance sends a livewire towards the single light on up in the attic office of their family home. "Your guest is still here."

"What's he doin' to up there?"

"Not sure exactly."

"You're not curious?"

"Should I be? Was there a state secret hidden in the floorboards I should have known about?" Just as her voice gains sass, she knows this struck a nerve. Maybe it's too close to the truth.

The shine in his bright blue eyes shows he's held no hard feelings about those alienating years in service "you know I haven't worked for the government for years."

"Likely story," readjusting in the seat she crosses and recrosses her arms. Glad to see at least he's made peace with it. One of them needs to start the healing process.

Sighing, he steps closer to her chair and smiles down at her. He's patient, an interpersonal advantage he's only learned in later years. But he looks unchanged, like the day he first appeared on the Martin's threshold, in Lydia's favorite dark moto-jacket, smelling of some Armani cologne that no doubt his daughter bought him. He's at peak level charming, meanwhile she's bumming around in the same black joggers she's slept in for over a week, an oversized sweater that hangs off her shoulders and hair up in braids because it's either that or wash and brush it. She reads fashion magazines for hours and pretends to remember how to have a life but right now she's not winning any beauty pageants.

After a long pause, she drops her bare feet from the aluminum patio table, straightens her posture and strains her neck to look up. She grins at him attentively, her desire to forgive is there, but recent events make things so hard.

"What time is it?"

She reaches over, checks her phone, and looks up again, "one a.m."

"Huh. After midnight then?"

"So?" These melancholy days swim together, what does another Wednesday matter.

"So?" With a nod he indicates the table, in front of them is a bottle of Moët Champagne. She lets out a breath that was equal parts impressed and exasperated. "Happy Birthday, kiddo."

"Dad," a sweet terminology rarely used for her stepdad Chris, but it's been used more often in their later years, sometimes an expression of formality other times in sweet devotion. This is a mix of the two, "That nice but the bottle is almost 8 grand."

"Is it?" he shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes a widened a little, "Natalie always had excellent taste."

Lydia leans forward to examine the bottle, touching it gently. Glancing back at him over her shoulder, "she would lose her mind if she knew you were going through her collection."

"Lies. She couldn't imagine a better reason to indulge. Happy birthday, the big three-oh."

"Thanks, I guess," her eyes narrow at the ease with which he poked fun at her uncertainty. Thirty is in fact another threshold she's unprepared for. "You're not opening this."

"What? I mean it, she would want you to-"

"No, I mean 'you are not' opening this. Last time you tried that sword technique you saw on YouTube and almost took off Allison's arm."

"Harsh criticism but fair."

Standing to get a better grip Lydia holds the bottle at a 45-degree angle, leans the base against her hip and twists the top until the pressure from within gently gives without a soft pop. With a satisfied grin at her expertise, she looks back towards Chris as he claps in soft appreciation. Looking back at the table she notices a problem.

"Glasses?"

"Hey, you're the one getting older here. I have perfect vision."

"Did you bring champagne glasses," she pretends he doesn't amuse and forces down a giggle.

"Shit. I knew I forgot something. Do you want me to get-"

"Mm-m, we'll celebrate our own way," after a long-satisfied swig from the bottle she sighs and it's his turn to force down a laugh. "Pretty dry but still amazing. Want some?" When she offers the bottle, he shakes his head.

"That's alright."

"You sure?"

"It's your birthday Lydia, not mine."

The pinch in her brow expresses suspicion but it is damn good champagne, "well, happy birthday to me."

"What are you doing for your birthday?"

She keeps eye contact but avoids the question by taking another slow sip. Afterwards it's left a tight feeling in her chest, something uncomfortably warm. "I'll be drinking this," after a small burp she felt feels a little better.

"You're not going to spend it alone again, are you?"

"I'm not alone now."

"I don't count. I'm your old man," before she can cut in, he adds, "neither does the scavenger upstairs. Why don't you go out with friends?"

Sighing, she runs her thumb along the neck of the bottle. This is a sad affair. "Sure, I'll get on it, Agent Argent. You uncover some of those and I'll definitely get right on it."

