Archive of Our Own ^beta

2003— Lollipop

Stiles gets a papercut on the neat, frilly doilies that Ms. Caro lays out on all the desks.

When he lifts his finger to show Scott, the grimace on his face is immediately greeted by two sympathetic eyes and the offering up of a bandaid that had been hidden in the depths of Scott's desk drawer. Stiles allows his best friend to wrap it around his finger, making sure at least one of Kermit the frog's eyes are staring up at Stiles.

"Look," he says, holding his finger up. "He's staring at you."

"No," Scott protests loudly, pushing Stiles' hand away. "You."

It's almost time to go home, so they sit at their desks, bouncing up and down as they embrace the rowdy, rambunctious energy that comes with spending a whole day at school. Stiles' whole body is humming with something— but maybe it's just excitement at the idea of going home, where his dad promised heart-shaped pancakes for dinner, like his mom used to make before she lived in the hospital. She loves Valentine's day.

Stiles could do without it. He'd had to sign twenty-five different Valentine's day cards total and had been forced to tape a small candy heart into each of them during recess instead of going outside. In the bottom left corner of Scott's card, he'd written you stink with a sloppily drawn star next to it, because Scott's going to think it's funny and Stiles likes making people laugh. Likes making Scott laugh the most, which is why they are best friends forever and ever.

He's been trying to make Lydia Martin laugh for the past year, but she usually squints at him like he's crazy before turning around so that she can ignore him. They sat at the same desk cluster for a whole month back in December, and when Stiles had asked Lydia if she would please pull his finger, she had turned around so fast that her hair hit him in the face. It had stung a lot and it smelled like strawberries and Scott had looked at Stiles like he was insane when he told him that. A month later, when Stiles noticed Lydia had a funny shaped freckle on the side of her hand, he hadn't told Scott. For ten whole minutes. Then he told him, and Scott looked at him the same way.

"Do you have all of your Valentines?" Scott asks, his voice innocent, because he had watched Stiles carry all but two over to the trash can after lunch.

"Yep," Stiles says drily, patting his backpack. "Right where I need them."

"Would anyone like to pass out the lollipops?" calls Ms. Caro. Neither of them budge.

"Valentine's day is so weird," Stiles muses, biting his lower lip as he draws a skull on the doily that had given him a papercut. "Usually you get in trouble for having candy in school."

"That's because multiple students in the last several years have had allergic reactions to the candy people bring to school, most of which have peanut products or are manufactured in places that sell other products with ingredients that would be lethal to students with peanut allergies."

Stiles scrambles up in his seat to see Lydia Martin standing above him, twirling a lollipop between her index finger and thumb and frowning down at the two of them.

"Oh," he says, jerking his chin towards her. "That's cool."

Scott raises his eyebrows at Stiles, who shrugs.

"Makes sense," Scott says, but he mumbles it to his desk, which somehow seems to make Lydia stand taller over the two of them.

Stiles smiles up at Lydia, his mouth open wide.

"Is there anything we can help you with today?"

She shifts slightly, one arm folding behind her pink dress as she leans forward, gesturing towards the two of them with two bright red lollipops.

"You could take these lollipops," she suggests, sounding very unamused. "Or you could just leave me standing here with them all day."

"I'll do the second one," says Stiles, nodding his head once before crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to smile at her.

"Here," Scott says, putting his hand out. Lydia Martin drops the lollipops into his outstretched palm like they're poisonous. When she walks away, her black ballet flats pad softly across the floor.

Stiles is still watching her as he plucks a lollipop from Scott's hand.

"Why does she smile at Danny and not us?" he asks, gesturing to where Lydia is now offering Danny a lollipop.

"cuz she likes Danny," Scott replies, sticking his lollipop into his mouth.

"Why doesn't she like me?"

"cuz you asked her to pull your finger."

"One time."

"It was at least two times," Scott reminds him, smiling around the lollipop when Stiles whizzes around to glare at him. "What?" he shrugs. "It's true."

"She's gonna like me one day," Stiles says, twirling the lollipop like he had seen Lydia do. "And then she'll laugh at my jokes and watch Star Wars with me and hang out with my mom."

"I don't really think that's going to happen," Scott says.

"Oh, it is," Stiles promises, placing his lollipop on his tongue and wiggling it around. "Just you wait, Scottyboy."

2011— Notebook

The kind of nervous that Stiles is feeling is rare these days. It reminds him of ice cream cones in the middle of summer, and the first time he'd pet a dog after Roxy had bit him. It makes him feel like he's about to cannonball into a lake or like he's about to kiss Amanda Newhart behind the school, both of their breaths lingering nervously in the air between them while an All American Rejects song plays distantly in the gym.

Lydia Martin's eyes are searching the crowds of people for Stiles, and for some reason, the nervousness is making it impossible for him to wave. He wants the energy that comes with this— the adrenaline from leaping off of the dock into the lake, the euphoria from pressing his lips clumsily against a girl's for the first time, the triumph from scratching a random puppy under the chin. But now he's staring up at Lydia, who makes him more nervous than anybody else in the world, and Stiles can't bring himself to move.

She's looking for him.

She is wearing a blue dress with big white polka dots, and her hair is in a messy bun on her head as she stands in the doorway to the coffee shop, taking off her sunglasses, swirling them around her fingers as she searches. When her eyes finally land on Stiles, she offers him a closed-mouthed smile and begins walking towards him.

"Hi," she says, dropping her sunglasses on the table and glancing down at the open spot. "Is this for me?" she asks, gesturing to the iced coffee set at her place.

"Yeah," Stiles says, shrugging one shoulder. "You, um, you get it every time we're here, so I figured it was what you wanted. If you don't, though, you can, like, just give it back and maybe they'll give you another one or I can buy you another one or—"

"Thanks, Stiles," says Lydia, looking like she's trying not to smile.

"So," he says. "Ah— how's yours?"

"Still in France," Lydia says. "Not talking about yours."

Stiles winces.

"Mine won't stop talking about yours."

"They handle it differently," Lydia says, shrugging. She glances down at the table, where a bright red notebook is sitting with Stiles' iced coffee resting on it. "You're going to get your research wet."

"It's fine," he says, tapping his head. "I got it all up here."

"If you've 'got it all up here,' why write it down?"

"So I can take time out of my day to educate people like you," he says drily, because how else is he supposed to say that he needs to be able to see stuff to make sense of it? Lydia doesn't need to know about his best learning strategies. She doesn't need to know that sometimes Stiles just has to get shit out of his head. All she needs to know is that he has it in his head in the first place, and that he's going to give her everything he can to keep her safe.

"So what are we learning about today?" she asks, picking up Stiles' iced coffee with two delicate fingers and moving it off of the notebook. "I'm going to need an espresso shot if you're going to tell me that Tinkerbell is real."

She says it completely deadpan, like it's not insane and ironic and a little bit maddeningly funny.

"I thought we'd talk about your birthday party, actually," Stiles says, flipping open the red cover of the notebook and starting to scroll through the pages. "Okay, so remember how you accidentally poisoned everybody there?"

"Vividly," Lydia promises, voice wry. "A bit hard to forget, seeing as I had to explain to my mother why most of the glassware had been smashed."

"Yeah, at least one of those was me," says Stiles, and Lydia rolls her eyes. "Well, um, that night. Do you remember that story I told you about how I had to drag mountain ash around a property in a circle?"

"And then you made it work just by believing? Yes, Stiles, you told it twice."

"I just had to make sure you had everything down!"

"Stiles."

"So, wolfsbane is a different kind of poison, but it's along a similar vein. The mountain ash affects werewolves externally, but wolfsbane affects them internally— I think mentally, mostly. At least, from what we've seen so far." He raises his eyebrows sardonically. "Apparently, if you drink the petals, it can cause extremely vivid hallucinations."

"That night… when I brought back Peter…"

"That was not a hallucination, yeah. You were doing all of that."

"How did I manage to bring him back to life?"

Stiles is at a loss. He doesn't know the answer either, and there's a part of him that wonders why Lydia had been the one to do it. He wishes he could tell her, or give something to her, but all he can do is shrug his shoulders and take a sip of his coffee.

"Uh, I dunno."

Lydia's hands are in small fists on the tabletop, and Stiles' first instinct is to cover them with his. To provide her with comfort the way he has been able to over the course of the summer in small, simple ways. But she's just as closed off to him as she is with everybody else right now, and that's not what they do. He's not the person who holds her hand or comforts her— that's always been somebody else's job.

Stiles holds his tongue.

"Did you hallucinate anything?"

When he looks up, her eyes are on the notebook, avoiding his.

"Yeah."

Lydia's brows contract very slightly.

"I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't be," Stiles says, but he can still hear the crash of his father throwing the bottle of Jack against a pillar. He can still feel that chord that had struck— the resonance, the acceptance. The feeling of dread as his father's voice confirmed everything he had ever thought. And the defenselessness Stiles had felt because every single grain of truth felt like an enormous weight dragging his body down.

"I'm also a little sorry for accidentally bringing a mass murderer back to life."

"Eh, it's cool. Someone had to annoy Derek."

The laugh he releases is awkward, but he doesn't know why. In this particular context, Lydia needs him more than he needs her. Which is weird, when he thinks about it.

"What if people die because I brought him back?"

"Then it's still not your fault."

"It's a direct result of my actions."

"Indirect at best. And you were being possessed by him, Lydia," he reminds her, letting his voice get soft.

"Stiles, what if I can do that? What if I bring people back to life?"

"I don't think that's actually a thing."

"But you said… last week, you said that the bite is supposed to either kill you, or turn you, right? Well, I'm not a werewolf. And Peter Hale was dead. So how can you explain that?"

He's never seen her fidget before, but she's doing it now, and it's a little unsettling. It takes Stiles a moment to stop watching her, just because her head is curved to the side and her eyes are darting all around the room and he can't stop thinking about the fact that Lydia losing the guy she's in love with had resulted in her sitting across from Stiles in a coffee shop.

But then he startles himself back into action when Lydia's eyes stop skating around the room and meet his. And he can't ever remember a time when they'd had such prolonged eye contact. It makes Stiles reach for his notebook and flip to the first clean page. He pushes it over to Lydia and offers hands her a pen, then stares at her, waiting for her to ask.

"What?" she says, right on cue.

"Write down what you want to figure out about yourself," he says. "Like, your crazy questions that you don't want to say out loud because they're too weird. And then we're gonna try to solve it, okay?"

"Stiles, you don't have to—"

"Come on, I'm bored and nobody's trying to kill us right now. It seems like the perfect time."

Lydia sighs and takes the pen from Stiles' hand, pausing with it just over the paper.

"What do you mean 'right now?'"

His smile freezes on his face.

"Just… uh, just a joke," he says. "Have you forgotten how to write because it's vacation, or…?"

"Of course I haven't," Lydia snips. "I'm just thinking. Maybe you're familiar with the affliction?"

"Can't say I am," Stiles says breezily.

Lydia returns to the paper. Stiles thinks about the curve of her letters and the timbre of her voice and the way wisps of her hair are falling out of her bun, framing her face.

For the first time, it hits him that she isn't pretending.

2017— Jewelry

Dear Lydia,

Happy anniversary! (This better be our anniversary. If you open this letter before our anniversary, I'll know, and I'm going to do something really mean. Like only make pork chops for a week when you get back from school. That recipe that you hate, with the garlic powder. Yeah.)

Anyway, happy anniversary! I thought we'd been together for ten years, but Scott said it was only four, so thanks for spending four years with me and thanks for not screaming so loud during sex that my brain leaks of out my ears. I know it doesn't always seem like it, but I genuinely do appreciate you for that. I know it's difficult for you to contain yourself sometimes.

I feel like I should be serious because letter writing is a very serious medium, but then a part of me believes that this letter is going to turn into a trashy romance novel if I try to do that, and I don't think I know enough euphemisms for penis to really commit. Dick? Cock? Shaft? Love stick? There you go. That's four words total. One for every year since you kissed me the second time. Oh, unless penis counts… in which case it's five words, and I will see you next year. Wear something pretty.

It's weird to think that we're probably going to be spending our anniversary together next year, instead of in apartment buildings on opposite sides of the country. I don't think we've ever actually had an anniversary together, have we? It comes right before the semester ends. We should do something awesome. Like laser tag. Remember the time we went to laser tag with Scott and Allison and Isaac? That was really fun. I mean, you pretending we were in an alliance and then using me as a human shield was less fun. But then you bought me a soft pretzel as an apology, which I'm cool with because I love soft pretzels. They're better than the hard ones you get at the grocery store. And I remember it wasn't too salty or too chewy, it was actually a really, really good pretzel.

The point is that I know we said we were gonna wait to give each other stuff, like we usually do, but I sort of just wanted to send this to you so that you would have it. I really like the idea of you having it. I used to think about it a lot, actually, but then I kind of got distracted from abstract stuff about being with you by actually being with you. So I forgot about this and then my dad had one of those days, the other day, where he put his wedding ring back on and I remembered it again. So here it is.

As you've probably gathered now, due to my gift at prose… shut up. Anyways, it's my mom's. Or, it was, and then she died and we didn't get rid of a lot of her clothes for a while. Until, like, freshman year of high school, wait, hang on, Liam's calling me again, god he's annoying, I'll be right back. Okay, anyways, so we threw out all of my mom's clothes freshman year of high school but my dad kept most of her jewelry, and he told me to take some stuff in case I wanted to give it to a girl one day. He said mom would like that.

And neither of us want to admit it, because it feels weird now that we're actually together, but I was thinking about you. Of course I was thinking about you. I never stop thinking about you. Have you ever seen that stupid commercial where that dog goes to a psychologist and the psychologist shows him inkblot drawings and asks the dog to tell him what he sees? It's called the Rorschach test. Anyways, the dog always says "BACON" at every inkblot picture, and I swear to god, nobody in the world gets that excited about bacon. Except that dog makes me excited about bacon because I really like dogs. Can we get a dog? I didn't used to like them, because Scott's bit me once, but I got over it and I think it would be fun to get a dog together. Maybe a big one, like the dog in that commercial who really, really likes bacon. And the point is, you're my bacon and I love you. Which is why, of course, I was thinking about you when I picked this when I was fourteen.

Except it's different now, because you don't really wear the same clothes and you don't do your hair the same and I never really expected to have to hold you because some days the voices in your head give you massive migraines and you can't even function.

So, yeah, my dad gave this necklace to my mom one year for Christmas. I don't know if it's particularly special or expensive or even anything you would wear, but it's shiny and pretty and I like it because it's red. There was this point in high school where red freaked me out 'cause, you know, my board, and it meant unsolved. I used to wake up in the morning and the first thing I saw was how unsolved everything was. It really… didn't help with the incessant anxiety? It was the first thing I saw when I woke up, and also the last thing I saw when I fell asleep at night.

But after we get through next semester, you're going to be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and you're going to be the last thing I see before I fall asleep at night. And I'm starting to think that it's okay when some stuff is unsolved. Everything is always changing, and maybe that's not always for the best, but sometimes it is. And even when it's shit, it kinda feels like solvable shit when you're around.

I think that's the closest to invincible I'm ever gonna be, Lyds.

So here's your weirdly long, rambly trashy romance novel love letter, and your thrice daily reminder that I'm just, like, ridiculously in love with you, and there's some nudes in the back for you just for fun.

HA! MADE YOU LOOK!

Okay, now that you've looked, tell me what you think of them and send some back.

Love,

Stiles

2007— Pen

Everybody had complained when Mrs. Kelley had put them in assigned seats on the first day of school. The chorus of annoyed voices wailing their dissent was enough to make Lydia curl her pink nails into her palms, annoyance stabbing her in the gut. But she had let a smile rest on her face as everybody else whines, because teachers are going to do what they're going to do and Lydia isn't going to get on anyone's bad side.

That's not the point of this whole exercise.

Except she gets put in front of that Stilinski kid who won't let anybody call him by his real name— makes it a point to bother the substitutes about it before they'll say it in front of the class. He's been doing it for years; never shuts up about his stupid name, and Lydia has to hear him yelling it in her ear now, all because she'd had the misfortune to be thrown into the same English class as him in their small, run-down middle school.

It's the middle of October, and Lydia's been listening to him correct Mrs. Kelley as she struggles to say his name through every attendance. None of their elementary school teachers had taken issue with calling him 'Stiles,' but it's seventh grade now and Lydia doesn't get why he can't just shut up and let teachers do what they want. They're not children.

