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The searing pain and uncontrollable screaming are nothing new, however much of a nuisance they might be.
Her mother used to run upstairs at every noise, after The Incident, like Lydia was one bad attack from a hospital bed at any given moment (granted, she might have been, but having her mom try to hold her hand every time she flinches is not on the short list of ways she wanted to spend her sophomore year). After a while, her mother miraculously becomes possessed of the notion that it's only nightmares, symptoms of the severe stress her daughter's been under for the past year, which gradually recede into a few feeble whimpers in the night.
It's amazing how far some strategically-hung drapes will go in soundproofing a room. Less incredible, the fact that Lydia is a stalwart liar—but then, she's always known she was capable of anything.
She comes blinking into awareness, lethargic and faintly nauseous, which is starting to feel pretty old-hat to her now, but the blood dripping from her fingers? Most definitely does not. Lydia looks down and says, "Shit," willing the tremor to leave her hands before it even registers that she's not in her bedroom anymore. The coppery scent of blood is more familiar and less discomfiting than it ought be, but she just wipes her hands on her pajama bottoms, rolling out the tenseness in her neck and thinking, at least I'm not making out with Peter Hale.
That's when she sees the body.
It's turned away from her, thank God, only one arm and the neck showing, but it's also decomposing. Intellectually, she knows there's something massively wrong, because a body at that stage of decay should reek like hell and she hardly even noticed it, but it's dark and she's alone and unarmed, and there is a dead freaking body in front of her. Lydia screams.
Then, because Lydia's life has just been a parade of rainbows and sunshine since she started fraternizing with werewolves, the body rolls over and shushes her. She stops screaming, or, more accurately, she chokes on her tongue, but from this angle she can see the lesions and contusions, can focus on the cuts and bruises and the subtle shift of blood under the skin. It's not decomposing, she notes; it's healing, so fast Lydia can see it. Too fast to be human. And it's also outfitted in a distinctive, if repulsive in both taste and cleanliness, corset. "Erica?"
Erica—well, she's reasonably sure it's Erica, blonde and fanged and superhealing aren't traits common in combination, even in Beacon Hills—grins at her, which is several kinds of gruesome, and when she says, "Take me—" her voices crunches like a twig under a boot.
"To Derek, okay," Lydia supplies, kneels up and reaches for Erica, tries not to think about the state of her flesh.
"The woods," Erica grits out, wincing when Lydia hefts her up by the arm, "Not Derek."
Are you sure, Lydia doesn't say, half because she trusts Erica to know what she wants and half because it hurts to hear her try to speak. She starts moving.
The moonlight shifts as they walk, and Lydia can see that they're in the Hale house (of course, because where else does shit like this happen), standing in a jagged, inexpert circle drawn in—she swallows hard—what looks like blood. That's fine. Lydia can deal with blood. Ninth grade fetal pig dissection didn't faze her; neither will this. This house is just a house, the girl on her arm is just a girl, and Lydia Martin isn't afraid of the solid, the empirical. If she stumbles a little on the front steps, if her breath catches just a little—it's dark, and she's tired.
She manages to carry the extra weight about a half a mile into the woods before her legs are aching in protest, and she leans Erica up against a tree as gracefully as she can, sinking to the ground a few feet away from her. She should go home, probably. By her estimation it's about five in the morning, too late to even call it late anymore; dawn is lightening the horizon to a hazy gray that fades Erica's pallor into deeper extremes.
It seems—wrong, though, to leave Erica here. Lydia doesn't have a problem with being rude, even callous, on occasion, but flat-out cruelty isn't really her thing. She stretches her legs out in front of her and closes her eyes.
"Could you—" Erica starts, ends up in a dry cough that makes Lydia wince. "Talk," she manages.
The first thing that pops into her head is, they've been looking for you all summer, but just thinking it feels invasive and disingenuous. Maybe it's a pack thing, not something for outsiders to talk about. She clears her throat and starts babbling. "You know Sandra Johnson? She got pregnant over the summer. Her boobs look amazing now, but her boyfriend's being a flake about it. Do you remember him? He's the one that grabbed your ass in the hallway that day; I think you ended up throwing him in a trash can. You should do that again, when you're up to it." Erica laughs a little, and Lydia straightens up and continues, encouraged.