"What about that girl?" His tone is gentler. "The one that used to go to the gym with all the time."

"Malia? My paid-personal trainer," chucking at that. "Stopped going to that gym years ago. You see Chris, to go out with friends you have to have some."

"What about Allison?"

"What about Allison? She's my stepsister not a friend."

"You get along."

"We're friendly, sure. Plus, she lives far away in New York." She loves her stepsister, Allison; she just does not like her. She has been insufferable since moving away.

"New York is not that far away from Virginia. And she's coming tomorrow, isn't she?"

"Later today, you mean."

"Yes," he looks up towards the satellites and she follows his gaze. There's something off-putting about the cloudy sky tonight, "You know what your mom does on freezing nights like this when she can't get to sleep."

"Tonight's just breezy not freezing, you're just being sensitive. Anyway, it's nicer outside where the air is fresh than inside with the busted heater."

"It's not that bad. The banging pipes are just another frequency."

She glares a little towards the heavens, not wanting to feel cross with Chris. Not tonight. "I don't want to talk about that. Can't we talk about anything else; I'll even pretend to be interested your toy collection."

"Collecting military miniatures is how I deal with anxiety. Allison shops."

"Gift giving is her love language. It's not the same." Closing her eyes briefly she hears the unasked question. 'What will you do now, Lydia? What do you do?'

"And do you remember what your mom does?"

This question was way worse. "I know what you're going to say, I suggest you don't suggest it."

"Maybe greasing the wheels of the machinery will move your mind towards rest."

That's what Natalie called it 'the Machinery.' Her beautiful genius calculating mind meanwhile Chris is talking about something he knows nothing about, he's poking a sleeping dragon.

"Is that what they taught you at Quantico? To dissect every suspect, even family. Exactly how much did you learn about code cracking in the FBI, Chris?" she spares him a glare, even in the dim light of their yard her hazel eyes brightened like green.

"Well, agents did learn some strategic theorems," he backtracks, unsettled at the critical rise to her brow, "but my expertise comes more from being married to an intelligence analyst."

"Hmm, she was a good mathematician. She's a better mom."

"You won't hear me disagree. Damn good wife, too." Subtle tenderness shows as he runs a thumb over his wedding ring.

"She couldn't make it tonight?" She closes her eyes not wanting to see this answer coming.

"Sorry Lyds, not tonight. Nobody here but us chickens."

"And your student."

"And that strange guest, yes. But you usually like entertaining guests."

"He's not a guest, he's a nerd. Another one of your fanboys. But I'm busy entertaining you," with eyes still closed she takes another long sip and feels the bubbles straight up to her brain.

"Now that's a fucking miserable excuse. Well, come on then, entertain me. What would Natalie say?"

Saying her name aloud stabs like an icicle right through the nervous system.

"I don't want to."

"Sure, you do."

He kneels beside her chair, and she peaks, drawn to his gaze like a magnet.

"Why not do it now? For me."

"I don't remember how." She knows this is convincing no one.

"Bullshit. You know what a prime number was before you could read."

"True," she smirks and thinks about another sip. She does not drink because her head still feels bubbly, but she is very tempted. "But I've forgotten how."

"Don't waste your talent Lydia," his tone comes across firmly. It strikes such a sobering cord Lydia stops slouching.

"I knew it. I knew you'd say something like that. Even today you're on my case."

"I realize you're having a difficult time-"

"Oh really. Thanks for noticing."

"But that's not an excuse."

Rolling her eyes, she places the bottle harshly onto the table and a sharp clang of glass against metal rings throughout the empty yard. She might have stood and stormed off if her legs felt steadier. Maybe if she ate something at all today before drinking…

"I haven't been lazy, Chris!" she says sharpish, "I've been taking care of you."

He looks remorseful but stern, a common expression for him in these later years, "Lyds, I've seen you. You sleep till noon. You eat junk, don't do work, and let dishes pile up. You never go out anymore but if you do it's to pick up garbage snacks and dozens of magazines. Trashy tabloids I know you can't enjoy reading. And those days are the good days. Some days you don't even get out of bed."