Except there's also a part of Lydia that knows that Stiles spends half of the class period staring at the back of her head. And, while she's fully aware of the fact that plenty of boys do that, she doesn't exactly want the attention from a kid who has the same haircut as Kelso from That 70's Show. It flops into his eyes constantly, and he's constantly flicking it to the side with a tiny jerk of his head. Unlike the other boys, he doesn't pull it off well. Lydia thinks Danny does it best. And maybe Johnny. And Jackson Whittemore does it well, too. His hair curves perfectly to the side, effortless and almost too cute to be real.

Today, when Stiles hands Lydia her essay back, he does it with a small smile on his face and a tiny twitch of his head as he pushes his hair out of his eyes.

"It's, um, really good," he says. Lydia takes the essay from his hand with two fingers, crinkling her nose as she looks at the type-filled page. "There's just one thing on page three."

The smile that spreads across Lydia's lips is plastic at best.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Page three," Stiles says, gesturing with his chin. Lydia slams the paper down onto her desk and begins to flip through it, feeling annoyance and minor panic rise in her chest as she searches. And there's one red mark, a few words written in chicken scratch in the margins: Dangling participle.

Is he fucking serious?

"That's not a dangling participle," Lydia objects.

Stiles shrugs one shoulder.

"Uh, yeah. It is."

She rereads it once and feels her frustration curdle when she realizes that he's actually right. Lydia chokes down her anger— this essay had been perfect. It was supposed to be perfect. But she remembers when she had been writing this part. How her mother had been yelling and her father had been yelling back and Lydia had squeezed her eyes shut and breathed, listening to him call her a whore while she called the other one a whore. The one that Lydia will never meet despite the fact that she was apparently worth Lydia's father throwing everything away. And her sister had been on the floor of Lydia's bedroom, turned onto her side, finally blessedly passed out because Lydia couldn't handle her babbling any more than she wanted to handle the way Stefanie smelled like vodka.

And this essay was supposed to be perfect because nothing else is.

"I'm still working on yours," Lydia says, voice sticky sweet.

"Cool," Stiles says, settling back in his chair and digging deep into his pocket until he comes up with a deck of Pokémon cards. His voice accidentally breaks as he says, "I'll just… be right here."

Right there. Behind her. Like he always is in this class, staring at the back of her head and wishing for something. Well, Lydia wishes for stuff too. But it doesn't mean any of it is going to happen.

"Would you mind if I borrowed your pen?" she asks, and he nods quickly before handing it to her. The red pen almost falls from his hand to her desk, but Lydia manages to snatch it gracefully before it can make a huge clatter. "Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem."

She turns back to the essay, takes a calming breath, and proceeds to tear it to pieces. Every typo, every run-on sentence, every place with a supposition that needs to be supported with textual evidence. Lydia is almost breathless when she turns back to Stiles and pushes the essay onto his desk along with the pen.

"Just a few things I noticed," she says, smiling again. Because that's what everyone expects her to do. They expect her to smile, even when she doesn't want to.

She hasn't wanted to smile in months. But she does, suddenly, when she sees Stiles' flabbergasted face with one glance at his paper.

And Lydia doesn't even feel bad when his cheeks are the same color as her criticisms, sketched onto the paper with big, loopy handwriting and i's with hearts instead of dots.

2011— Yarn

The string is pulled tight around the tips of Lydia's fingers.

All the blood has rushed to the tip of it, and that's what Stiles focuses on when he's crouched in front of her. He unwinds. Around and around and around, because Lydia's hands are so small and he wants her to be okay. Wants her stretched out across his bed, her shoes kicked off by the door, her smile a little too lost to not tug at his stomach.

Years of his life have passed without him thinking that he would ever have to take care of Lydia Martin, but her brows are pinched and he can tell that she feels small. That she's wrapping her fingers so that they are stuck together, taking up as little space as possible. When he starts to unravel the yarn, hastily and attentively, he does it because he wants her to take up as much space as possible. Wants her splayed out everywhere; wants to choke on the invasion of Lydia Martin in his life.

The truth is, Stiles wants her to loom so large that her form swallows him up. He's okay with that. He's okay with her being as big as she possibly can be because she deserves nothing less. He wants to tell her, as he unwinds the yarn, that he is doing it because she is extraordinary. That he is doing it because sometimes she looks at him and he thinks she is trying to unwind him. Sometimes she seems intrigued and curious and it's this delicate thing that flutters across Stiles' chest, perching precariously on the heart that beats more fervently whenever Lydia is around.

Lydia hadn't looked at him that way in the before. But then their lips had pressed tentatively together, and when Stiles had let his eyes widen, Lydia's were still closed. He doesn't want to say it out loud, because he's scared that it will disappear as soon as he admits it, but… but. But she had opened her eyes and had never looked at him the same way again.

He wants to keep that for himself. It's not for anyone else. Which is why he hadn't brought it up to his dad, when he'd asked Stiles if he had missed anything when he was gone. And Stiles hadn't brought it up to Allison, either, on the night when they were studying for their history test and Lydia and Scott had left for snacks. Stiles had wanted to ask, to find out if it had mattered enough to Lydia for her to bring it up to Allison, but he already knows the answer. The kiss is for him— not his dad, not Allison. Not for Scott, who can hear every beat of Stiles' heart when he is around Lydia. Who can probably catch the scent of what it feels like to want someone so heavily, so unrequitedly that everything else seems to fall flat.

Lydia never falls flat. Their kiss never does, either. It elbows its way into his mind and settles there, stubborn and insistent. There's something eager about the feeling he has in his stomach, thinking about the way Lydia's thumbs had moved across his cheeks. But it doesn't flow all the way through his veins. He is staring at her, she is staring at him, and this isn't about whatever that was about. This is calm. This is about what is theirs— this tiny little bubble of the world, which has slowed down just so he can provide Lydia with some form of assurance. Something akin to the shelter that she had been able to give him when everything had been going too fast and he had just needed to hide.

"And, look, if you wanted to, I'd go back to that school and search all night, just to prove it."

When Lydia smiles at him, the first thing Stiles notices is how sad it is. But he also sees the warmth there— it's almost impossible to ignore it. He smiles too, almost embarrassed at the idea that she's looking at him; that she's so close.

And he thinks, not for the first time, that it would be so easy to kiss Lydia Martin right here. So easy to dart forward and press his mouth to hers again. See what they can do together. See if "together" is something that they could have, in any sense of the word.

Except he's not going to kiss her, and the most sobering thing in the world, to Stiles, is just how much he would give up for Lydia Martin.

This isn't the locker room floor. This Lydia isn't the same person as the one who had kissed him— or, maybe she is, but Lydia's mind is shifting and moving and jumping constantly. Nothing about this gives him permission to kiss her. And if they do kiss again, she's going to instigate it. He doesn't care if he finds himself on another locker room floor, surrounded by grime and muck and the smell of sweat and blood and the chemicals from too much body spray, surrounding everything, taking over—

Wait.

Body spray. Chemicals.

He uncaps the marker. Sniffs it.

"Get up," Stiles says. He speaks over the question in Lydia's eyes. "Get up now. We're going to the school."

2012— Bra

In the end, it's Stiles' eyelashes that do Lydia in.

"I'm ready," she says, and it courses through her— this feeling of okay that has been so vacant for so long. But there isn't any part of her that's empty anymore. Even the ones that had been numb with loss have somehow sparked back to life. Lydia knows how to fill them up now. She fills them with Allison's fingers on her bowstring and Scott's smile at the lunch table and Kira tripping down the stairs and the look on Stiles' face when he… anything. The look on Stiles' face at any given moment, because she is captivated by him, right down to the eyelashes that look almost blond as sunlight splashes across them.

"For popcorn?" Stiles says, utterly, endearingly oblivious, because they're not doing anything. They're sitting on the couch, limbs tangled haphazardly together. They're watching their fifth episode of Chuck in a row, and the afternoon sun is slung low in the sky, warming Lydia's skin.

"No," she replies. "For sex."

For a moment, he nods like he had totally expected her to say that. Then he does a double take, scrambling to pause the TV.

"Uh," says Stiles. "I thought we decided that we were going to wait?"

He looks uncertain, as if their discussion about it had been a dream.

"I said I wanted to get back to myself before I slept with you," Lydia reminds him. "But when I'm around you…" She trails off because saying it suddenly seems impossible. You make me feel like myself again, she thinks, staring across at him as though he might be able to hear it. You helped me become the best version of myself the first time, the real one, and now you're doing it again and again and again. "I'm ready," she says instead, pressing her lips tightly together when she's finished saying it. She leans forward and presses her chin against his shoulder, stretching a little to kiss the corner of his jaw.

"It hasn't been that long," he points out, his voice soft. His cheeks are turning red, and she can see his pulse jumping in his neck. She feels the sudden urge to tuck her face into his skin and stay there, letting his warmth wash over her. "Are you sure?"

"I am if you are," Lydia promises. "Are you?"

"Probably never will be, but also have been since the moment you told me you loved me."

Lydia laughs, tucking her chin in and ending up with her forehead leaning against his shoulder. Stiles tilts his head over hers, his hands wrapping around her ribcage as he shifts them around, bringing her closer to him. Always, always closer, like he can never get enough of her body pressing against his. Lydia has never considered him to be a patient man, but when his hands are on her skin, they are always still. The frantic movement and flurrying anxiety that usually define him fade into the background, and he seems okay. It makes Lydia feel like she's going to be okay too.

"Uh… do you mean, like, right now?"

"Oh," Lydia says, her eyebrows dipping slightly. "I hadn't thought that far ahead yet."

Stiles starts to smile, but it's pained and awkward.

"That's unusual."

"I've decided to stop overthinking things."

"Seems very unlikely," he decides, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"You're in love with me," she says.

"That is a good example of a fact."

"So there's nothing to over-think anymore."

For a moment, his eyes go so tender that Lydia feels an inclination to pull away, feeling like she's interrupting something private. But then she remembers that it's her— that this look on his face belongs to both of them, and he's giving it away because he wants her to know how he feels. More than anything, Lydia wishes she could love as openly as Stiles does. So she forces herself to meet his gaze; to let the butterflies flit across her stomach and her heart and flutter in her chest.

"Would it be— um— possible? Right now? I mean... timewise?"

Stiles squints one eye as he thinks.

"My dad doesn't usually come home until eight. Sometimes later."

"That works." When she looks back at him, his eyes are on their entwined hands, no longer settled on her face. Lydia doesn't think he's been this nervous around her in a while, and she can't help but enjoy it. She can't help but smile at this naive, childish idea that sex could be anything but sex.

She'd let go of that before she'd ever truly understood the ideology behind it, but to Stiles, it means something. It means something because it's her.

"This is so weird," says Stiles. "I don't even know… I don't know what to say to you."

"I expected to do this differently," mutters Lydia to the wall.

"What do you mean?"

She doesn't want to tell him, but this is Stiles. She's always been able to talk to him. Ever since she realized how much sense it made that she would.

"It wasn't supposed to be in the middle of the afternoon on a random Tuesday."

"Do you prefer Wednesdays, or…?"

"I just… I was going to buy new lingerie. And curl my hair. Try to make it good." She doesn't mean for the last part to slip out, but it does before she can stop it, and Lydia looks up at him in a panic, her teeth scraping across her bottom lip. "I didn't mean it how it sounds." He just watches her, waiting. "I just… I'm used to… I'm used to it like that. Do you know what I mean? I'm used to… trying harder when I care about someone." Because then it's not just sex. It's trying to make them stay.

"Not that I have anything to go on," Stiles begins, choosing his words carefully. "But I'm pretty sure I'd be in love with you regardless of what you're wearing. Like, jeez, do you seriously think I need any of that shit?"

She starts to smile.

"Maybe not," Lydia admits. "But maybe I wanted to give it to you."

"Lydia, there isn't… there isn't anything pretty left in the world. You know? It's all… we've seen so many people die, so many people give up… I lost my shit, and you got hurt so many times I thought neither of us were ever going to be sane again, but… nothing feels like it used to. Nothing is innocent or pretty or… or especially important, because the whole world could probably get demolished tomorrow. But then there's you, and there's us, and we feel… we feel good. You feel like adrenaline and exhilaration and like a million firsts all piled into one person. So whatever happens, it's gonna be incredible for me, 'cause I cannot fucking believe the way you make me feel most of the time. No, all of the time. Constantly. Do you get that?"

Lydia thinks about her fingers on his forearm at the lunch table; his hand in her back pocket at the grocery store. She thinks about all the times in the last few weeks that she has ended up in the backseat of his jeep, straddling his hips and letting his hands sneak under her shirt. She thinks about his hands in her hair in empty classrooms as he locked her against the wall with his hips, and his lips on her neck while they made out on the couch in her living room.

When she kisses him, he responds to it immediately, hands on her cheeks in a single, instinctive instant. She finds herself detangling from his body and getting off of the couch, letting her hand reach for him. He grabs it and stands up, bending down to kiss her again as if he cannot stand the idea of being separated from her.

"Lydia," he murmurs against her, and she grabs the hem of his shirt instead of responding, tugging it over his head and dropping it to the floor. His kisses grow more fervent, and they walk back towards his bedroom at a pace that is almost ineffectively slow, smashing against a few walls on their way.

Stiles' bed is unmade, one of his pillows is on the floor, and his blinds are half closed. The sunlight is peering into the room quietly when Stiles closes the door with his foot without ever having to take his lips off of Lydia's. There's a part of her that can't believe this is happening, but his hands are on her hips and she wants to give, give, give— to stop feeling like she takes too much from Stiles. Lydia pushes him back onto his bed.

Stiles falls willingly.

She lies on top of him, pressed against his bare chest, and she doesn't know if she's quivering with anxiety or anticipation or adoration, but she does know that she is sick of wanting. She needs to have now. It's time.

So Lydia sits on his legs and he leans up on his elbows, his mouth curved up slightly to the right the way it always is when he's at this level of sloppy reverence. She watches him watching her and she thinks about all the times she's dreamed about this and woken up disoriented from it not being real.

She wants his hands on her body. She wants it real.

"I have scars," Lydia says hesitantly. "You know that, right?"

His cheeks are starting to turn red, as if he's just realizing that this is actually going to happen.

"Of course," he says, just like it's nothing. And maybe it is nothing to him.

Lydia pulls her shirt over her head, throwing it somewhere in Stiles' bedroom. His eyes stay on her face for a few moments before Lydia closes her eyes, nodding slightly. She doesn't thinks she's ever felt quite this exposed wearing this many clothes— she's still wearing her red bra and a black high waisted skirt.

"Stiles?"

"Y-yeah?"

His voice is thick.

"Say something."

"I… I can't."

Lydia opens her eyes, starting to smirk because he suddenly seems wrecked. She reaches behind her back and undoes her bra, letting it slide off of her arms and fall in front of the two of them.

"Well… how about now?"

She gives him forty seconds of unabashed, desperate staring before she puts her finger under his chin and tilts him back up towards her.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you," he says, eyes earnest. "Gimme… gimme a list… or… or… not even a list, just time. Time is good too. Gimme time to do whatever you want. Give you what you want."

She raises her eyebrows, and he scrambles up into a seated position, kissing her as soon as their bare chests are pressed together.

"I could skywrite it," Lydia suggests as his lips go for her cheek, her forehead, her ear, her neck. "Spell it out with candy hearts."

"You could tattoo it on me."

"You hate needles."

"Stick ons."

"Oh, very hardcore."

He grins wolfishly.

"You could write it to me in a poem, or a song, or—"

"Or you could just fuck me," she suggests.

Stiles groans. Lydia unzips her skirt because she's starting to realize that he is enormously inefficient at time management, and they don't have all the time in the world.

"That's… that's an idea," he says, sounding more than a little broken.

Maybe they don't have all the time in the world. Or maybe they do.

Lipstick— 2008

Stiles triple-dog-dares Scott to take a picture in front of the White House with his middle finger sticking out. It's not going to happen until Jacob Farmington jeers at him for it, and in two seconds flat, Scott has a wavering smile on his face and his middle finger sticking clear in the air. Stiles snaps the picture on his camera and high fives him when he's run back over to Stiles, ducking out of Mrs. B's way so that she doesn't yell at him for it.

"Happy?" he asks, slightly breathlessly.

"You know, I am," Stiles muses, rubbing his stomach like he's just finished a particularly delicious dinner. "What do you want to do tonight?"