They carry on like that for hours, Lydia only half-aware of the nonsense spewing out of her mouth. Instead she focuses on the occasional sounds Erica makes in response, coughs and giggles and soft whines, the creak of bones knitting back together. She doesn't open her eyes until there's a stretch of silence so long it's worrisome, and she feels compelled to make sure Erica didn't die while she wasn't looking.
She didn't, thankfully; in fact she looks mostly human again, still battered, still breathing heavily, but whole. Her eyes are fluttering lazily and there's a faint smile on her lips. Lydia touches her arm, gently, only testing the realness of her flesh, lingering to document its feverish warmth.
Then Derek Hale has a vise-grip on her wrist, and she feels dangerously close to screaming again.
"What did you do," he says flatly. Lydia is seriously over being intimidated by him, but when she looks in him in the eye to tell him so, she pauses, agape at the fearful wonder in his face. He looks so young.
"She was dead," Derek insists, "How—"
"Derek," Erica interrupts. Her voice is still hoarse, and Derek spins on her, scooping her up in his arms like a bride, and Lydia takes the opportunity to run for home.
No one tries to stop her.
-
Lydia takes the back roads home, confident enough that no one saw her running around town in blood-stained pajamas. It's a good thing she had no real attachment to this pair; she'll have to burn them later. She peels them off in the comfort of her bathroom, wincing at the grime, and stands under the shower until the steam obscures her vision.
It's still only eight o'clock. She towels off and crawls back into bed, tells her mother she's taking a sick day when she pops her head in to check on her. Briefly, she thinks about trying to sleep, but that thought gets tossed aside as quickly as it forms; sleep hasn't been a friend to her in a long while. It takes her about thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling to accept that absolutely nothing is getting accomplished like this, and five seconds after that to get annoyed. Waste has always irked her.
It's not that late, anyway. She can make it to second period with time to spare, she reasons, as she covers the circles under her eyes with a steady hand, paints a flush on her pale cheeks.
-
Erica walks in halfway through physics, looking as smug and preternaturally healthy as ever. If anything, she brightens as she reaches the middle of the middle of the room to hand a note to the teacher, despite the low murmur rising from the back rows.
Lydia keeps her head down, eyes running over text she's already memorized, stays that way even when Erica slides into the empty seat behind her and lets out a quiet sigh that sounds oddly like relief.
-
"Derek wants to talk to you," says Erica, lingering while Lydia packs up her books.
"How nice for him," she says, automatically snide. Erica's eyeliner is smudged in the corner, and the desperate, obsessive urge she has to reach up and fix it is making her regret ever having looked up in the first place.
"No," Erica replies, following her out the door. "I mean he's here to talk to you. Like, now."
Here meaning standing in front of her locker, in an uncharacteristically deserted hallway. A shitty leather jacket seems remarkably effective at clearing a room; she should invest.
"You're in my way," is what she says, as much saccharine venom as she can summon. Erica is still tailing her but at a distance now, waiting for Derek to acknowledge her. He does; he jerks his head toward the door. Erica hesitates for a second but obliges, glancing over her shoulder as she leaves.
"We need to discuss a few things," he tells her, stepping aside so she can stash her books. It's an effort, she supposes, though not a particularly strong one.
"Can't we save it for the next time one of your dead relatives brainwashes me?" It comes out casual, but Derek flinches bodily, and Lydia takes satisfaction in knowing she's better at controlling herself than the resident alpha wolf. At least while she's conscious.
"There's a—the matter of debt," he continues, like she hadn't spoken. "However you did it, you brought my pack back to me. I have to thank you."
"I didn't do it for you," Lydia says, exasperated. "I didn't do it for her. It just happened, and it's over now, so let's all just forget it and go on about our abnormal habits of stalking high school students, shall we? Debt-free."
He smiles grimly. "Doesn't work like that."
Always a weirdo wolf culture thing, right. There's a reason why social sciences aren't her deal. Lydia growls a little in frustration. "There's nothing I want from you or yours. Can't I just cash in later?"