"No, those days are the good days," she scoffs softly.

Chris shakes his head in disapproval, "bullshit. Those are days lost. You wasted them and threw them away. And you'll never know what you threw away with them. What opportunities, the work you lost, the ideas you didn't have, the discoveries you never made because you were moping in your bed till four."

Standing abruptly, she walks a tight turn putting the chair between them. He is not saying anything she hasn't thought herself. But that does not mean she has to stand for it. Or sit for it.

"So, I've lost a couple of days."

"How many?" standing straight, he sounds a lot more amused than he has any right to be. She does not want him to be right.

Rolling her eyes, "Oh, I don't know."

"I bet you do." He sounds downright cocky. "I bet you another bottle of champagne," and rubs hands a little in glee.

"Knock it off," sighing she continues to make the calculations in her head.

"Well, another bottle of Moët on the line, do you, or don't you?"

"I don't."

Those crystalline eyes narrowed their gaze into a glare, they were impossible to reject. "You do. Of course, you do. How many days have you lost this time?"

"A month," sighing, she pushes stray hairs away to break eye contact. "Around a month maybe."

"Be specific."

"Jeez, Chris I don't know."

"Come on, Lyds. You know, you know this."

They lock eyes again; she purses her lips, and he smirks further, but their mirrored waggling brows is a shared trait from their years of close quarters.

"Thirty-three and a quarter days."

"Quarter?"

"I slept till noon today."

"Nice, precise. That's a great number."

"That is a depressing number."

"If every single one of those days actually added up to something else, anything else what would it be?"

"Anything else? Cardinal, Ordinal, Partitive?"

"Don't know. Let's keep it in time gained or wasted."

"So, like if days were years, it would be thirty-three and a quarter years."

"Which is?" The mischief in his tone was virtually sickening.

"A thousand, seven hundred and twenty-nine weeks."

"Now that's amazing," he claps his hands together once, pride shun all over his face.

"It's not amazing. It's still depressing."

"Come on, Natalie always said every number has a meaning. So, 1729 has got to also have meaning."

She bites her lip thoughtfully trying hold back the truth, "they are the expressible sum of two cubes in two different ways."

"That does sound great. Cubes have amazing mathematical properties. That's not coincidental at all!"

"It's not fate either, Chris. It's just math."

"Even your depression is mathematical. Stop moping and get to work, the kind of potential you have- "

"I've never done anything like that."

"You're young, you've got time."

"Am I?" the scoff is unintentional but it's second nature, "mom was younger than me when she had done her best work and got famous for it."

"By the time your mom was your age she'd veered from mathematics to care for you."

"Was that supposed to make me feel better or were you trying enforce the patriarchal stereotype that I have an internal clock ticking down."

"Not at all, just pointing out your mom knew how and when to focus on what she loved. So, surely you can refocus? You're like her in a lot of ways."

"Not every way, I hope."

"But a lot of ways," the wistfulness in his voice makes her eyes moisten. She sniffs and reaches for the bottle once more.

"I never wanted to be famous," she mutters after a gulp.

"Neither did she, or me for that matter."

"You two cast long shadows." Liquid courage is exactly what she needs. "A pretty big legacy but what about what came afterwards?"

"Afterwards?"

She whispers conspiratorial, like she doesn't want the visitor to overhear, "after she got sick."

"She always said her work got sharper then," he shrugs nonchalantly.

"Unbelievable," she barks with laughter. "Chris come on!"

"Hey, it's true. She was so busy. She told me she felt such amazing clarity all the time."

"Well, she had problems sleeping, too," Lydia mutters towards the ground.

Chris pauses before proceeding, making sure to punctuate. "You're a lot like your mom but you aren't her."

"I didn't insinuate. There are just some similar notable genetic markers."

"You're both left-handed, petite, wise, brilliant and amazing people."

"Please, keep it up. I'm liking this birthday speech so far," her grin lengthens, and she preens a little.