Scott bounces slightly, his hands in the pockets of his dark blue jacket as he surveys the different groupings of kids standing around the gate in front of the White House, mostly ignoring it in favor of staring at each other.

"Where are we going?" Scott asks, moving closer to Jacob as he pulls the itinerary from his coat pocket.

"We're staying at the hotel to go in the water park part," reads Jacob before folding the list and shoving it back into his pocket. "But Lisa Moretti went last night and she said it was lame."

Scott turns to look at Stiles with a face that clearly says how much he wants to go to the waterpark, regardless of the fact that it is "lame."

"Eh, we should check it out." Stiles shrugs. "I mean, what's the worse that can happen? You hit your head on one of the slides?"

Jacob pales slightly.

"Is that possible?"

And Stiles narrows his eyes.

"What? Are you scared?"

"No!" Jacob spits out. "Let's go to the stupid waterworld."

"Where's Andre?" Scott asks, standing on his toes so that he can see through the crowd. "How did we lose him?"

"He's over there," Jacob says, pointing. "By Lydia's group."

Stiles twirls around so fast that Scott and Jacob both startle, then snort and begin laughing at him. He flushes red and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Come on, guys. That was totally on purpose."

"Oh, sure," Scott says, fake. "Of course it was, Stiles."

He has been trying his best not to talk about Lydia Martin for the past two days, ever since they'd gotten off of the plane and found out that Lydia was on the same bus that they were— bus number three, to be exact, and Mr. P is their bus leader and he likes Mean Girls so they've been watching it over and over again throughout the trip.

This irony has probably been lost on Lydia, who has been holding court at the back of the bus. She's got a posse of girls and boys surrounding her, whispering to her and each other like they are better than everyone else on the bus. Stiles hasn't been able to stop glancing back at them, which is okay because he has only made accidental eye contact with Lydia twice. And that's a pretty good percentage, considering how many times it statistically could have happened.

He's been checking back there a lot.

It's just that Lydia had walked onto the bus this morning with her lips painted bright red, and he's looking at them. Like, all the time. Looking at the way the top lip is almost as full as the bottom one, and the way the bottom one juts out a little bit, and the way they press together when she smiles. Lydia stopped open-mouthed smiling a year ago, and he hasn't seen her do it since.

But he's also never seen her wear lipstick before.

Most of the girls in their grade are obsessed with those weird lip-smackers chapsticks that Stiles had once tried, just to see what they tasted like. And because his lips were chapped. Whatever. It turned out that raspberry cupcake did not, in fact, taste like a raspberry cupcake. It had tasted like raspberry flavored chapstick. Stiles is still bitter about it.

Now that Lydia's started wearing lipstick, every other girl in their grade is going to, which means that Stiles' date to the eighth grade dance, Amanda Newhart, is probably going to be wearing it too, and then he's going to spend the whole time thinking about Lydia instead of thinking about Amanda.

Which doesn't actually surprise Stiles all that much, because he was planning on doing that anyways.

"Hey, bozo, we're moving," Scott says, jostling Stiles gently on the arm, and Andre runs back to them, his face alight with information.

"What?" says Stiles immediately, distrustful of anyone who looks that excited.

"I know something you don't know," he says.

"Does it have anything to do with the future Mrs. Stiles Stilinski?" Scott sing-songs, and Jacob snorts loudly as Stiles shoves his best friend slightly.

"Jesus, Scott. Shut your goddamn mouth."

"Actually, it does," Andre says, and they all turn to him, surprised.

"Seriously?"

"I heard Callie Hunter telling Laney that she heard Matt Daehler tell Molly Wells that Lydia's parents are getting a divorce."

Scott looks down at the ground. Stiles wants to comfort him, but he doesn't know how to, so instead he tries to change the subject.

"Why?" he asks.

Okay. So he'd thought about changing the subject. But Lydia Martin is standing at the front of the crowd, being trailed after by a swarm of their classmates, and she had just started wearing lipstick and Stiles is suddenly wondering if that's not a coincidence.

"Apparently her dad cheated on her mom," Andre says flippantly. "Did you guys hear that we get to go to the waterpark in the hotel tonight?"

As Jacob begins to rip on him for being afraid of the slides, despite the fact that Andre hadn't even brought them up, Scott turns to Stiles, concern in his eyes.

"Are you going to fixate on this for the rest of the trip?"

"Why'd she randomly start wearing lipstick just when her parents are getting a divorce?"

"You need a new hobby," Scott groans, and Stiles ignores him and keeps conjecturing because he has theories, damn it.

But two nights later, when Lydia gets in trouble for making out with Justin Rhodes, Stiles shuts up about her for the whole rest of the trip.

2013— Blood

"Stiles? Are you awake?"

"L-lyd… Lydia?"

"Oh my god. Thank god. Thank god."

"My mouth tastes like shit."

"Seriously? You almost bled out and you coded and that's the first thing you say?"

"What were you expecting?"

"Something that was either mind bendingly philosophical or engagingly stupid."

"And it didn't fulfil the second one?"

"No, it was a different level of idiocy."

"Well, let me try again."

"Be my guest."

"I'm awake."

"Amazing."

"My mouth tastes like horseshit."

"Even better."

"Can I have some sour patch kids?"

"I absolutely loathe you."

"I love you too."

"Ugh."

"Like, maybe some starbursts?"

"I'm not getting up to get you starbursts."

"What would you get up to get me?"

"A stick to shove up your ass."

"Well, that's no way to treat your boyfriend."

"Do I have to break up with you before I shove a stick up your ass?"

"You could… not break up with me. And then also not shove a stick up there because I have this weird instinctive feeling that it would hurt like hell."

"Do you need anything?"

"Didn't I just—?"

"I meant water, smartass. And from now on you're going on a strict diet. No more candy, no more burgers, no more curly fries."

"Uh… why?"

"Because… because your family has a history of high cholesterol and diabetes, Stiles!"

"I thought you didn't care what I ate as long as I pretended I couldn't finish the last fourth of my waffle and gave it to you."

"Stiles, you almost died."

"Not because of high blood sugar!"

"Oh, right, you just casually got stabbed with a sword."

"Exactly. That is exactly how I would describe that."

"I've decided to make you my project."

"Project?"

"Yes. You not dying is going to be my new hobby."

"How were you not already doing that?"

"Are you fucking—?"

"OW, Lydia, jesus, I have stitches!"

"I know. I watched the needle sticking through your—"

"Okay, now that's just mean."

"You recently got stabbed by a sword and you're still freaked out about needles?"

"A sword is basically just a giant needle."

"That's… not even true."

"Where's Scott? He'll feed me curly fries."

"I already told him not to."

"And… my dad?"

"Would never cross me."

"Are you attempting to ruin my life?"

"What gave me away?"

"The complete disregard for anything that brings me joy, actually."

"I didn't take away sex."

"Huh. I do love sex."

"But not until your stitches are healed."

"Ha. Like you'll last that long."

"Stiles, there was blood. Everywhere. Do you understand that?"

"That's generally what happens when I get stabbed with a sword, yeah."

"You were completely pale, and you were just… lying in the street and I was sitting on top of it. My knees were in your blood, they were caked in it, and I had to not scream because my hands were on the wound and I knew you were still breathing, I knew, but it was there, Stiles. It was trying to get out, and I can't scream for you. I can't. I need you so much. You can't die."

"Lydia—"

"Are you seriously going to argue with me right now?"

"No."

"Good, because there's just… there's no way I can… you can't just…"

"God."

"What?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you cry over me before."

"Oh."

"I hate it."

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"That wasn't supposed to make you cry harder."

"I don't exactly have control, okay?"

"Um… hey. I'm totally not dead. Yay?"

"You were almost dead."

"But I'm clearly not. Oh, come on, Lyds, please—"

"Would you shut up if I told you that this isn't even the first time I've cried over you?"

"Were any of the other times not about me almost dying?"

"Um… one or two?"

"Then I probably wouldn't shut up, but I would grin really big. Like so. 'Cause you like me and all that."

"You know I like you. I've told you at least twice since we started dating."

"True."

"Why are you giggling?"

"Because I'm in exorbitant amounts of pain and I'm dating you."

"And that's… funny?"

"Kinda surreal."

"If I ever have to watch you bleed again, I will end you."

"That defeats the purpose, but I appreciate the sentiment. And, in turn, if you stop me from eating curly fries, I'll probably end you. So."

"Oh, Stiles."

"What?"

"Do you actually think you scare me?"

"Like… I thought maybe a little?"

"That's really cute."

"You think I'm cute?"

"It's a side effect of being in love with you."

"Mmmm. Say it again."

"No."

"Why not?"

"We've reached the limit for how many times you get to hear it in a specific range of time."

"Seriously? I almost died!"

"Maybe in a few hours. Do you want me to go tell your dad you're awake?"

"Yeah, where is he?"

"I'd imagine he's probably at the nurse's station flirting with Melissa."

"Oh, naturally."

"Should I get him?"

"Nah, let them be. You should stay and snuggle."

"You're hurt."

"You weigh two pounds and you know you want to."

"I do want to."

"So c'mere."

"Okay. But you have to actually try to go back to sleep. You need rest."

"Yeah, yeah."

"And you have to promise to eat more salads when we're forty-five."

"Oh my g— just get over here."

2006— Hair

It takes fifteen seconds for Lydia to check the grade written at the top of her test, then shove it into the little cubby under her desk. Nobody bothers to check, or to ask her, because she always makes an annoyed face and says "whatever."

And nobody needs to know that her "whatever" means that she's gotten an 'A' every single time.

It's whatever.

But if Lydia passes the tests out herself, she can sift through, put hers at the back, and not worry about anybody else seeing the letter at the top. Which is why she almost always ends up handing the tests out herself, making small social calls at each of the desk clusters while she does it. There's a certain exhilaration in being able to see the numbers that flash in front of her. See that nobody else in the class is consistently as good as she is.

There's a certain clarity when she realizes, one day, that she is better than all of them.

Lydia had known, to an extent, that she easily usurped most of her classmates. But it's right in front of her, in red ink, and suddenly she looks at herself in the mirror and sees everything differently. There is a difference, Lydia thinks, between being told you are special by your mother and father and seeing it right in front of you on paper.

But she doesn't want anybody else to see, either, because everybody seems to laugh at Millie Wheaton when her hand flies into the air during history class. Lydia is sick of everybody rolling their eyes when Millie knows the answer— she feels a sense of dread deep in her stomach when she sees her classmates snicker behind their hands. But that doesn't stop Lydia from doing it with them, a sly smirk across her lips because that's easier than fully committing to something she doesn't believe in.

Millie spends every single day reading books during recess, and Lydia wishes she could do that too. Instead, she mills around with the other kids as they yell across the playground. Lydia is so bored with four square and the swings, but she still saves her reading for home. It's usually dark by the time she slides under the covers and turns on the little reading light that Stef had gotten her for Christmas two years ago.

"Hey, Lydia!"

She offers Ryan a small smile as she hands him his test, eyes lingering on the sixty-two written in red at the top, and it's not like Ryan isn't smart but he doesn't really care, nobody does, because they all know there's more important things to worry about than a sixth grade math test.

"Hey, Ryan."

"Did you get a good grade?"

She shrugs.

"Whatever."

"So, listen, I was thinking—"

She's trying to focus, but there's hissing in her ear. The group of boys at the next table over are bickering, for some reason, and Lydia doesn't know why she had started to pay attention until she hears one of them say her name.

"She's going as fast as she can, jeez. Would you just shut up?"

"Sorry, could you repeat that?" Lydia says to Ryan, her smile still resting gently on her lips.

"I was wondering if you wanted to—"

"She's not a ginger," a snippy voice says. "Would you shut up?"

"She has red hair, Stiles. She's a ginger."

"It's not red."

"It's red. Like a tomato."

"Guys, c'mon. Just shut up. It makes him mad every time."

"I'm just saying, her hair isn't red!"

"-And there's a little place where we can go get smoothies after, so I was thinking my dad could pick you up at four on Saturday?"

Ryan is looking at Lydia with a hopeful smile on his face, and she likes his eyes. She's always liked brown eyes. All the other girls like Nate from Gossip Girl, and Lydia sees how pretty he is, but she's got such a soft spot for Dan that she never talks about because she knows it wouldn't go over well.

"It's strawberry blonde, okay?"

"Okay, buddy," a voice responds warily.

"Scott, I'm serious! It's strawberry blonde! You can see it when she's outside 'cause the sun will hit it and—"

His statement is met with a chorus of groans from the other boys.

"Yes," Lydia says firmly. "I would really like to go out with you on Saturday, Ryan."

"Awesome," he replies, showing a mouth full of braces when he grins. Lydia doesn't mind. Most of the kids in their grade have braces. At this point, it's basically inescapable. "Seeya then?"

"I'll see you."

She's still smiling when she turns around to the cluster of desks behind them, and it's lighting up her face— the idea that she'd finally been asked on a date. One that she'd wanted to say yes to. But then Lydia sees the full force of her smile register in Stiles Stilinski's eyes, and she lets it drop instantly.

"Here," she says, licking her finger and filing through the papers until she finds Scott McCall's and Jacob Farmington's. "And here," Lydia adds when she gets to Stiles' test. She's about to set it on the table when she sees it— a ninety-eight. Two points below hers.

She throws it into the desk like it is too hot to touch, then walks away with a flip of her hair.

"See," Stiles says from behind her. "Strawberry blonde."

2017— Couch

Lydia [4:33]: Where the hell are you?

Stiles [4:33]: exactly where you left me.

Lydia [4:34]: Is there a particular reason why you think lying to me would be effective in any capacity?

Stiles [4:35]: idk it just happened and i went with it.

Lydia [4:37]: This is why I can't bring you to Ikea. Ever.

Stiles [4:37]: noooooooooooooooo

Lydia [4:39]: Seriously, Stiles, we're supposed to be finding new chairs for the kitchen table. It's supposed to take two seconds.

Stiles [4:40]: except its you, and decorating, so its not going to take two seconds and everything is a lie

Lydia [4:40]: You're right.

Stiles [4:40]: im right?

Lydia [4:40]: You are.

Stiles [4:41]: whats the catch?

Lydia [4:42]: You're right. I'm starting to realize that my love for you is a lie.

Stiles [4:42]: all because i wandered off in ikea?

Lydia [4:43]: You know me. I'm very weak willed.

Stiles [4:44]: how could i forget

Lydia [4:44]: It would take a light breeze to dissuade me from you getting any tonight.

Stiles [4:46]: in other, completely unrelated news, i'm in the couch section

Lydia [4:47]: Are you serious right now? This Ikea is fucking huge.

Stiles [4:55]: Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something, and that this thing, at whatever cost, must be attained.

Lydia [4:56]: Did you just waste ten minutes of my life so that you could type that entire Marie Curie quote for me?

Stiles [5:03]: La vie n'est facile pour aucun de nous. Mais quoi, il faut avoir de la persévérance, et surtout de la confiance en soi. Il faut croire que l'on est doué pour quelque chose, et que, cette chose, il faut l'atteindre coûte que coûte.

Lydia [5:04]: I wasn't aware of the fact that I was dating google translate.

Stiles [5:04]: wow. now thats just not fair.

Lydia [5:04]: Why is that not fair?

Stiles [5:05]: b/c i didnt use google translate.

Lydia[5:07]: Stiles.

Stiles [5:07]: yes dear?

Lydia [5:07]: Did you text Allison's dad and make him do it for you?

Stiles [5:08]: not only am i extremely resentful of the implication that i would do something as disrespectful as

Lydia [5:08]: I texted him.

Stiles [5:08]: nvm

Lydia [5:09]: I apologized for you being a giant pain in the ass.

Stiles [5:10]: did you phrase it just like that?

Lydia [5:10]: Exactly like that.

Stiles [5:11]: did he defend me?

Lydia [5:11]: Absolutely not.

Stiles [5:13]: i bet scott would have defended me

Lydia [5:13]: Do you want me to text him as well? Find out for you?

Stiles [5:13]: ….no

Lydia [5:15]: Seriously, where are you?

Stiles [5:15]: i told you. the couch section. falling in love with this couch.

Lydia [5:15]: Maybe it'll do your grocery shopping for you.

Stiles [5:16]: thats cool. and youll find a desk lamp to do your laundry?

Lydia [5:17]: That's been my secret plan this whole time. Step one: Date Stiles for five years. Step two: Leave him for a desk lamp. Step three: Profit.