"I," Derek begins carefully, "would rather you do it now. While you're—"
"Not dancing naked in the woods and sacrificing chickens in my sleep." The look she gives him is the driest one she knows. He crumples only a little, but stays out of her personal space, which—at first she was worried she wouldn’t be able to stand to see the pack, anymore, not after Peter, but with Erica for an example, that doesn’t seem to be the case; it’s not the pack bond that makes her tense up, it would seem, but rather the family resemblance. She's glad Derek's smart enough (considerate enough? She needs to be careful throwing words like that around with him) to keep his distance.
"Anything I can do, Lydia. Just name it."
"Well," she chirps, "I suppose you could pop over to London and bring me my boyfriend back." Derek's eyebrows look to be in pain. "Or you could keep your supernatural crap out of my life, that'd be a real winner." He's opening his mouth to respond, but she really just doesn't want to hear him. "I don't know, Derek, could you just—"
He tilts his head, prompting.
"Be better," she finishes. "Stop dragging my friends into peril. Stop pushing your pack so hard that they crack. Be a better alpha. Person. Whatever."
"I'll work on it." Lydia blinks at him; she was expecting more of a repartee, at least, but he just looks a little wry and sad. Self-loathing werewolves. Perfect. She sighs, and he moves to let her pass.
"And Allison's allowed to be mad at you. Stop being a dick to her." She jabs her finger in his chest as she walks by, just because she can. It feels a little like poking a brick wall.
He winces, but in acquiescence. "Noted."
"And keep your uncle the fuck away from me," she yells as she walks outside. It's possible that he laughs at her. She doesn't want to entertain the thought.
Somewhere between the building and the parking lot, Erica falls into step with her. "So it's a little shitty that he got to tell you thanks before I did, seeing as how I'm the dead one and all."
Lydia holds up a hand. "Do not mention it. Seriously."
"Right. Well, I'm definitely not grateful or anything, in that case."
"I'm glad to hear it," Lydia says, raises an eyebrow. Erica just looks deeply amused, which—is not how a lot of Lydia's conversations go with people who aren't Allison, these days. "I'm guessing you left out the finer points of your—situation to everyone else?"
"Only the pack knows," she confirms, sticking her hands in her pockets and leaning against the hood of Lydia's car. Bold. She just got that windshield fixed. "So you wanna go grab a milkshake or something?"
"Oh golly gee, can we go to the sock-hop after?" Lydia deadpans, but Erica just barks out a laugh and gets in the car. Apparently this is friendly for her.
It might be for Lydia, too. She's not sure anymore.
-
"What was it like," Lydia says over the plate of French fries they're sharing (if they're gonna be a cheesy fifties cliché, they're at least going to commit). Erica freezes mid-bite, and Lydia expected that much, but then she swallows and quirks her lip.
"You really wanna know?"
Lydia nods, probably too eagerly, but Erica just shrugs and starts to speak.
"Okay. You know when you're trying to fall asleep, and sometimes you get those little kicks, little twitches that wake you up all over again? And it feels like you've just jumped off a building or something, like you're so close to sleeping but then your body just—won't cooperate. Does that make sense?"
Lydia nods. She imagines little twitches are a lot scarier for Erica than they are for her.
"Well, it was like that. The little tugs, trying to get me to wake up—I think that was the wolf, trying to heal me. It hurt like hell, but it—I just kept fighting, and sinking, and fighting more, and then you happened." She wriggles a little under Lydia's gaze; this is probably one of those moments where she should be a little less clinical and more empathetic, but before she can think of anything kind to say, Erica says, "You gonna finish that?" and helps herself to Lydia's milkshake.
"Well, I'm not now," Lydia says, wrinkling her nose. Erica gives her half a smile, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming while her red, red lips curl around the straw.
Stranger things have happened; that's fact.
-
It is, admittedly, a little weird when Lydia wakes up the next morning and sees a flash of blonde hair outside her bedroom window. "What are you doing," she hisses, not even bothering to open the window. Erica does that herself, throwing a leg over the sill and smiling just this side of mockingly.
