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She'd grown up privileged and wealthy, with everything she wanted, just at her fingertips. Except maybe love.
Oh don't insult her - this isn't some sort of white man pain story, where she bemoans over her lack of love in her life.
Lydia Martin doesn't need love. That's a fact.
_
The man in front of her carries a gun throughout the entire country and wields it with a precision that she doesn't doubt rivals even Allison. However since she sipped the martini he brought her, and left her red lipstick around the rim of the glass, and ran a thumb across the sharp cheekbone of his face, he'd dropped his guards.
Wasn't that funny? As soon as men thought a woman was into them they were willing to drop their whole lives, quite literally, and take their shirt off.
He's got blood red lip marks along his jawbone, along his cheekbones, along his collarbones. What? She liked bones and their sharp edges, she liked the solidity and she liked the feel of them against her mouth, bruising the soft skin. She liked the pain it brought as she immersed herself in hot pleasure.
The one in front of her is dark and pretty in it. It reminds her of one she - no she won't think of those behind. Lydia smirks and lays her head against his chest, waiting until his breathing has completely slowed and then she sneaks out of his bed, laughs as quietly as possible as she pulls his hand off her, golden wedding ring glinting, and heads to where she pulled his jeans off and dumped them on the floor, pulling out his wallet, handling it with his top, and pulling out the wad of cash he had stashed there and pulling her skinny jeans, bra and singly on, slipping the cash into her bra and grabbing her purse, moving out of the hotel down the elevator, and winking at the doorman, who gave her a grin in response, pulling her hair into a ponytail and heading to the streets, holding out a hand and catching a cab.
There she does what she hasn't done in a while. She takes out her phone (actually it's some girl's who she spent a night with) and dials in a number she's memorised a million times over. "Hello?" The voice asks. "Who is this?"
"Hi," she says slowly.
"Lydia?" Allison's voice is incredulous.
"It's me," she murmurs and half way smiles. "Are you still in DC? Because I'm sort of the area."
_
Allison's eyes are wide when she first sees Lydia, and she reaches out like she can't control herself - like a child.
The phrase Disney Princess has more than once been applied to the girl and when Lydia sees her again, still young (as young as she is, despite the age gap), she sees why the phrase is more than appropriate. She's more of a Disney Princess than ever, full of an innocence which Lydia finds strange. It's not an innocence which she had employed herself, once upon a time, and still does now, on occasion. She's still got an atmosphere of innocence which Lydia finds hard to believe in because after everything, after Derek and Erica and Boyd and everyone else. Everything else.
Then her face hardens and she cocks an eyebrow. "So what - you think you can just come back after everything?"
Lydia shrugs and places her head on an angle. "Why not?"
"Lydia -"
"I'm in trouble," she whispers. "I . . . I have men after me."
"What kind of men?" Allison whispers.
"Powerful," Lydia smiles. "But they're not the ones I'm scared of. It's the women."
"What women?" Allison whispers.
"Hunters," Lydia says then pauses. "Or maybe not. Whatever they are, they're strong. They're powerful. And they're after me."
"What do you mean?" Allison's eyes are wide, and yep, she's got a small weapon of some kind in her handbag (Lydia thinks it's a kind of crossbow) and a gun in a holster underneath her skirt and daggers attached to her jacket.
"I think we need to run."
_
They run.
Or rather, they take all manner of public transport, don three wigs each to distract anyone perusing them and take a car (or rather Lydia hot-wires one), and they drive about ten kilometres over the limit, all the way to the next state. They stay up all night and play music which they heard years ago and music which has just come out and been played at the clubs which Lydia sometimes frequents and enjoys with men that she'll leave the next day.
Lydia has a gun in her purse, which she ties underneath a leather jacket Allison stole, and she throws the phone out as they head out. Allison texts Stiles, who is, by chance, one of the few she is still in touch with and they make it out to a hotel.
Then sleep in the same bed, curled up against one another, Lydia physically having the gun pressed into her back and Allison with knives in her shoes and strapped to her legs.
So they're ready.
When the Hunters come, some rabid type, they try and come in through the door, and they try and tie Lydia up by her wrists.
She elbows and flips the man over (she's gotten good at that - she had to if she wanted to make it) and places a gun in his thigh, leaving him screaming for pain.
Allison has taken down two other, pinning them to the walls with her knives and the pair quickly move, blindfolding them, and duct taping their wrists together, before knocking each on the head, and letting their heads drop.
"Lydia, I didn't sign up for this shit," Allison shakes her head, as they stand in the car park, Lydia unscrewing the license plates to the Hunters car (a sleek black thing - she doesn't know the brand but she's always had an eye for beauty), and putting the ones from the one they stole on, and vice versa.
"Nor did I," Lydia shakes her head. "You're the Hunter, you're the one who dated a werewolf, knowing who he was. I was just the best friend."
"So you rang me up because of what?" Allison scoffs. "We haven't talked in months Lydia. You - you were the one that ran away, not me. I was the one who your mum rang up, wondering where her baby girl was. I was the one who made fake postcards and told her you were on holiday. I covered your ass."
"And I covered yours," Lydia smiles and stands up, having finished with the license plates, before sliding into the car and waiting. "You coming?"
_
The next few days are much of the same.
No Hunters manage to catch them, and they're careful. They ditch all of Allison's credit cards, and all of Lydia's (fake names, addresses and numbers) and even one of Chris's, Allison has from a while ago.
They make it to Cali, where Stiles is waiting for them. "What took you so long?" He shrugs, standing outside his Jeep on the road just outside L.A.
"We got held up," Allison smiles, rolling out of the car and pulls Stiles into a hug. "I missed you," She murmurs into his shoulder and he reaches around to rub her back.
"You too," Stiles whispers back, as Lydia cocks an eyebrow.
"What about me?" Lydia pouts, and she knows Stiles is taking in the way she looks more . . . Allison in her dressing. She's got heeled black leather boots and a pair of skinny jeans, a grey tank and a leather jacket on. What? It's practical.
"You too Lydia," and Stiles has dropped his reverence in her sure, but he's still got a fond spot for her, undoubtedly. And as she steps forward, and he hugs her too, and they stand like that for a while, their arms around each other, holding themselves together, before the Hunters come.
The supernatural hasn't always been there for them, but they've always been there for one another.