Stiles [5:17]: golddigger

Lydia [5:17]: How dare you. My lamp will be silver so that it goes with the decor.

Stiles [5:17]: can we get one of those giant plush penguins that are near the front?

Lydia [5:18]: Those things are bigger than our dog.

Stiles [5:18]: i notice thats not a 'no.'

Lydia [5:18]: No.

Stiles [5:19]: fuck

Lydia [5:19]: Unless you wanted it to sleep in bed next to you instead of me.

Stiles [5:19]: where would you be?

Lydia [5:20]: Scott's house.

Stiles [5:20]: if we got this couch i'm sitting on, i could sleep there and you could sleep with the penguin.

Lydia [5:20]: In my experience, penguins are kind handsy.

Stiles [5:20]: i would beat him up if he crossed a line

Lydia [5:21]: I think I would actually miss you cupping my breast in your sleep.

Lydia [5:21]: Sorry, let me try that again.

Lydia [5:21]: I think I would actually miss you cupping my breast 'in your sleep.'

Stiles [5:22]: i see what you did there

Lydia [5:22]: I would be concerned if you hadn't.

Stiles [5:23]: i just heard a rlly loud crash. is that you bumping into something bc you were too enthralled with my wit to watch where you're going?

Lydia [5:23]: It was me killing a man with my stiletto, actually.

Stiles [5:23]: so i was close

Lydia [5:23]: Not really.

Stiles [5:24]: almost tho

Lydia [5:24]: Almost doesn't count. Are the couches near the rugs?

Stiles [5:24]: you know what else doesn't count?

Lydia [5:25]: This is going to be a really stupid pun.

Stiles [5:25]: yes

Lydia [5:25]: We can buy the penguin if you don't tell me this joke.

Lydia [5:26]: Seriously, where the hell are you?

Stiles [5:26]: still on the same couch and very carefully considering the great pun compromise of 2017

Lydia [5:27]: What color is the couch?

Stiles [5:27]: red like the blood of your ancestors.

Lydia [5:28]: As opposed to your ancestors, all of whom bleed champagne. Also, do we need a new rug? I'm sorting through them and there's one I like a lot.

Stiles [5:28]: we do not need a rug. and yes, champagne sounds about right. the stilinskis are a classy clan.

Lydia [5:29]: Funnily enough, I figured that out when your grandfather squeezed my ass at the last wedding we went to.

Stiles [5:29]: hes a lonely guy.

Lydia [5:29]: Are you sticking up for him? And can you see the soap dispensers from where you are?

Stiles [5:30]: dont get me wrong, i felt the fury of a thousand suns at the idea of anybody grabbing your ass who isnt me. or Harrison Ford, 'cause he can do whatever the hell he wants w/ you. Harrison Ford can do whtvr he wants w/ me too for that matter.

Lydia [5:30]: ...you're just selling me off to Harrison Ford?

Stiles [5:301: so uh no i cant see the soap dispensers.

Lydia [5:31]: Good thing the couch is red.

Stiles [5:31]: so my blood will blend into it when you stab me repeatedly with aforementioned soap dispensers?

Lydia [5:31]: Bingo.

Stiles [5:32]: see. thats a very classy way to go. we're a classy group, the stilinskis.

Lydia [5:33]: This soap dispenser is shaped like a hockey puck and I no longer feel inclined to sponsor Ikea. Let's go.

Stiles [5:33]: no, see, Lydia that's /classy/. you'll get it when we're married. then you'll be classy too

Lydia [5:33]: You're right. Of the two of us, I am clearly the one who needs a boost in that area.

Stiles [5:34]: naturally.

Lydia [5:34]: You have to ask me to marry you first, though.

Stiles [5:35]: im confused

Lydia [5:35]: Why?

Stiles [5:35]: i thought marriage was implied when i licked your wrist the other day.

Lydia [5:35]: Dear god, why?

Stiles [5:37]: i dont lick just anyone

Lydia [5:37]: I've seen you lick Scott at least a dozen times.

Stiles [5:38]: Well, that's different.

Lydia [5:38]: Why?

Stiles [5:39]: scott and i are heart married as opposed to paper married.

Lydia [5:39]: Wait, are the couches by the shoe racks? Can you see the shoe racks?

Lydia [5:40]: So you and me would basically be the heteronormative alternative?

Stiles [5:40]: with benefits.

Stiles [5:40]: although… if i married scott, he'd probably let me buy this couch.

Lydia [5:40]: Fine. Marry Scott. See if I care.

Stiles [5:41]: you'd care.

Lydia [5:41]: Don't get serious on me now, Stilinski.

Stiles [5:41]: oops, too late.

Lydia [5:42]: It's not too late. Turn back.

Stiles [5:42]: i think i would probably be in love with you even if every other part of me was gone.

Lydia [5:42]: Stiles.

Stiles [5:45]: i cant believe i get to spend my life with you and its completely incredible to me that sometimes you can make me fall head-all-the-way-over-fucking-heels in love with you just by smiling at me or swearing rlly loud or waking up in the morning

Lydia [5:45]: We're in Ikea

Stiles [5:49]: also i cant picture my life without you in it anymore. everything i have planned surrounds your plans. everything i get tugged towards means that im tugging you too, bc you factor into all of my most important choices and i fucking adore you lydia martin, i adore every stupid thing about you that shouldnt matter but then it does just because its you.

Lydia [5:52]: Fine, I would care if you married Scott.

Stiles [5:52]: COOL

Stiles [5:52]: So, thai for dinner?

2008— Dodgeball

The only thing Lydia has ever liked about gym class is the way her ponytail swishes behind her head when she runs across the court.

She's shorter than everybody else, and therefore most of the kids have an unfair advantage over her. Lydia makes up for it with her yellow shirt and red shorts— the standard uniform for most of the kids. But her shorts are just a bit too short and her shirt is as well, and when that's the case, it doesn't matter that she's one of the slowest runners in the class.

It's not that she isn't physically fit. She just doesn't like running, which is why she normally gets girls to stroll along with her, acting like they're walking because it's cool instead of doing it because they're trying to save their hair.

Today, it's different. Today is dodgeball.

Jackson is on the sidelines, his mouth set into a determined, angry line. He isn't used to being tagged out during dodgeball— Jackson Whittemore is a hero. He has made himself one from the beginning. At the end of this round it had been just he and Lydia, and they had worked well together, the two of them. She had liked the feeling. But then Danny had gotten Jackson out, crowing with laughter as he did it. And, as furious as Jackson had been, there's something enthralling about being the last person on the court.

All eyes are on Lydia Martin. As they should be.

Her hips are swaying just a bit too much as she sashays across the court, all the way to the halfway line. There's only one other person left on the other side— Stiles Stilinski, who is crouched behind one of the soft blue shields that they've put up. He's wearing a gray shirt that's too baggy, shorts that are too long, and off-white sneakers that are old and beat up.

Last week, Jackson had made a joke about him needing his mom to dress properly, and everybody at the table had exploded with laughter. Everybody knows that Stiles' mom is dead because their teacher had made them sign cards when he missed school. But then Jackson made the joke and he had looked over to see her reaction, and Lydia's laugh had been forced.

Today, though, it's not about Stiles' shortcomings, or his baggy clothes, or the fact that he beams at her every time he sees her in the hallway. Today it's about Lydia. Today it's about invincibility.

Stiles has one ball left, clutched determinedly in his left hand as he emerges from behind his blue barrier. And Lydia can see the resolve gathering in his eyes as he walks towards her, clutching onto the last bright red dodgeball.

This is usually the point where the guy starts to trash talk, but Stiles has never been like that. Lydia knows everybody in this school, and she knows that he'll only talk to people he deems worthy. He'll only tease those he likes. When it comes to her, specifically, Lydia knows he's not going to make one peep. Because he likes her.

There's a small possibility that, for the first time, Stiles' stupid crush can come in handy.

She smiles at him, tilting her head to the side, and he knows that she isn't sweet but he still falls for it every time, smiling back in a way that is too open.

"Are you going to throw it?" she asks, nudging her arms closer together in a way that pushes her boobs up. Stiles' eyes snap down for a moment, then back up.

"I could get you out," he points out, his voice quiet as he gets closer to her. There's something quiet and intimate about it, despite the fact that the whole class is watching.

"Maybe," she concedes lightly. "I could get you out."

"Perhaps," Stiles replies, echoing her tone.

For a second, Lydia actually wants to laugh.

"Come on," she goads. "Go ahead. I'm right here."

She raises her arms, her shirt pulling up over her tummy, and she cannot believe that a fourteen-year-old boy is flushing red at the sight of her naval, but then Lydia's eyes cut over to Jackson on the sidelines; cut to the smirk on his lips.

Stiles throws the ball, and it veers pathetically to the side. Everybody on his team sighs in annoyance, and Lydia allows herself to bask for a moment before she jumps in the air, spins, and wails the ball at Stiles. The giant, red dodgeball slams against his shoulder, effectively getting him out, and her entire team cheers, flooding onto the court.

She thinks about it later that night. The dejected look on his face as Scott McCall had knocked his shoulder with his fist. The way Stiles hadn't smiled at Lydia in the hallway when she saw him after seventh period.

The decision that she'd made to make him look bad so that she would look even better.

When she thinks about the thrill on Jackson's face, Lydia decides to commit. Two days later, when Stilinski can meet her eyes again at school, she doesn't change her mind.

2011— Fire

The day Stiles almost catches fire is also the day he begins to burn through Lydia's veins.

She sees him going up in flames before it actually happens; pictures them blooming across his skin, singeing his flesh like art. Imagines the elegance of Stiles Stilinski being engulfed by the very thing he had been trying to save. She thinks about how much Allison loves Scott, thinks about how it still consumes her— fire.

Lydia looks back at Stiles. And she jumps.

When she turns back to look at the flames, it is an instinct that tugs all the way across her stomach, jerking her head quickly. She feels Stiles underneath her, hiding his face, one arm slung around Scott's body to make sure he doesn't move. And in that moment, Lydia chokes on the fear that has been piling on top of her for months. She suddenly realizes how much of everything could have happened, and it makes her want to bury her face in Stiles' shoulders and sob, clutching onto his bright red hoodie. Instead, she allows one tear to roll down her cheek as she stares at the figure moving within the fire.

Lydia's fingers fist around Stiles' sweatshirt, and she doesn't untangle them until she feels him sitting up. When she finally turns around to look at him, his eyes are on Scott. You almost died, Lydia thinks. I almost didn't save you. But she doesn't say it, because Stiles looks so relieved, and his hand is lightly brushing against her elbow in thanks.

She is drained suddenly, and her body slumps over, energyless. Lydia doesn't know how they get back onto the bus, or how she ends up plopped into a seat next to Allison. She falls asleep too quickly, thinking about the way the flames had licked at Stiles' eyes, making them look like a liquid gold.

For once, the gold in Lydia's dreams isn't that of a werewolf. It is warm and melted and she isn't the right kind of terrified as she juts her chin out and looks it in the eye.

Stiles isn't on the bus when Lydia wakes up, and she notices it immediately.

Allison is sound asleep, her fingers curled around Lydia's wrist, protective. But it's simple for Lydia to ease them off and slip out of the bus seat, heart quickening as she approaches the window, looking for Stiles. She doesn't know why she's so aware of his presence, but her eyes find him so quickly— back hunched as he sits cross-legged in the grass, scrolling through his phone.

The simple jean jacket that Lydia is wearing isn't quite enough to keep her shielded from the cold, but she wraps the sleeves around her fingers and walks towards the boy who is on the lawn, tapping his fingers along to the soft music that is drifting lazily from his phone.

"Hi," she says, and it feels like a question because she doesn't know who she's walking up to. Doesn't know if he's afraid or angry or anxious. Doesn't even know how he reacts to any of these things, because he had almost been lit on fire and only then had she cared to find out.

But Stiles turns, and there's a small, surprised smile on his lips that looks more like a grimace as he ducks his head in lieu of greeting.

"Is everybody awake?"

Lydia lingers above him, her feet on the grass, unsure of whether she should sit down.

"Just me," she whispers. "And you, I guess."

"I'm always awake," Stiles says to the horizon. It is just before sunrise, Lydia thinks, which means they've only been asleep for a few hours. The sky is still dark, but it is fading into the color of her favorite pair of jeans— the ones she used to wear before she realized that they made her hips look too big.

"You mean you don't sleep anymore?" asks Lydia, settling down on the wet grass beside him. He stares out at the sky while she stares at him.

"Do you?"

"No," concedes Lydia. "But I'm new to the game."

Stiles taps his finger along the screen of the phone, pausing his music.

"Well," Stiles starts, breathing out harshly. "It doesn't get easier. Just so you know."

"It's like this all the time?"

"Yup. Pretty much."

Lydia wants to tell him that she doesn't know if she can do this all the time; that she thinks she might suffocate from all of that uncertainty being a constant in her life. But she can see the bags under his eyes, and the way his fingers are trembling slightly as he taps them across his now dark phone screen. And he already knows. He already knows all of those things because he's living with it.

"Does Scott feel the same way?"

"Fuck, no," Stiles says, laughing a little. "See, as it turns out, when you have the power to do something about it, you don't feel like a sitting duck all the time."

"This summer," Lydia says, "when you were going over all the stuff with me? Answering my questions?"

"I remember." He turns to look at her for the first time, and he looks amused. There's a part of Lydia that feels like she's being left out on some big joke, but then the corners of her mouth turn up too, and then she's just staring at him, trying to remember what her question was.

"Do the others know all the stuff you were telling me? Everything you've figured out? Everything you're trying to figure out?"

"Bits and pieces," says Stiles. "But this is—"

"This is what you do," Lydia fills in for him. "You do that stuff for them."

"Seems like a fair trade, doesn't it?" Stiles asks hypothetically. "They stop me from getting my ass handed to my physically and I do the thinking." He pauses. "It's better than doing homework, anyways."

"What if I told you that I have something that will help you?"

He shakes his head.

"I definitely wouldn't be surprised."

"Why?"

"Because you know everything. You're Lydia Martin."

Not anymore, she thinks. Because that Lydia Martin got to choose who she wanted to be. And this one is sitting in wet, ill trimmed grass, watching the sun slip up over the horizon. Seeing the way the orange color splays out across Stiles' cheek as he looks at her with curiosity.

She plucks a piece of grass out of the ground, tying it into a knot with her fingers.

"Stiles, there was a face," Lydia says. "In the fire."

She doesn't see or hear a reaction from him.

"What did it look like?"

Lydia looks up.

"I can't describe it," she admits, feeling completely helpless. "It wasn't… human. I don't think it was human, at least."

"Kinda wish I was surprised."

Lydia laughs through her nose.

"Do you have any idea what it might be?"

"No effing clue," he promises. "Like, absolutely none."

She wants to laugh again, but the darkness of everything twists around her gut even as the sun gets brighter in the sky.

"How do you do this?"

When Lydia looks up, Stiles is staring intently at her.

"Tell me when you figure it out," he says, shrugging his shoulders and hunching over more. "I'm sure you'll become proficient at it before I even get my footing."

"You already have that."

"No," he disagrees.

"Stiles—"

"No," he says again. "Seriously."

She stares at him, feeling stubbornness creep up her gut, but then it slinks down again.

"We should probably go back to the bus."

"Yeah," agrees Stiles, but he swings his head back around so that he can look at the sunrise. "One sec, okay?"

"Sure."

Her eyes slither from the Stiles to the orange-red sun, then back again, and suddenly it slams into Lydia like a freight train: He would have died to save Scott. And he had once said he was in love with her. `And he would have burned if it meant that he could have died protecting someone he loves.

In one breath, one moment, Lydia is suddenly scared for a slew of new reasons.

2012— Lacrosse Jersey

"I can't believe Kira made me kickbox with her."

He's never quite seen Lydia look so disgruntled— she's hunched towards the side of his jeep, her head on the window as Beacon Hills flies by outside the door of the car.

"I don't think I've seen you in the gymnasium since, like, freshman year of high school."

"The showers are gross."

"Which explains why you're sweating on my car," Stiles teases, causing Lydia to lift her head from the window and shoot him a look that reads like a warning label. "Sorry."

"No you're not."

"How do you know?"

"You're never sorry."

"I'm sorry that we're having this conversation."

"See, that I can believe."