"Don't you think if you were busy, you'd feel better?"

"You never said she was happy. Did mom ever tell you the work made her happy when she was sick?"

"She was busy. She loved being busy," he isn't lying.

Her sigh comes bone deep as she looks him over, wishing mom were here to explain herself. It wasn't fair that all this resentment gets dumped on him, "that's not the same as being happy."

"You know with Natalie, there wasn't really a difference to her. If she had a problem to work on- she'd be at it all night. She wanted all the secrets, the information, to find the magic in the world around us. In a pile of leaves the neighbor raked. Written in the steam of a coffee cup. The whole world was talking to her, and she'd just close her eyes, sit on the lawn chair, and listen. I'd sit beside her on that chair for hours while she did that, and it was beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Lydia looks down into the bottle in handle, into the swirling patterns, the dark glistening shadow of the champagne in the gold filigree bottle. The hypnotic flow felt comforting, and she wonders at the messages hidden there. "Do you remember when she said it started?"

"Hmm," he crosses his arms, like he's pretending to think about something he clearly knew too well. Wasn't he there to see Natalie through to the end? "Late twenties. Why? Are you worried about it?"

"I've thought about it a few times," her expression is open, she's either tipsy or vulnerable.

"Really?" He keeps his expression neutral, but his eyes look sad. It hurts that they never talked about these things until it was too late. "Well, if that's what you're worried about you're not keeping up with the medical reports. There's a simple genetic test that can rule it out. Just because Natalie ended up at Eichen House doesn't mean you'll-"

"Chris. Dad…" A shudder runs down her spine. That place, that desperate place has a colored history with the Martins. She wishes like hell her mom had not insisted on ever going there. She wishes nothing ever tied them back to Beacon Hills, she's got a lot of wishes lately.

"Listen to me," he says with the authority that comes as a successfully retired FBI Special Agent. "Life feels like it changes too fast in your twenties, and it shakes you up, you got a new family and suddenly you're a new person. So, what you're feeling down. You've had a bad week. You have a lousy couple of weeks, no one knows that better than me. But you're going to be fine. Your thirties will be much easier."

Her smile softens, "you certain?"

"A hundred percent certain. I promise you. Just push yourself a bit more. Stop reading those trashy magazines, maybe re-join the gym. But just finally sit down and get the machinery working and I swear to God, you'll feel better!"

"A hundred percent is a very specific number."

"I'd bet on you every time, Lydia. The simple fact that we're talking about this and not arguing is a good sign."

"That's a good sign?" Her brow rose in critical disbelief, "How's that a good sign?"

"Sure, because crazy people are incapable of stopping to ask if they're crazy. They're much too busy. They've got better things to do. Trust me, I've been around enough crazies. So, now that we have that settle you can go upstairs to get some rest."

"No, hold on." She waves him back just as he starts to walk off. "That doesn't add up. It's illogical."

"How so?" half-turning, he asks airily over his shoulder. There's no urgency in his step but he's going away.

"I can't take you as an authority on this subject because of your biases."

This accusation is baffling, he takes a tentative step back towards the table but doesn't want to cross the whole lawn, "wait, what biases? I'm pretty sure-"

"Mom knew she was crazy. During her lucid moments she was smart enough to leave behind notes for us to read whenever she acted awful later. Which was often."

With a softened expression he nods, and presses a hand to the breast pocket, as if somewhere in that mysterious moto-jacket was where he keeps his favorites notes. "That's because she was clever."

"Clever wasn't the word you said." She reminds him, feeling sour inside and out.

"Well, Lydia you're clever enough to ask yourself the big questions right now. That's good!"

"No. Still doesn't add up."

"How so?"

Sighing, she retakes her seat and leans back to look at the sky, but he lingers at the edge of the garden, at the edge of her vision listening from a distance. Nowadays, he hears her out no matter what, over any distance that wasn't always so. Their relationship has taken a turn, yet again.

"I can't rely on your reflections of her because of my own biases either."

"And why's that?"