"Morning, sunshine," she sing-songs.
Lydia runs a hand through her hair. "I say again: what do you think you're doing here?"
Erica gasps, puts a hand to her heart. "You mean you don't remember last night? I thought we had something really special." Lydia launches a pillow at her head. "I'm protecting you, okay? There's sort of an alpha pack running loose around town, in case you forgot."
"I seem to remember them having the upper hand where you're concerned," Lydia says, a little bitchy. It's early; she's allowed. She stretches her legs out before she gets up, tugging her shorts down over her butt a little as she makes her way to the bathroom.
"So you're close by if I need a pick-me-up. Sound logic to me."
Lydia rolls her eyes as loudly as she can, hopes it overpowers the smile playing on her lips. Just before she turns the shower on, Erica hollers, "Can I have a ride to school?"
Lydia considers, lathering up her hair. Maybe she could do with another friend.
-
"So," Allison says at lunch, steepling her fingers under her chin. "We gonna talk about this?" Lydia has a mouthful of pudding, so she just raises an eyebrow at her. "This whole you and Erica hanging out thing."
"We're not hanging out. Why do you think we're hanging out?"
"I saw her getting out of your car this morning. And two days ago. "
And the day before that, but, irrelevant. "She needed a ride," Lydia says innocently. Allison stares. "I am capable of being nice occasionally."
"She is a werewolf, Lydia. She can literally run faster than your car."
"In those heels?" Lydia tuts skeptically. "Also, you should know I can see the arrowhead sticking out of your bag before you start lecturing me on my dangerous acquaintances." Allison blows a straw wrapper at her.
"It's not like I'm trying to dictate your life or anything. I only meant that Derek's pack is kind of iffy when it comes to us. You."
"Derek's the problem." Lydia says. "The rest of his pack doesn't bother me."
"I just—here's the thing," Allison starts, drawing in her mashed potatoes with her fork. "I know when you go through something traumatic with a person, it sort of smushes you together whether you like it or not, and that's fine. I just want you to know she's not your only option, if you need somebody to talk to. About anything."
"Oh my God, you are the biggest sap I've ever met," Lydia says, her smile a little less sarcastic than she intends. Allison brings out the sincerity in her. "You could stand to worry less."
"Last year I didn't worry enough," Allison argues.
"True," Lydia hums, and leans across the table to plant a kiss on Allison's forehead. Something clatters behind her and she half-jumps, banging her nose on Allison's hairline before she leans back and says, "Scott just dropped his lunch tray, didn't he."
Allison nods and gives a fond, put-upon sigh. "Wanna cut out early and go to the mall? I need some new bras. Or maybe a corset, since that's your thing now."
"I don't know. What do you think your one true love would do if I made a run for second base right now?" She bats her eyes lasciviously, but she follows Allison outside and keeps her hands to herself.
"I'm going to make you try on a corset just for honor's sake, of course."
"I figured."
-
Scott texts her while they're in Victoria's Secret, looking at painfully situational lingerie. It takes her a moment to realize that it's in English, but eventually she manages to decipher the keysmash to why r u kissing Allison is tht a thing u do now. She smirks, tosses her phone to the dressing room bench in plain view while she laces Allison into a corset.
"He capitalizes your name," she observes tepidly, stepping back to survey her work. "It's cute, but not very you."
"It's autocorrect," Allison dismisses her. She pushes her shoulders back, scrutinizing the mirror. "I don't know, I think I'm due for a lifestyle change."
"As long as you stay away from my twin, I'm all in favor." It's mostly a gag, by this point; Lydia talked to Aiden all of one time in English, and it turns out he is as dim as he is attractive. There's only so much Lydia's willing to put herself through for hypothetical great sex, after all.
Her phone buzzes again while Allison's wriggling back into her jeans, and she squints down at the screen, saying, "Why does Scott think you know where Erica is?"