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he throws her a look of exasperation. Except Stiles has never actually been good at controlling his face around Lydia, and right now she's sitting in his car, slightly red-faced from sparring with Kira, a little bit sweaty, and trying not to smile because then he'll know he's won.

But then Stiles looks back at the road and he feels small fingers sliding over his on the stick shift, squeezing before settling there. He glances over at Lydia and finds her staring out the window, her face set into a determinedly casual expression. Her hand follows his when he shifts gears into park, and for a moment they sit in his driveway, silent. Then he flips his hand over and laces their fingers together, squeezing, and Lydia's smile finally breaks.

Because despite all of their fierce competitiveness, their games, and their challenges, he's already won.

"You can use my shower if you want," he offers. "But that doesn't mean you're getting out of helping me with our math project."

"You're right," Lydia says, unbuckling and getting out of the car. "Of the two of us, I'm far more likely to not do the math project."

"I wasn't going to say anything, but yeah. Your irresponsibility is becoming a burden on all of us."

She stomps up to the front door too emphatically, and Stiles takes his time digging through his pocket for the housekey, causing Lydia to tap her foot impatiently and throw him the most annoyed look she has in her arsenal.

"Are you doing this on purpose?" she asks, watching as he pulls a gum wrapper out of his pocket instead of the key.

"No, I really thought that was it," he says sardonically.

"Ugh," Lydia groans, and she bends over, lifts the loose brick, and sticks the key in the door before handing it back to Stiles and marching into the house, leaving him to replace it.

By the time he gets to his bedroom, Lydia has already shed most of her clothes and is searching through her bag for something.

"You can borrow mine," Stiles says, shrugging his backpack onto the floor and bouncing onto his bed, but Lydia comes up with her hairbrush and wiggles it at him.

"Found it," she says, tossing her hair over one shoulder and beginning to brush it out. She sits on the edge of the bed and turns back to look at Stiles. "So what did you do today?"

"Scott and I followed Coach around and made random noises to try to scare him."

"Did it work?"

"Well, it did until Scott scraped his wolf nails along a window and we didn't have anyplace to hide."

"And how, exactly, did you two get out of detention?" Lydia asks, rubbing her hand across Stiles' comforter. He fidgets nervously.

"I made the case that lacrosse practice is punishment enough."

"So you kissed Coach's ass?"

"Basically, yeah."

"Very admirable," Lydia says, standing up and dropping her hairbrush on the bed. "I'll be back soon. Can I borrow your razor?"

He shrugs.

"Sure." When he looks up, she's still standing there in her bra and underwear, looking greatly amused. "Oh. You were joking." Lydia nods, raising her eyebrows. "I don't know why I was expected to know that."

"Pick a movie," Lydia instructs, ignoring him. She throws her bra at him when she leaves, and when Stiles rolls off of his bed, stretching broadly, he realizes that Lydia's shit is covering his bedroom. Her bra is strewn across the floor, her bag is placed by his door, her hairbrush is on his bed, and her clothes have been folded onto his desk chair.

He's been thinking, lately, about what it's like to belong to someone. Of how being in love seems to have switched everything around, down to the way he breathes when he's around her. It's not supposed to be completely different, Stiles thinks, because he has spent his life loving Lydia Martin. But then she had told him she loved him back, and every moment suddenly felt so much more decadent.

There's this bedroom, and he'd grown up in it. This is the bedroom that he had played video games in as a teenager, and the bedroom that his mom had sung him to sleep in, and the bedroom that Scott had sat on the floor of as they created complex lego structures, yelling in pain whenever they set their elbows on the tiny pieces. And now there's pieces of someone else in this bedroom— her deoderant in his drawer, her nail polish on his desk, and a framed picture sitting on his bedside table, right where it belongs.

It's the same room as it's always been, but everything has bumped over, like the gears have shifted. And Stiles doesn't need to feel this way. He doesn't require it. Being in love isn't essential to him, or whatever. But Lydia is. And the way she makes him feel is.

He's starting to think that ownership, to him, is being so ardently dedicated to her that she can have any of his pieces, and it doesn't even matter how she handles them. It doesn't matter, but he trusts her to treat them well anyway. He trusts her to do that because he would do the same.

Stiles has been slowly working the two of them through his DVD collection, focusing on the stuff Lydia hasn't seen. He finds a movie quickly, then goes into the kitchen to make snacks, and is vegging out on the couch by the time Lydia walks into the family room.

"Hey," she says, her voice a little timid, and he's caught off guard by it until his eyes find her.

Lydia Martin is standing at the foot of his couch, biting her lower lip nervously as she stands in front of him with damp hair, navy blue underwear, and his lacrosse jersey.

"H...hi."

"Is this okay?" she asks, brows creasing. "I didn't feel like putting my dress back on."

Stiles lets his eyes scan up and down her body, attention caught for too long on the way her pale fingers are wrapping around the hem of the jersey, pulling it higher. On his way back up, he realizes that she's not wearing a bra.

"Uh, yeah, that's definitely okay."

"Good," Lydia whispers, walking a bit closer.

She stares at him, still seeming anxious, and it takes everything he has not to scare her away by telling her that she can leave whatever she wants on the floor of his bedroom because he wants her to infect and invade and infiltrate every part of his life. The more she sticks, the harder it will be to get rid of her, and that's such a good thing.

He suddenly feels the need to touch her pressing against his chest, but when he grabs for her hand and pulls her down to him, it's Lydia who ends up kissing him urgently.

"It looks really good on you," Stiles mumbles, pulling back and stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Jesus, I'm fucked up."

"Because I'm wearing your lacrosse jersey? Or for the myriad of obvious reasons that you probably shouldn't be thinking about when your braless girlfriend is throwing herself at you?"

"The first one," he says, mouth finding hers again as his hands sneak under the jersey and skim up her sides. Lydia shivers, trying to push him back, and Stiles goes willingly. "I found a movie," he says, dutifully reminded of it as Lydia slides his hands higher and places them on her breasts under the jersey. "Or we can do this. I think you probably already know my vote."

Her mouth curves up into a smile when his thumbs flick her nipples. Stiles doesn't let her take the jersey off for the rest of the night.

2000— Swings

Lydia has never liked the way grass feels under her knees.

She doesn't like having an itch, or a tickle, but the other kids don't seem to notice. They lie in the tall grass on the edge of the playground and stare up at the blue of the sky, pressing warm, sweaty hands together. Their fingers are curled around the sticks of popsicles, and Lydia lets the purple juice dribble down to her elbow towards her dress. It's a pretty blue thing, with little hearts all over it, and she likes it, but her mother likes it most.

This morning, as Steffie had hurriedly pulled the dress over Lydia's head, Lydia had looked at the brown of her eyes and decided that she likes brown eyes the best. Better than her mom's gray or her own hazel. Stef's hair had been curled at the ends, but when Lydia had asked Stef if she could curl her hair, Stef said they didn't have enough time, braiding her hair back quickly. Now, Lydia takes her sticky fingers and unravels her braid, letting it fall in waves around her elbows.

Once, she cut her hair and her mom had cried, so Lydia cried too. She never got her hair cut again, but Stef's is short short short, dancing prettily around her shoulders. Their mom will comment on it sometimes, and Stef just rolls her eyes, and then Lydia copies her and Stef gets yelled at and always stomps up to her room. Lydia doesn't mind, because she likes to follow her in there. Even if Steffie kicks her out, she always lets Lydia stay when she comes back in and sits quietly on the floor next to her bed.

Lydia is starting to learn that she can get whatever she wants if she keeps trying, or asking about it, or if she makes exactly the right pouty face.

But her favorite times are when their parents are having their discussion, because Stef always lets Lydia stay in her bedroom when those happen, no matter what. Lydia likes it when they talk too too loud and it hurts her ears, because then Stef will give Lydia her silver walkman and stick the headphones over Lydia's hair and let Lydia listen to her favorite Christina Aguilera CD.

"Lydia, your popsicle's all gross," Amanda giggles, her blond hair fanning out behind her as she wrinkles her small, button nose in disgust.

"That's what happens when it's hot," Lydia responds, because it is— the sun is glaring on the both of them, causing the tips of their noses to turn pink. Lydia already knows that her mother is going to be rubbing lotion on her later, but she has never minded the freckles on her cheeks or the light pink sunburn that stretches across the apples of her cheeks. She thinks it makes her look like a fairy princess.

"We should go to the swings," suggests Molly, and Lydia leans up on her elbows, squinting at the swings so that she can see if any of them are open.

"They're all taken," Amanda says, voicing what Lydia is thinking.

But she wants to go on the swings. She wants Molly to push her, and to do underdog, and then she wants to jump off of the swing and scrape her knee on the wood of the sandpit like last time. Her mom had put a bandaid on it when she got home, and Lydia hadn't even cried when the disinfectant stung her skin. And then her daddy had come home and kissed her knee and let her sit on his lap until she got bored.

"Let's go anyways," Lydia decides, getting up and brushing grass off of her dress and out of her hair, just like Stef does whenever they go to the park and sit shoulder to shoulder on their red and white checkered blanket, reading their respective books.

The boys almost always get the swings first, because they run as soon as recess begins, and they always elbow their way to the top of the line. But Lydia knows weakness when she sees it, and Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski are seated on the red swings but are slowing down, chatting to each other as they pump their legs halfheartedly through the air.

Lydia should rescue those swings. They're not being used to their full swing potential. She motions for Amanda and Molly to follow her, crooking a small finger at them before marching right up to Stiles and Scott.

"But my mom said that Victor Krum turned himself into a shark."

"A shark?" asks Scott, awed.

"Yeah!" Stiles is saying, nodding emphatically. "Not his whole body or anything, but his head was a shark."

"Whoa," Scott responds.

"We want your swings." Lydia has her legs spread wide and her arms crossed over her chest. There is still some sticky purple popsicle juice drying on her arm, but she ignores this. "We want your swings," she says again.

"We got here first," Stiles argues, revving up instantly. He always does. The teachers get annoyed quickly and remind him to play nicely with others, so he mostly stops talking to others and just stays with Scott McCall, who is quiet and sweet and still sucks his thumb when he's uncomfortable. Everybody teases him about it until Stiles starts yelling at them in long, rambling rants that usually include some commentary on their inability to nap well or the fact that they only ever have bad food to trade at snack time or a reminder of the time their parents brought in store bought cupcakes on their birthday.

People mostly leave Scott alone now.

"You're not really using them," Lydia refutes.

"We're on the swings."

"You're not even going that high."

"'Cause we're talking."

Stiles' eyes get bigger, and Lydia notices how brown they are because the sun hits them just right. For a second, she wants to smile. That just makes her frown deeper.

"Talking about what, exactly?"

"Harry Potter," Scott pipes up proudly. "Stiles' mom lets him read parts of the books."

"I've read all of the books," Lydia boasts instinctively.

Stiles' eyes widen.

"Seriously?" Scott says, eager.

"My sister has them all."

Stiles slows almost to a stop, leaning forward slightly.

"Hey, what happens in book three when—?"

Lydia nods at Molly, who takes her cue and sneaks up behind him, shoving him slightly. It's easy to get Stiles to fall forward, his limbs spinning through the air until he falls in the sand. Molly lets out an eager screech and hops onto the bright red swing while Stiles glares at Lydia.

"Give us the other swing, Scott," she says, not moving her eyes from Stiles.

He hops off of the swing without argument. Stiles stands up and brushes off his knees, his face red, his eyebrows set into a scowl.

"You suck, Lydia," he says, sticking his tongue out at her in the ultimate form of anger.

Lydia's eyes slide up towards the blue of the sky.

"I don't really care."

"Come on, Scott," Stiles says, grabbing his best friend by the t-shirt. "Let's go talk to someone who has an actual human soul."

Lydia doesn't even blink at those words as she hops onto the swing Scott had just vacated. She's got a popsicle stain on her dress, and today after school she's going to keep reading Little Women, and tonight she might cry until her mother lets her go out to the ice cream truck.

There are more important things to worry about than grumpy, frowny Stiles Stilinski.

2018— Blue, Red, & Gray

"Can you relax, please?"

Lydia carefully marks her spot in her book so that she can properly glare at Stiles, who is puttering around the kitchen anxiously, his left hand seeming to be permanently shoved into an oven mit.

"Anything for you, dear," he says absently. "But also no. No I cannot relax."

The sigh that Lydia releases is emphatic and annoyed. It causes Stiles to stop what he's doing for just one moment so that he can frown at her, pursing his lips threateningly at her dramatics. Lydia would feel annoyed at his pointedness if she weren't so thrilled that he had stopped moving. Stiles hasn't seen Scott since winter, and he's been a livewire for the past week, knowing that his best friend is going to be staying with them.

"Stiles, he'll be here soon. He already texted to say that his flight landed. Just… calm down."

"I can't, okay?" he says, licking his bottom lick impatiently. He begins to pace across the kitchen floor, gesturing wildly as he speaks. "The dinner rolls went in a skosh too late, my sauce doesn't smell right, my mashed potatoes are lumpy at best, and my fiancee is sitting on her ass watching me cook without offering to help."

"Stiles," Lydia says, slamming her book shut as she quickly loses her patience. "First off, your potatoes are store bought and there is probably not a damn lump in a single one. Okay? Second of all, you practiced making that sauce at least twice last week. Third, Scott isn't even a picky eater— remember the story about the time he shoved a whole chunk of wasabi in his mouth? Even if you fed him garbage he would probably still love it just because he gets to see you and you're feeding him. And fourth, what the hell is this song you've been playing on repeat for the past two and a half hours and when can it be out of my life?"

His frown gets deeper.

"You don't like The Who?"

"You like The Who?"

"Sure," Stiles says. He walks back over to his sauce, sniffs it, and blanches, reaching for the brown sugar. "My dad used to play them whenever he had to drive me and Scott places. We used to listen to their stuff a lot in middle school."

"And this song?"

"Makes me happy."

"Which is why you're not stressing out."

"Yep, exactly."

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and pointedly turns the volume up.

"C'mon. It's nice. It's a nice song."

"It's not very… you."

"Who are you to say what is me?"

Lydia takes a second to try to put the words together in her head. Stiles taps his foot impatiently against the floor.

"The one great love of your life," she answers, finally putting it together.

"This sauce is the one great love of my life," says Stiles, pointing. "You're just my live-in booty call."

"Well then, as your live-in booty call, I guess I don't have to worry about hurting your feelings."

"Right."

"You put too much curry in your sauce. Every time."

His mouth opens wide.

"What? What the fuck, Lydia—?"

"There's still time to fix it before Scott gets here," she says casually, opening her book again. She's flipping the page when her eyes catch her engagement ring, glinting at her from her fourth finger. Lydia stares at it for a moment, thinking about Stiles buying it over Christmas break in California, and how Scott had gone with him, and how Stiles does everything important in his life with Scott, but he also does so much for her, for Lydia, and she loves that about him. She loves his ability to love selflessly, in a manner that is beautifully unhindered.

Before Stiles, Lydia didn't know how to be in love in an honest way.

She stands up and walks over to the stove, where Stiles is stirring his sauce, almost frenzied. Lydia wraps her hand around his wrist, stilling it, and she nudges Stiles over with her hip.

"Let me," she suggests, and he nods before moving away and hopping up on the kitchen counter, watching her like a hawk. "So, this song—"

"Blue, Red, and Grey."

"Right. What do you like about it?"

His lips quirk up.

"'I like every second, so long as you are on my mind,'" Stiles says, singing along quietly with the music. "'Every moment has its special charm. It's all right when you're around, rain or shine.'"

"Me?"

"Since the first time I heard it."

She stops stirring and turns her face up towards him, suddenly snagged on the brightness in his eyes and the contented smile that is drifting lazily across his lips. The look on his face opens up something in Lydia's chest, and she feels whatever he is feeling circle between them, eventually settling inside of Lydia.

"You're happy," she says, breathless with it.

"Yeah," he replies, voice cracking a little bit. He's looking at her like she's crazy, like she has to know that, but it's not Lydia's fault that it hits her at random moments.

They had unravelled so efficiently; fallen into pieces that Lydia hadn't ever thought would be picked up. She had watched Stiles come completely apart until he wasn't recognizable to anyone anymore, including himself. And through all of that, Lydia had dug her nails into her palms and not said anything because she had felt powerless. Like she wasn't enough to solve him— strong enough, or good enough, or fixed enough after breaking so many times herself.