"Because it's been a week since you've died" she lifts the bottle of champagne and takes a long swig.

"That might be true."

"Heart failure," she quotes in disbelief. She glances at him again and soaks it in, this Chris looking younger and livelier than he has for years, looking like he did when mom first brought him home, and when they got married, like a lifetime ago. Before the violence of the agency, marriage to a mad woman and heartbreakingly difficult years that wore a soldier down.

"Sure, if that's what they say," he chuckles lightly, "but I don't see the problem with it. Why should you? Do you feel better getting that out of your system?"

"Yes," she clears her throat after a swallow and sighingly looks back toward her cocky stepdad. "And no. I do love remembering how you loved her. Our messy little family had fun from time to time."

"See, we're fine," he reminds kindly, yet sternly, standing where the shimmering yard light makes his eyes out to be too real. And she smiles despite herself because now he always radiates confidence and the gooey center of dadhood she never knew she always wanted. "We still get to have our talks. You chatting here. Keeping me honest. Sharing a nightcap. And now Allison's on her way."

He says it confidently but Lydia's eyeroll towards him implies heavily she feels otherwise. "She's only coming for the funeral tomorrow."

"It can be a good sign, too."

Shaking her head, loosens a dog tag necklace that normally catches on everything, pulls her sweater closer and waits for him to see the error in his statement. The rotating the bottle in her hand puts a pin in their festivity, finishing their drink without him seems unfair.

"Losing another parent isn't a good sign. It's negligence. First my mom, now you."

"Ah, she jokes," grinning, he comes over to kneel beside and ducks his head into her eye-line. "I know you're okay if you're at least laughing. How is that bad?"

She smiles slightly and explains, "you're still here. Giving me advice. You brought me a bottle of champagne."

He glances around and nods thoughtfully, "yes, I see."

"Which means?"

Expelling a sigh, he shakes his head, the expression on his face is trained and unreadable but Lydia knows he's feeling just plain sorry for her and doesn't want to show it. She snuggles deeper into the sweater and ignores the cold as her bare feet touch the grass. She knows this isn't what the expression 'Touch Grass' means but this feels like the only restfulness she's had days and it's slipping away due to Chris' quiet brooding.

"What does this mean for you in particular?" His voice sounds steady, it's a good thing he lays it on so thick because it leaves Lydia with little to negate. She already knows the answer but at least she sees how much Chris doesn't want to say it. They can't afford lies between them.

"That's what the question implies, yeah?" Wiping her nose, Lydia sniffs back emotions and hates that's she's such an ugly crier.

"For you, Lydia, my kid who I love very much, this could only be a bad thing." With a softening expression Chris gives a nod, shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets and briefly looks like he's got something else to say but the words were sealed behind tight lips.

In their last few years under the shared roof of their family home, they spent most of their time in comfortable quietude, but when they could muster the energy to spare a word, it was always an honest one, or nothing at all. Tonight felt no different, except it's never going to be the same. In the chrysalis of their family yard, under inconsistent skies, the remains of their family sit listening to the quiet. And would likely stay that way straight through the next day, if not for the uninvited guest.

Notes: I started writing this for two reasons. 1) to clear the cobwebs while I'm trying to write other fic. 2) because stydia-fanfiction on tumblr went away, and so did all their prompts and that sucked, because when my brain gets stuck I like to scroll through stydia prompts to get unstuck. for a whole archive to go away without notice is demoralizing.

But that's NOT why I'm posting it though. I'm posting it because there are some people (crazy, wonderful, starved, loveable, kind, eager, disappointed, determined, dedicated, persons) lets call them readers or (even braver souls) commenters, that have also lost something. Whether it's because their series has gone dormant, their ship has died, canon has stomped them down with a dumb continuation movie, or because a fic writer they follow is just having a tough fucking time because of reasons... it's understandably frustrating to want to go to fandom to fix it. I do that too. ALL the time!

So, I'm posting this random treat for those readers/commenters sticking around. And for myself, to get my ass in motion. Finger-crossed.