But the moment she had let him see himself through her eyes was the moment she saw that they could be okay. Both of them. And they could be okay together, and now Stiles Stilinski is sitting on their kitchen counter, running a hand through his hair as he watches her watching him, both of them completely open to each other. When the left side of his mouth tugs up, Lydia feels herself disassembling in a completely different way, in a way that's going to be okay because they are on the same page of their storybook, and they have been for years now.

"I love you," she murmurs. Stiles jerks his chin back slightly, surprised.

"I love you too," he says automatically, but it's bigger when Lydia says it because she doesn't wear it on her sleeve like he does. She keeps it pressed against herself and only lets him have the words when she can't hold them in anymore. "You're happy too."

"Well, I love you," she says, because it's the right answer.

Stiles turns the heat down on the burner. He slips off of the counter and places his hands on her neck, his thumbs skimming over her ears as he leans down and kisses her. Lydia pulls away before either of them wants her to, suddenly aware of the fact that their apartment is about to get invaded by somebody else.

"Do we have time to have a quickie before Scott gets here?"

"Definitely," Stiles confirms.

"We can just lock the door," Lydia reasons.

"Yup," agrees Stiles, slowly turning them around towards the kitchen entryway, his lips back on Lydia's. "Oh, shit."

"What?" Lydia asks, biting her lip as she pulls back.

"I… I gave him a key. He has a key."

She groans, knocking her head back against a wall.

"Goddamn it, Stiles."

They both pause, looking at each other.

"...Wanna risk it?" Stiles asks.

"Ugh. Fine."

She's smiling when she answers, and the song is still playing on repeat in the background when they close their bedroom door.

2013— Graduation Robes

Stiles can't imagine doing what Lydia is doing right now.

She is standing in front of their entire graduating class, looking calmly out at them as she speaks clearly and eloquently. He can see her hands skimming over the index cards that she has set on the podium in front of her, but mostly she's been making eye contact with the crowd. Her eyes are dancing all over, looking for the pack members as she speaks. There's Kira, all the way in the back with the other people whose last names start with 'Y.' Plus Malia, who looks like she doesn't quite know how she got here in the first place. She's looking around at all of the people with slight awe on her face, because this is the first time she's ever done anything quite like this. And then there's Scott, who Lydia is sitting near, and who had kept her index cards in his pocket for her until she had to go on stage. Isaac is in the stands, next to Christ and Melissa and Stiles' dad, and Stiles sees Lydia smile at him when she gets to the portion of her speech about obstacles.

Mostly she's been avoiding looking at him, because every time she does he makes a goofy face to try to get her to break. But Lydia is nothing if not professional, and she looks across at him stoically before moving her eyes away from him, back across the hundreds of people who are seated in the stands.

If the speaker had been anyone else, Stiles would be desperately waiting for them to finish. But Lydia's voice amplified across the lacrosse field by giant speakers and a microphone is making him forget all about how sweaty it is in his bright red graduation robes, or how nervous he is to have to meet Lydia's relatives who drove up for her graduation party. Instead of thinking about that, he's thinking about all of the times she had recited the speech to him.

He thinks about the time she had whispered it into his neck, trying to give him something to concentrate on so that he would actually be able to focus on what she was saying. Stiles thinks about the day she had finished it, when she had read the whole thing to him in the passenger seat of his jeep, and the way he had held her left hand under the table in study hall while she and Kira edited the speech together, over and over. He pictures her pacing across her bedroom while he lies on her bed. Pictures the way her fingers fold over the ends of the flannel she's wearing as she recites what she can remember of the speech, testing it out on him.

The terribly kept secret is that Stiles doesn't actually have the capacity to be overly critical of Lydia, but he does his best for her.

Right now, though, he doesn't feel anything but pride. It swells all the way through his body, replacing any other feelings of anxiety or resentment or fear at the future. Because after everything she'd been through, Lydia is delivering the valedictorian speech that she was supposed to give all along. It hadn't mattered that her entire life had been swept up in a tornado and whirled around until the whole world was unrecognizable. Through all that, she still managed to make it to MIT. To this speech.

And to him, which absolutely shouldn't matter the most to Stiles, but it does. It does because he gets to keep Lydia after this. He gets to go home with her and call her at night before he goes to sleep and wake up in the middle of the afternoon to a text from her telling him to get his lazy ass out of bed.

She finishes her speech and Stiles doesn't mean to get choked up, he totally doesn't, but then Lydia is being handed her diploma and the first thing she does is look out at him with this small, open mouthed laugh on her lips. Like she can't believe it's happening. Like she thinks it's all going to go away if she blinks, and maybe it will, but at least they're both having the same delusion.

They all parade across the stage, one by one, two by two, and when Stiles is passing Scott in the lineup, his best friend gives him a thumbs up. He gives him a cheeky smile, lightened by the euphoria of the moment, and Stiles looks through the crowd to find his dad while he is being handed his diploma. Stiles unzips his graduation robes as soon as everybody is finally released from their seats, and then his body is being slammed into and battered around while he looks for his friends.

Kira finds Lydia first, and Stiles sees the two of them hugging tightly, spinning in a circle together. He lingers in the background, waiting for them to finish their embrace, and that's when Scott comes up behind him.

"Wow," he says.

"Wow," replies Stiles.

"Lydia did a great job."

"She did," agrees Stiles. "I'm a little glad I never have to hear that speech again, though."

"No you're not," Scott says, rolling his eyes. "Stop being an idiot."

"Okay, I'm not."

The girls stop hugging, and Lydia's eyes search the crowd until they land on Stiles', slightly to the left of her. He raises his eyebrows at her, she raises hers back, and when she crosses her arms and shrugs her shoulders, he sighs heavily, handing the diploma to Scott.

"Can you hold this for a second?" he asks once Scott already has it in his arms. "Thanks."

Then Stiles is running at Lydia, ignoring the way his red robes flutter around his ankles because she's smiling so big, and she's taking small steps towards him until suddenly his arms are around her waist and he's lifting her slightly, letting her lower her mouth to his. Her diploma is stabbing him in the shoulder as Lydia wraps her arms around his neck, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that it's way too hot outside, and that there's about eight bazillion people crowded around the lacrosse field right now, because it is graduation day and he is kissing Lydia and he is so effing proud of her.

"I'm so effing proud of you," he tells her, lowering her back to the ground. "That speech was—" he spends a moment searching for the words, then settles on: "-insanely hot."

Lydia laughs, her cheeks starting to flush slightly.

"You're getting burned," she says, brushing her thumb across the top of his cheek.

"Eh," he says. "You can kiss it and make it better."

"There is no scientific proof that that method is actually effective."

"Eh," says Stiles again. "I'll take my chances."

"Are you excited for the party tonight?" Lydia teases, sliding her small hand into Stiles' and looking up at him with a small smirk on her face.

"Sure," says Stiles, starting to walk towards his dad instinctively. "I've been practicing that face I try to make when I'm politely pretending to be entertained."

"Never seen it," Lydia says musingly. "I didn't know you had it in you to be polite."

"I'm still in training wheels."

"It's the effort that counts. And, of course, my family not hating you."

"Well, your mom already does, and your dad is bound to on principle."

"On principle?"

"You know. Guy currently dating daughter is public enemy number one."

She wrinkles her nose.

"I'd like to say that my dad's more evolved than that, but he's absolutely not."

He knows too much about her family background to actually think that Lydia's dad's opinion of him could have any sort of effect on their relationship, but it seems normal to feel some sort of concern about it.

"Lydia, that speech was amazing," says Scott, bounding up to them and bending down so that he can smack a kiss onto Lydia's cheek.

"Thank you." She beams at him, then notices Stiles trying to loosen his black skinny tie out of the corner of her eye and slaps his hand away. He whimpers in annoyance, and Lydia turns to look at him sternly. "Pictures."

"But—"

She turns away before he can complain, and Stiles knows better than to piss off his girlfriend when it comes to semi-formalwear.

They get Liam to take the photos, configuring themselves into different positions and groupings between the pack members and their parents. There's a picture of Scott, Stiles, their parents, and Lydia which Stiles knows for sure is going to end up hanging up in his bedroom, or maybe it will replace the lock screen he currently has of Lydia's head on his shoulder as she blinks sleepily up at the camera.

"Are you ready to go?" Lydia asks, turning to Stiles when they're done taking pictures.

"Are you sure you want to come?" he questions. He grabs both of her hands in his, watching the red sleeves of her robes slide up her forearms. "You don't have to."

"Of course I have to come," she refutes. "Are you ready to go or aren't you?"

He hates this. He hates doing this, and he doesn't think he'll ever be ready, but he swallows down the sadness and loosely entwines their hands, starting to walk across the field with her. They're silent until they get to the jeep, where they toss their mortarboards in the back, and then Lydia buckles her seatbelt and starts filling the dead air with silent, soothing chatter as Stiles grows progressively more quiet.

He can't believe she knows that this is what he needs. He can't believe she knows to do this. He wants to thank her, but there aren't any words, and when her eyes land on his trembling hands, he has a feeling she already knows how grateful he is, just from that.

They pull into the shady cemetery. Stiles drives to his mother's grave on autopilot— he honestly thinks he could get here if he were blinded, despite the fact that he doesn't visit nearly as often as he should. And when he pulls over to the side and they get out of the jeep, both of them are still wearing their robes like it's some silent agreement that it's the respectful thing to do.

Lydia lets him go ahead of her when they are a few steps away from the grave. Stiles leaves her behind, squatting down in front of it and tracing his fingers over the engraved lettering on the headstone. He can feel something prickling up his throat, the same feeling that he'd had when he'd seen Lydia receive her diploma. But this is more muted, somehow. There is something about this type of grief that has to be quiet, or else he won't be able to pretend that it doesn't hurt anymore.

"Hey, mom," whispers Stiles, just loud enough so that Lydia can hear him. He doesn't know why, but he needs her to be a part of this. To feel like she's supposed to be here with him, because he thinks she is. "So, um, I graduated from high school today." He swallows hard and feels the twist of his sadness settle low in his stomach. "It's weird, because I did so much in high school that… wasn't about high school. That was bigger, I guess? And, like, there's a part of me that feels like I'm supposed to think this isn't a big deal. Except it is, because I made it all the way here and I… I want to be here still. I want to keep on living my life even though it's really, really scary. So, yeah, this feels kinda childish, but it also feels really... real? Just as real as all of that other stuff that happened. Just as important." He breathes out heavily, digging his fingers into the grass for a moment before pulling them out slightly and letting them trace the dirt. "I guess I just didn't think I'd get here." Stiles looks back at Lydia, whose brows are pulled tight as tears well up in her eyes. "Sometimes I didn't know if we'd get here," he admits, still looking at her. "Maybe we didn't. Not all the way."

She takes a step towards him instinctively, then loiters back as if she's not quite sure if she's supposed to interrupt him. But Stiles smiles at her, small and steady, and when he stands up, Lydia comes forward, locking their fingers together.

"Okay?" she murmurs to him. She doesn't ask if he's okay because she already knows the answer. But she wants to know if this moment is fine, if it's what it's supposed to be.

In response, Stiles turns back to the headstone.

"Mom, this is the girl I'm in love with." His mouth starts to twist up into a smile. "You know, Lydia Martin? The one I never quit talking about in elementary school?" He brushes a tear away from Lydia's cheek with his thumb. "I sort of… kept on loving her." Lydia laughs through her nose, rolling her eyes and brushing away another tear. "She makes me feel like everything is going to be okay."

Lydia kisses his shoulder, and Stiles doesn't know how to say, with Lydia here, that he plans on marrying this girl. On spending his whole life with her, because after she had saved him over and over again, he cannot even fathom letting either of them walk away from what they have. But he's scared that saying it out loud will jinx it, so instead he turns to Lydia and thinks it. Thinks about what it would feel like if they could stay. If they could be glued together in exactly the way that would allow them to never have to come apart.

"Anyways," says Stiles, "I love you, mom. And I really hope you're proud of me." I really hope you've forgiven me, he adds silently.

When he takes a step backwards and Lydia follows him, he realizes that her hand in his makes him feel whole again. She makes him feel sewn together, unlike how he usually is when he leaves his mother's grave. They walk back to the jeep, and Lydia is about to get into the passenger side when Stiles pushes her lightly against the door and spends a long time with his lips pressed to her temple.

"You want to drive home?" he asks, looking down at her. Lydia's eyes widen.

"Actually?"

He nods, then raises his hand and dangles the keys in front of her. Lydia snatches them out of his hand eagerly and settles into the driver's seat while Stiles takes his place on the passenger's side, rolling down the window and letting Beacon Hills slide by them.

2019— Nails

Stiles' dad had told him, a few Christmases ago, that he used to be a sound sleeper.

They'd been standing in the hallway outside of the bedroom Stiles had grown up in. Lydia was already asleep on his bed, tucked under the covers with her fingers curled into a fist near her mouth. And when Stiles noted that he was sleeping better than he had in high school, his dad had recalled that they never used to be able wake Stiles up when he was a baby. He slept through anything.

Neither of them had felt the need to point out the exact moment that had ended. It's the most obvious thing in the world, but it still makes Stiles feel lost and sad and eternally, chemically different, if only for a moment.

Tonight, he wakes up almost as soon as Lydia does. When he reaches over and turns on the lamp that he has on his bedside table, he finds her at the edge of their bed, knees drawn up to her chest, still shuddering slightly from her nightmare.

"You okay?" he asks, frowning in an automatic defense against the light.

"It's 3am," Lydia answers, not turning around. "Go back to bed."

They both know he's not going to do that, so Stiles slides up to the edge of the bed with Lydia, wrapping her up in his arms and kissing the top of her head.

"What did you dream about?"

She's got her head down, staring at the red nails that are sitting in her lap.

"It was a premonition."

"Did you know the person?"

"No."

"Can we do anything about it?"

Lydia's body trembles.

"No. We can't."

"Okay. Okay, so just breathe. Breathe."

"It's so loud."

"I know. Breathe."

She closes her eyes and slowly breathes in, seeming fragile and breakable. Stiles wraps his arms tighter around her as if he can keep her pulled together just with his body.

He's silent for a few moments, waiting for her to indicate what she wants. Stiles isn't used to being still, but Lydia doesn't keep him waiting for a long time. She lays her head on his bare chest and runs her nails lightly up and down his skin in a way that is all too reminiscent of the way she touches him when they're fucking.

Stiles has scratches everywhere now, all over his chest and back. Lydia's nails reopen as many scars as they cover— but he wants these new ones. They cover all of the bad shit, the scars that weren't his choices, and he likes having the choice of being marked. Likes being marked by her in general, even when it hurts, because sometimes he's spiralling and he needs that.

Just like she needs him right now.

"Lydia?" he says coaxingly, trying to see if her hint is what he thinks it is. She kisses him in response, open-mouthed and hot and with teeth that scrape over his bottom lip, wanting him to be rough with her. "Okay," he says, voice quiet, and he rolls them over so that he's on top of her, pressing her body into the mattress.

Lydia lifts her arms over her head immediately, waiting for him to take her tank top off, leaving her in nothing but the panties she had worn to bed.

"Stiles," she sighs, arching her chest towards him as his lips latch onto her nipple. Her hands find his hair, and he hums contently for a second before remembering the fact that her whole body is on edge and oversensitive from the voices that are invading her headspace.

"Tell me," he says, looking up at her and waiting. Lydia closes her eyes, her fingers finding her nipples when he moves his hand down to rub against her clit over her panties.

"Off," Lydia pants. "And then… just… drown it out, Stiles."

Her face is so vulnerable that he can't help but feel like he has to fix her, just like he does every time they go through this. It's not like he doesn't have his moments, the ones where she does the same thing to pull him out of his nightmares. When it all becomes too much, they need other kinds of sensation. Other ways to become overstimulated.

Which is why he's got two fingers inside of Lydia and she's squirming against his hand, making loud, breathy noises that seem higher pitched than usual. Stiles presses down on her stomach with his left hand, holding her in place, and Lydia lifts one of her hands into her hair to tug at the source of her pain.

He's painfully hard in his sweatpants now, and Lydia must know it, because she opens her eyes and bites her lip, staring at him like she's expecting him to understand just from the look on her face.

"What?" he asks.

"More," she answers clearly.

He kicks his pajama bottoms off, turning back to Lydia, whose red nails are still pinching at her nipples. Stiles slithers up her body, kissing her on the lips before he positions himself at her entrance, rubbing against her clit a few times before he slides in. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against hers, overwhelmed by the sudden sensation.

"Fuck," he says, knuckles turning white as he grips the headboard.

"Yeah," Lydia agrees, the word released in one breath. "Come on, Stiles. Come on."

He moves his hips, sliding his elbows down onto the bed next to her body as he picks up speed. Stiles' heart is slamming against his chest, rocketing, and Lydia's hands find his neck, letting her fingers stroke him there as he thrusts in and out of her. Her gasps are turning into full out moans as her breathing speeds up.

"Lydia," he mumbles when her legs wrap around his hips, heels digging into the top of his ass.

"Talk to me," she pleads. "Stiles. Please. Talk… talk to me. Talk over the voices."

"Feels so good," he mutters, dipping his head to her neck. She's salty with sweat, but it's a scent that he's familiar with, and he can feel himself inching closer at the feeling of Lydia's throat vibrating with her groans, increasing in volume. Lydia slides one hand off of his jaw, down his neck and chest and stomach, scratching along the hair that trails down his naval until she finally reaches her clit and begins rubbing it in circles. "Lyds, you feel so good… I fucking can't stand it… can't stand how much I want you... just… all the fucking time. Fuck."

"Yeah?" she says breathily. "I want you too."

"So tight, and so warm, and… mine," he gasps against her neck.

She laughs breathily, dragging her other hand up to bury it in his hair as she tilts her head back against the pillow, exposing more neck for him to press hot, open mouthed kisses again.

"Possessive much?"

She's trying to tease him, but it comes out in a long, breathy groan that finishes off with a whine as his hips jerk harder.

"Always," he promises. "God, keep touching yourself," he adds, pushing up onto his hands to make it easier for her.

"No arguments here," Lydia moans. She rubs herself until she comes, clenching around him, and he whines deep in his throat at the feeling.

"Shit," he says. "'m close."

"Okay," she replies, stroking his neck with the fingers that had just been on her clit. "Stiles, come for me." He's driving himself deeper inside of her now, his eyes firmly closed, and his words are starting to become completely incoherent, just swears and gasps. "After you come inside of me, Stiles, I want you to go down on me," Lydia says, trailing her fingers from his neck to his lips. He darts his tongue out for them, and Lydia slides one into his mouth for him to suck on. "Can you do that?" He swears her voice gets sweeter as she says, "For me?"

She removes her finger from his mouth and grips his chin, turning him to look at her.

"Fuck, Lydia," he complains. "You're seriously not playing fair."

He comes embarrassingly quickly after that, only giving himself a few moments to catch his breath before he slides down her body and spreads her legs.

"Sensitive," she says warningly, sitting up on her elbows, but he knows her body well enough to know exactly how and where to touch her, and soon Lydia has melted back into the pillow, her arm slung over her eyes. For Stiles, it's an insane sensory overload as he ruts against the bed and lets his tongue and teeth torture Lydia. She grabs for his hand in the last few moments before she comes, rubbing her thumb across it before her hips lifting towards his mouth, chasing his tongue with her body. By the time Stiles makes her come, he's whining pathetically into her, his hand diving for his dick to jerk himself off.

They lie there for a moment, Lydia concentrating on slowing her breathing, Stiles concentrating on watching her do it. Her chest and cheeks are flushed red, and there's a small smile on her lips as she sucks absently on her fingers.

Stiles drops a kiss on Lydia's hip before he rolls off of their bed and goes into the bathroom, wetting a washcloth and bringing it back for her. He pulls the blankets back up from the end of the bed after she discards the washcloth, then gets under the covers with Lydia, curving his body around hers.

"Feel better?" he asks, chin on her shoulder.

"Mhm," Lydia sighs, turning around so that they're spooning. Stiles sighs happily, wiggling closer to her. "Did I scratch you?"

He glances over at his hand, where there's a few angry red marks.

"Huh. Yeah."

"Sorry."

She doesn't sound sorry at all.

"No idea how I'm going to explain that at work tomorrow."

"Say the dog scratched you."

"What?"

"Blame Luke."

"Why would I blame our poor, innocent animal?"

"Well, you could just say it's a sex injury."

His smile turns dreamy.

"Good call."

"I was joking!"

"Nope, I'm going to go with sex injury."

Lydia yawns.

"I'm going to eviscerate you for this in the morning."

"Looking forward to it."

"Stiles?"

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me for sex. It's in the love-slave contract."

"Thank you," she says again, nuzzling against his arm where it rests above her head. "You're— god, thank god you're not looking at me right now— you're incredible. You're so good to me, and I don't deserve you but I don't know what I would do without you." He's silent. "Stiles?"

"Just… basking."

"You're such a shit."

"I love you."

"I know."

"...Did you just?"

"Yes. You're welcome."

"Oh my god."

"Go to sleep, okay? We have work tomorrow."

"Goodnight."

"'night."

2011— Strawberry Schnapps

The front door of Stiles' house has chipped blue paint. Lydia has been staring at it for ten minutes, her eyes tracing patterns in the scraped wood. There's something desolate about it. It's a color that is supposed to be vibrant and beautiful, but it's a touch too dark. Too navy. Next to the blue of Stiles' jeep, it seems dreary.

Lydia doesn't know which is more pathetic. Her, or the door that her fingers are tracing, scraping off some of the paint with her unmanicured nails. She likes the pale color against the cheap paint job. Likes the way it seems to breathe some life into the color.

But she doesn't know how she got here, or why she is here, or why she feels sick to her stomach. She just knows that she should be going in. She can feel it thumping through her; it's instinct. Whatever is on the other side of the door is important, and it's Lydia's job to figure out why. It's her job to knock.

Her knuckles rap quietly, then more resoundingly before she takes a step back from the door and waits for someone to answer it. When it does swing open, Sheriff Stilinski is on the other side. His eyes don't register surprise when he sees her. Not like they did the first time. Instead, he just offers her a small smile and allows her into the house.

"It's late."

He doesn't seem upset, but the lie slides easily off of Lydia's tongue anyways.

"My printer broke," she says, answering immediately. "And you guys live so close, I thought it would be alright."

"Sure it is," says Stiles' dad.

"Thank you."

"Stiles is in his room," he says. "As usual."

"Is he asleep?" Lydia asks, even though she thinks she knows the answer. "It doesn't get easier. Just so you know."

"Naw," says the sheriff, closing the front door. "Kid stays up all night on that stupid computer game he likes to play, with all the wolves and lizards."

"Ha," Lydia says, because it seems right. "Sounds like a fun game."

"It's addictive, is what it is," the sheriff says as Lydia starts to climb the stairs.

Lydia knows the feeling. She's starting to think that his son is addictive too.

She tells herself that she isn't nervous as she knocks on the door to Stiles' room.

"What?" comes a voice, sounding a little alarmed.

"It's… Lydia?"

She squeezes her eyes shut.

"L-Lydia?"

"Yes," she says, laughing a little. "Can I come in?"

"Lydia," he replies.

Stiles is sitting on the floor of his dimly lit bedroom, staring up at her with parted lips and amazed eyes. When Lydia sees the bottle of strawberry schnapps that is cradled between his crossed legs, she slams the door shut instantly, a crease forming in her brow.

"Are you drunk?"

"Mmmm," he answers happily.

"Why are you drunk, Stiles?"

"Because drunk Stiles has it a helluva lot easier than real Stiles."

Lydia doesn't know why she gets onto the floor with him, settling next to him at the bottom of his bed. But maybe it's because she remembers what happened the last time she had been on the floor with him, and how it had started to alter the tick of her heartbeat. Maybe she wants to know if he could do it again. There's a part of her that is achingly, exhaustingly curious for him. And it's so tedious, waiting to find out if the exhilaration he brings her is something that could last. Waiting to see if they could repeat it together.

She already knows that he can continue to surprise her. But Lydia wants to know if she can keep getting swept up in the dip of his upper lip, and the moles on his neck, and the way his eyelashes look when he slowly blinks in his most sarcastic moments.

"Real Stiles is drunk Stiles."

He frowns down at the schnapps.

"Are you actually here?"

"If I wasn't, would I be able to answer?"

He laughs, wide and open mouthed.

"Yeah."

She doesn't know what to say, so she lets her eyes skid around his room. They land on a glass of water that Stiles has set for himself on his bedside table, and Lydia gets up so that she can grab it. When she sits down next to Stiles, he takes the water from her without any prompting, then gulps it down.

"Are you okay?" she asks when he finishes drinking.

At first, he doesn't answer. When he does, he's careful with his words.

"Drunk Stiles has an easier time falling asleep."

"Is that why you're—?"

"Yeah," he says, and then he takes a long sip of the schnapps. "God, it's so gross."

"It's too sweet."

"Yeah, exactly."

"So are you a beer man?"

"God, no. Hate beer."

He sips again. Offers her some. When Lydia declines, Stiles gulps more, and she doesn't know if she should be panicked or scared but then his head is on her shoulder and he's looking up at her with doleful brown eyes.

"What?" she asks, sensing the question.

"Has it gotten easier for you yet?"

"It isn't going to, Stiles."

"I kinda thought you would get there before I did."

"Well. You're the one getting drunk by yourself on your bedroom floor. So I may not be doing much better, but—"

"I'm freaking out, Lydia."

"Why?"

He stops leaning at her and looks across at her, frowning in concentration.

"Melissa gave… she gave me stuff to sleep." His words are slurred, and he seems exhausted. "Earlier today. She gave me stuff to sleep."

"Did it work?"

Stiles nods, biting his lower lip.

"But the writing on the board, Lydia. The writing on the board."

"The writing that spelled out Kira's name?"

"Lydia—"

"Stiles?"

"I wanna tell you… I gotta tell you…"

"Are you okay, Stiles?"

He crumples forward, back hunching over as his head goes into his hands.

"'m so drunk."

"I can absolutely tell."

"Tell. I wanna tell," he says, looking very concerned.

"Tell me what?"

She moves down slowly, trying to align her face with his so that she can see him.

Stiles peers out at her from between his spread fingers.

"Lydia."

She sighs.

"Stiles."

A beam stretches out across his face, and he tilts forward, head landing in her lap. At first, Lydia is taken aback by the contact. Then he lets his lids flutter closed and he makes her his all over again; captivates her with the way he smacks his lips and languidly noses at her hip.

"'m so glad you're here."

"I'm glad I'm here too," she says softly. Tentatively, Lydia raises her hand and places it on Stiles' head, stroking his hair lightly. He sighs.

"Christ, Lydia. 'm so… 'm so frigging in love with you. 'm crazy about you." Her heart seems to still. Not stop completely, maybe, but it slows suddenly. It slows because she has all the time in this world to have moments with this silly, sweet boy who currently has every part of her caught on his fingers as they curl around the tips of her hair. "I'm so in love with you."

This time, he sounds more clear. More awake. She closes her eyes and files it away, wanting to save it for later for when she needs it to organize herself.

"Let's get you some more water," she says, but he nuzzles into her again and Lydia doesn't move. Can't move. "Stiles?"

"Mmmm?"

He sounds like he's almost asleep, and that's when she realizes that she's still stroking his hair, her heart in her fingertips.

She'll get up in a few moments, maybe. She'll get up when she's figured most of the maybes out.

2008— Streamers

Stiles is pretty sure they've played three Katy Perry songs in a row.

He knows that they're Katy Perry because he'd had this exact CD in his stereo at home, and he'd played 'Hot N' Cold' over and over again until he had almost yanked the boombox out of the wall. It had cumulated in Scott walking in on him as he danced around with his hair brush, and Stiles had snapped the CD in half so fast that Scott had almost died laughing. But now, as his classmates hop up and down to the music, shouting the words that Stiles knows way too well, he can feel his shoulders involuntarily wiggling to the music.

"You're a great dancer," Scott says, fake sincerity written across his eyes. Stiles doesn't even check to see where the dance chaperones are before he flips off Scott.

"Like you're better," he says.

"I am!" Scott insists. Stiles raises his eyebrows. "My mom used to salsa dance with me when I was a kid."

"Not helping your own case, buddy."

"Whatever. At least I'm not trying to dance."

"Neither am I!"

They've been pretty permanently glued to this wall since they'd arrived two hours ago. In fact, Stiles feels like he's spent the whole year pressed against this wall. Their middle school holds informal dances on the last Friday of every month, and he's gotten very used to walking in and watching everybody else jump up and down in synch, sweating their way through the night. But tonight is the last dance of the year, and Stiles had been stuffed into a shirt and a tie while all of the girls had put on short, sparkly dresses.

He's been looking forward to this dance all year, because tonight's the night. Tonight is the night Stiles is going to ask Lydia Martin to dance.

To be fair, he'd been planning on asking her at all of the other dances too. Except there's always something else to do, like banging his head to Mr. Brightside with Scott or teasing Andre about the fact that his mom always volunteers to chaperone. It's the last dance of the year, though, and there's no more time for excuses.

"I just have to buck up and do it," Stiles says out loud, nodding concretely.

"Thinking about Lydia again?" Scott asks, somehow sounding both bored and exasperated simultaneously.

"She's gonna say yes," Stiles tells himself, just as the song changes. He looks across the crowds of students and finds Lydia looking delighted as See You Again by Miley Cyrus starts blaring through the speakers. They play it at every dance, but she always looks exhilarated every time she hears it, and when she smiles, Stiles gets to look at her dimples, which is usually the best part of his week.

"If you think that, why won't you ask her?"

"I'm biding my time," Stiles says importantly, but when he turns his head, Scott is tickling him under the nose with a red streamer.

"'cause you're scared."

Stiles sneezes angrily.

"Okay," he says, knocking the streamer away from his face. "If you're so smart, why won't you ask Jenny?"

Scott looks down immediately.

"She doesn't like me."

"She clearly likes you," replies Stiles, exasperated. "Look, she's staring at you right now."

"She's not."

"She looked away as soon as you looked at her!" Stiles shouts towards the ceiling. "God, is anyone on the planet as dense as you are? I swear to God, if a girl likes me, I'm gonna notice it in two seconds flat and I'm gonna ask her out."

"Hey, Erica Reyes just waved at you."

"I mean I'm just way more perceptive than you are, Scotty, and I think you might have a problem."

"If you're so 'perceptive,' why are you too chicken to ask out Lydia?"

"Are we seriously back here again?"

"We always end up back here because you haven't been able to stop talking about her since the third grade."

"The third grade."

"Yes."

"The third grade, where I noticed her before anybody else did, which is absolute proof of my observational skills."

"Oh for the love of Pete."

"And it's just too bad that you don't see the world the way I do, because if you'd been faster than me, you could have had Lydia first."

"Neither of us have Lydia. Not that I would want her, by the way. I never thought I could be so sick of a person I've only talked to about four times in my life."

"Five."

"Five?"

"You always forget about the time you lost your retainer in the trash and she told you that you were gross."

"My bad."

"It's fine. I forgive you."

"Gee, thanks."

"Can you shut up? I'm trying to gather my courage."

"Gather away," Scott says, shrugging. "I believe in you."

Stiles is pretty sure that Scott doesn't believe in him. But he doesn't care. There's something right about tonight— something right about the way Lydia's deep purple dress glows under the fake disco lights, and the way she looks as she twirls back and forth, her fingers curled lightly around Becca Newley's wrist as they dance together. Lydia's crowd has been on the dance floor the whole night, and at this point, her cheeks are flushed pink and her updo is falling down. But Stiles thinks she looks absolutely beautiful.

When he thinks about her over the summer, he's going to think about her right here. He's going to picture her standing under the red streamers that are dipping low from the ceiling, laughing at something Becca said before she goes back into the lyrics of the song. Stiles likes Lydia like this. When he looks at her like this, he can reconcile her with the girl he grew up with in his elementary school. The one who stomped all over everybody else because she was going to get what she wanted, peers be damned.

He doesn't really recognize her anymore, but he thinks maybe it's because she wants different things.

Maybe she could want him, though. Who is he to say that she doesn't? They've grown up together, and Lydia doesn't know he's in love with her. What if she's doing the same thing? What if she feels that thing too? The thing that Stiles can't explain; the thing that's right about them. What if she's been trying to keep it in just as much as Stiles has, and what if both of them are sick of it?

"I'm gonna go," Stiles decides, straightening up. The song changes, a slower acoustic number that has everybody scrambling for a dance partner. Lydia is about to grab the hand of Justin Rhodes when Scott pushes Stiles forward with all his might. He stumbles, ending up right behind Lydia, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat.

Her shoulder is bare, and when he taps it timidly, he feels like he's going to throw up.

Lydia turns around, her expectant green eyes dimming a little bit when she sees who it is.

"Oh," she says. "Hi, Stiles."

"Hi," replies Stiles. "Um, I just wanted to say… hi."

"Okay," Lydia responds. "Hi."

"And also I really liked sitting behind you in English all year."

"That's… nice."

She looks a little weirded out. He should probably back off.

"And also… um… I think you look really pretty right now."

Yep, yeah, no right, mhm, he's definitely going to go ram his head into a wall after this.

But Lydia looks towards the floor, a small smile on her lips.

"Thanks, Stiles," she says.

"Kaybye," he says hurriedly, but Lydia grabs him by the arm and taps a nearby girl on the shoulder.

"Lisa?" she says. "I found someone for you to dance with."

In two seconds flat, Stiles has a random blonde girl shoved into his arms, looking up at him with surprise.

"Hello?" she says.

"Hey," Stiles replies, eyes flickering back up at Lydia. She's staring at them expectantly, and when she sees his hesitance, she widens her eyes, annoyed, and gestures with a jerk of her head. "Uh, do you—?"

"Sure," Lisa replies, a little anxiously, but she puts both of her hands on Stiles' shoulders and he puts his hands on her waist and they sway awkwardly to the music. "Do you, um, like this song?"

Stiles tilts his head slightly, listening for the music. He's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar, the only one who's got enough of me to break my heart.

"It's okay, I guess," he says, ignoring the way his heart stutters slightly at the line. "Who's it by?"

"Taylor Swift," Lisa giggles, sounding shocked. "Do you not listen to the radio or anything?"

"Nah." Stiles shrugs. "Ever heard of The Who?"

"No," says Lisa, shaking her head.

"Well, this Taylor Swift seems like kind of a one-hit-wonder," Stiles tells her. "But that's just my expert opinion."

He ends the night back against the wall with Scott, watching all of their classmates sway back and forth to Stairway to Heaven. Lydia is dancing with Jackson Whittemore, but Stiles tries not to mind very much because Jackson Whittemore is a jerk and there's no way she'd date a guy like that anyways.

There's no freaking way.

"Maybe you'll dance with Lydia next year," Scott suggests as they run past the tennis courts through the wet soccer field where Scott's mom had parked to pick them up.

Stiles starts to smirk.

"I'm totally gonna," he says. "You shoulda seen the way she looked at me, Scott!"

"She looked at you?" Scott teases.

Stiles doesn't care one bit.

"You'll see," he says. The lights from Mrs. McCall's minivan are just visible in the distance, and Stiles runs faster when he sees them, his heart picking up speed in his chest. "Things are gonna be different. She's gonna remember me now. Next year, everything's gonna change."

2011— Mouth

1) Rouge. In the dingy lighting of the locker room, Stiles Stilinski's lips are stained cherry, and firework, and flower. The entire world dims into a lower setting in comparison, and Lydia suddenly cannot fathom how she had ever thought she could see color before. Stiles' face is so close to hers, and his lips are on vibrant display in front of her, his breath whooshing out of his mouth too fast.

"Shh, shh, Stiles look at me," she begs. "Look at me."

She doesn't know how they would all stand straight up without him, so she lets her fingers stroke his cheeks with the zinging, fast-paced fear that zips through both of them.

2) Rojo. There used to be a boy who was in love with a girl. There used to be a boy who would stare at her in English class, who would walk up to her in a crowded gymnasium, his face alight with nervous anticipation, who told everyone her hair was strawberry blond just because she insisted that it was.

If he still exists, he's the one whose eyes had darted desperately down to Lydia's lips, then jerked back up to her face. He is the one who waited patiently for her to catch up to this moment. He is the one who might care about being this close to her in this moment.

He's the one who Lydia presses her lips against. She's searching for him in the world that seems to constantly fade in color, because she had hit him with a dodgeball and pushed him off of a swing and she wants to find him, if he's still there.

3) 赤 (aka). There's a moment where her fingers are clenched, too stressed out to understand what she's doing. But she's soothing him, she's trying to make it all go away, so she tells herself to forget. She stretches out her fingers, bringing them back to his cheeks, and she doesn't quite understand why her hands are so gentle when she touches him again.

It certainly isn't voluntary. It feels foreign, and too delicate. His cheeks are soft and they are ruddy and the bones are curved elegantly high. His cheeks are too perfect. They're impractical, like white dresses and glass jewelry and being in love for real.

4) Kрасный. There's been a weight on Lydia's chest since she was fourteen, and it doesn't go away when Stiles kisses her.

Exceptions: The way she suddenly feels like everything is going to be okay. The way she suddenly feels pieces of herself clicking into place, making perfect sense. The way she is suddenly effortlessly, easily calm. The way there isn't a war knocking at their door, and everything is going to be okay now.

She's going to keep kissing Stiles now.

She's going to stop pretending.

5) Rot. Lydia wouldn't have done this if she had known. She wouldn't have done it if she had realized that she was going to trail her fingers down to his chin to keep him in place, so that it wouldn't have to end before she was ready to wake up to him. She wouldn't have done it if she had foreseen dipping forward involuntarily, pressing her forehead against his and breathing with him for just a moment. She wouldn't have kissed him if she knew that their noses would end up nudging together, just for a moment, and it would make every part of her start to shiver, like each piece wanted to smile.

She doesn't smile because Lydia Martin has never liked change.

6) Kόκκινος. She can feel the press of his lips against hers even after she pulls away, a lingering shadow of something that she's still trying to clutch onto. I've never, she thinks, but she doesn't know how to finish the sentence so instead she keeps her eyes closed and moves further away from Stiles.

(She moves away because she's never been comfortable with the idea being a junky, especially for something that feels too good to be real.)

Lydia's lids flutter, and she's trying to open her eyes, she is, but she can't. The fingers that had just been stroking his chin are now resting under hers, and they're tingling like something has been sparked in them. Like something just caught fire.

7) Rosso. "How'd you do that?"

Translation #1: How did you know to do that?

Translation #2: Why the hell did you do that to me?

Translation #3: Seriously? That's what the hype was about?

Translation #4: Would you do that again?

Translation #5: Thank you.

8) אָדוֹם (adom). It's starting to flicker. Lydia touches her lips with her tongue, wiping away the last of the two of them. Except it doesn't work, because she still knows what he tastes like, and she's trying to place it, trying to find something to compare it to.

"Thanks," he says. "That was really smart."

She starts thinking of drinks and candies and the time she had tried to swallow her mother's perfume— not what it actually tasted like, but what she had imagined it would taste like.

She settles, after thumbing through the catalogue of her whole life, on Stiles.

Stiles Stilinski, who held his breath for her. Because of her? Thanks to her?

No. For her. She's decided.

9) Rody. "I don't know. I just… I read it somewhere."

Translation #1: I thought it might work and I was out of options.

Translation #2: I didn't know it would make me feel like a storm had hurled me onto this locker room floor with you.

Translation #3: What if you're still in love with me? What if you wanted to kiss me? What if you wanted to do it again? What if I did?

Translation #4: I'm terrified. Did you know that you scare me? Well, you do. You were supposed to be safe, but you scare me.

Translation #5: Thank you.

10) Red. It's simple, and possessive, and it curls up Lydia's throat like a smoke. Stiles gets up from the floor, eyes still wet with tears. Lydia follows him out the door, wondering if his heartbeat is as thunderous as hers is. He pauses, holding the door for her, and when she passes through, his fingers hovering over her back, instinct. She is suddenly, stiflingly aware of his presence. His hand drops, hanging uselessly next to his pants, and that's when it springs up into Lydia's head, growing like a weed that suddenly can no longer be stomped down.

I want, she thinks, childishly and feverishly. I want.

2020— Ribbon

Lydia first sees the handfasting ceremony on a TV show.

It was 2am, and Stiles had been asleep on the couch, his mouth open as he drools on their upholstery. Lydia was curled up in her favorite armchair, her papers under the light as she had half paid attention to the work she was grading, half watching some historical drama that began long after Stiles had fallen asleep.

When the characters had done the marriage ceremony, Lydia had sat up straight in her chair and not been able to look back down at her papers.

Maybe it was because she had just gotten engaged two weeks before, but Lydia hadn't been able to help the captivation that she had with the characters physically representing what they had emotionally. She would later tell Stiles that she had found the ceremony in a history textbook that she had been reading while she was bored— and had done copious amounts of research in order to be able to back this up. Luckily, he hadn't questioned her much once they started looking over the vows together.

It turns out, Stiles is really into vows. Lydia is really into the handfasting ceremony. Those two things had been some of the only parts of the ceremony that had remained the same from the beginning of planning their wedding.

Now, as Stiles flips his palm up in front of her, he is the only one to notice the way Lydia's breath catches. He wiggles his eyebrows at her, trying not to smile, and Lydia rolls her eyes, raising her hand and sliding it into his.

According to the government, they have been married for a month now. They had said private vows to each other and signed papers and Lydia knows that this isn't the moment she gets married, or the dress she had gotten married in. But this is their announcement. This is the moment that the switch takes place, and their marriage becomes something that is for everyone else to acknowledge instead of just the two of them.

Which is why her throat feels like it's about to close up when the officiant asks for the ring.

Their engagement had been so long, and whenever Lydia had felt exasperated and annoyed and downright sick of putting off their wedding another time, she had pictured this moment. The fact that it is actually happening is even more surreal than feeling like a princess as she stands under a chuppah with a man who is already her husband.

Scott hands the officiant the ribbon that they'd picked out, thick and dark red and smooth under their fingers. Carefully, the officiant wraps the ribbon around their entwined hands, tucking it in so that it won't fall down. Lydia feels Stiles' thumb rub her palm lightly, and it makes her laugh a little bit, despite how overwhelmed she is.

There's a small part of Lydia that is aware that they are around other people, and that they are mostly doing this to appease the people in their life. But as Stiles begins to speak, she feels herself center completely around him, clicking into place with his limbs and his face and his voice.

"I, Stiles Stilinski, take Lydia Martin to be my wife. To be her constant friend, her partner in life, and her true love. To love her without reservation, to honor and respect her, protect her from harm, comfort her in times of distress, and to grow with her in mind and spirit."

The only reason she's got tears in her eyes is because he already does all of those things. He already is all of those things. And it's ridiculous that he's vowing to continue to do them, because he would regardless of anything. He would whether or not they stood up in front of a crowd and got married, he would regardless of her even returning the pledge. He has been for years, and Lydia knows him well enough to know that Stiles wouldn't stop for a damn thing.

She doesn't know why his compass points to her like it does, but she's been grateful for it ever since her needle had stopped on him.

"I, Lydia Martin, take Stiles Stilinski to be my husband. To be his constant friend, his partner in life—" Crime, she thinks, and there's a moment of panic when she wonders if she's said that instead. Stiles catches her and shakes his head slightly, then nods to indicate she should go on, looking like he'd very much like to laugh at her. "-and to be his true love. I vow to love him without reservation, to honor and respect him, to protect him from harm, to comfort him in times of distress, and to grow with him in mind and spirit."

It is a mark of how much has changed that she is not afraid to love him without reservation. It is a mark of how much this matters that she would even want to try.

She looks at the red ribbon holding their hands together and thinks that they have come a long way from being broken.

Kira decides to dry flower petals from Lydia's bouquet, and later Lydia will tie the ribbon around the glass jar that holds them and stick it on the mantlepiece in hers and Stiles' apartment. Then by a window in their first house, and the fireplace in their second one, and finally the mantlepiece of the home that they spend the rest of their lives in.

She looks at the red ribbon that had once held their hands together and thinks that having and wanting are allowed to exist together, in the same world, in the same instance, in the same love.

Stiles wraps his pinky finger around Lydia's as they walk back down the aisle, and he beams at her as soon as they slide into the limo.

"How do you feel?" he asks, animatedly searching her face, her arms, her hair, as if trying to figure out if anything is different.

"Hungry," Lydia says decisively. "So, so hungry."

"Ah, see. I was right."

She frowns.

"Right about what?"

"You're a Stilinski now."

"So?"

"So now you're classy."

1999— Backpack

Stiles' Spiderman bowl breaks on the morning of the first day of kindergarten.

He's sad because he loves Spiderman, but then his mom puts his snack into a Spiderman backpack and Stiles pulls on the straps and he feels like a big kid. Big kids don't cry— at least, that's what his dad says, and Stiles believes his dad because he's a police officer and he knows everything in the whole world.

But Stiles is still glad that he has his backpack, because without the Spiderman bowl and the bag, it would probably be harder to act like a big kid.

His mommy sings the same song three times on the ride to school, like she always does, but Stiles doesn't mind. She has a pretty voice— prettier than the lady on the CD, Stiles thinks— and she always reaches into the backseat and taps his foot when she sings "is this a lasting treasure" because she loves him the most, more than anybody.

Which is why it's hard to think about her getting back into the car after she drops him off at school.

His daddy had told Stiles that he was going to make lots of friends, and that he wouldn't even miss mommy, but Stiles doesn't trust him because daddy is used to this. He has to leave every single day at six o'clock in the morning, and Stiles gets up with him to say goodbye.

But Stiles tries not to think about his mommy leaving as he crunches through the bright, pretty leaves with his light-up sneakers. His mom opens the door for him and he bounds into the school building, searching excitedly for the kindergarten classrooms that he'd visited a week ago.

"This way," says his mom, nudging him in the right direction, and he grabs her hand with his fingers before running off around the corner towards the classroom that he will spend the next several hours in.

It's going very well until he is stopped by a small, redheaded girl wearing white tights and a pretty pink dress.

"Will you watch out?" she snaps. "You almost ran into me."

Stiles' mouth turns down slightly at the corners.

"Well, why were you standing right there?"

"Because this is where my cubby is," the girl says, stamping her foot slightly.

(Stiles feels very superior in that moment, because he knows that stamping your foot is a babyish thing to do.)

"Stiles, apologize," his mommy instructs sternly. "You shouldn't be running inside, remember?"

Oh. Right.

"Sorry," he says, not meaning it.

"Hi there," says the girl's mom, approaching them and sliding her hand around her daughter's shoulders. "I'm Natalie Martin. It's nice to meet you."

She's addressing Stiles' mom, who sticks out her hand and shakes like all grown ups do.

"Claudia Stilinski," she says. "And, Stiles, do you want to introduce yourself?"

"I'm Stiles," he says. Lydia wrinkles her nose.

"That doesn't sound like a real name."

"Lydia, be nice," her mother says. "Introduce yourself, please."

The girl, Lydia, straightens up and reaches for Stiles' hand.

"Lydia Martin," she says, shaking it stiffly. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Your backpacks match," Claudia points out. "Lydia, is red your favorite color?"

"No," says Lydia shortly.

With that, she turns back towards her cubby, and Stiles' attention span wanes.

"Yours is over here, honey," his mom says, steering his shoulders. "Am I good to go, or do you need me to stay a bit longer?"

Stiles' lower lip starts to quiver, and his mommy crouches down in front of him, pulling him into a hug.

"No, sweetheart, it's okay."

"My bowl broke."

"I know, Stiles. We can get you a new one."

"I don't know anybody here."

"You'll meet someone. I give it twelve minutes, tops." She wipes away a tear. "Hey, you know what?"

"What?" he sniffles.

"Lydia's hair reminds me of Mary Jane. From Spiderman?"

Stiles looks back over at Lydia, who is standing perfectly still as her mother talks to another parent. When their eyes meet, she doesn't smile.

"Mary Jane is prettier," Stiles decides.

His mom wraps her pinky finger around his and meets his eyes.

"Promise you'll be good."

"I'll be good," he says, and she kisses his forehead before she gets up and leaves.

Stiles stands at his cubby for a moment, and his eyes flicker over to Lydia, who is trying to get her mother's attention by tugging on her skirt. Her mother ignores her, keeping up her conversation, and Lydia's eyes go down, down, down to the floor.

She looks sad, and she has pretty hair, but that doesn't mean Stiles has to like her.

And he definitely isn't going to, Stiles decides as he turns back to his backpack, looking for his Han Solo action figure that he had insisted on bringing to school. He's never going to like her. Not ever, ever, ever. He's going to forget her name in a few minutes, and there is no chance of him sharing his snack with her at snacktime.

Stiles looks back at Lydia and he smiles.