"What?" Lydia leans her head over Allison's shoulder to read:
derek wants to kno have u seen Erica
shes not n class and he cant find her
"It's not like I'm her keeper all of a sudden," Lydia says. "All I did was accidentally resurrect her. It happens." And start sitting by her in Physics, and somehow acquire her phone number and start texting her rude things in class, and making extra coffee for when she stops by in the mornings, and now Allison is giving her this weird look, like, I bet that's all you did. Lydia doesn't like it at all. "Will you just call him so he'll stop texting me?"
Allison caves, and Lydia walks over to the coffee shop to give her some space. She thinks she sees something in the corner of her eye as she's picking up their order, but then, she's probably just going crazy again.
-
"Hey," Lydia says when she gets home that night, poking her head out the window. Erica's lounging around on the roof, dangerously close to the edge of one of the eaves. She smiles at Lydia in acknowledgement, like this is perfectly normal behavior. "Were you at the mall today"?
"Um, not that I'm aware of?" Erica says, scratching the back of her neck guiltily. There's her answer. "I'm a busy wolf. Things to do, people to eat, you know."
"Sure." Lydia presses her lips together. "Are you just gonna sit out here all night?"
"Unless you've got something better to do," Erica croons. Lydia is like fifty percent sure the eyebrow waggle makes it a joke, but she crawls out onto the roof beside her, regardless, sits thigh to thigh with her and grabs onto Erica's jacket when she feels like she's losing her balance. If she shivers, well. It's the cold, is all.
"You're allowed to come inside if you're gonna stay over, you know," Lydia gripes.
"Yeah?" Erica's stare doesn't feel as sharp, at night. In the dark her features are soft with shadow, edges blurred and feathered against the sky.
"Not right now, obviously, because you've got shingle dust all over your jeans and all," Lydia adds quickly, becoming deeply invested in her cuticles. "But next time. That'd be fine."
"I'll remember that," Erica tells her, leans a little further into Lydia's space.
"It's nice out here, though," Lydia says. When she tilts her head back to look at the stars, it lands on Erica's shoulder.
"Pretty," Erica agrees.
-
The sleepwalking has been blessedly less frequent since Peter Hale rose from the dead, but it still—it's a problem. Every time she ends up outside, either in the woods, or the park, or someone's back yard. To her knowledge, she's never made it outside the county line, but in the back of her mind there's always a clench of horror that she'll wake up alone in a field in Bumfuck, Idaho one day. The closest she ever came to it was the time she found herself at the community center, a renovated Victorian on the edge of the county line, where the morning glories were trained to vine over a trellis and onto brick. When she crept home that morning she had trailed purple flowers up the stairs.
(The night after Jackson left for London, she woke herself up screaming in the middle of the lacrosse field, the air gone still around her.
She doesn't tell anybody about that.)
Nobody's ever woken her up from an episode, though; usually, she has to wait for it to pass, not knowing she's in one until it's over. But too-tight hands on her shoulders do the trick, and she comes out of it with an ungraceful shudder, not unlike a wet dog. Erica is staring back at her, fingers strained to the point where they're almost claws.
She really does look more perfect every time Lydia sees her, stronger and healthier and beautiful, okay, because Lydia isn't immune to the perpetual bedroom eyes, even when they're narrowed in concern.
But right now she hates them, so she turns her gaze to the ground and says, "Take me home," with as much command as she can muster. Erica tucks one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lets Lydia bury her face in the crook of her neck and doesn't say a word.
"You can stay, if you want. I know you're going to lurk outside my window all night anyway," she says, once Erica's deposited her in her bedroom. She strips off her nightshirt while Erica straddles her windowsill and deliberates. She'll try to wash the grass stains out in the morning, but most likely it will end up in the trash. She may even stop wearing white all together; what good are clothes that don't obey your aesthetic regardless of circumstance? Erica makes up her mind while Lydia's rifling through her bureau, and when she hears the window shut, she digs out extra an extra set of pajamas and tosses them on the bed.
Erica fidgets. "Um, do you need to—"
"Shut up," Lydia says as politely as she can, because no, the last thing she needs is to talk. It's one thing to hear it from Allison. This? Will not do.
After they're under the covers and the lights are off, Erica tries again. "So you were almost in Scott's backyard."
"Okay."
"Do you know why?" Erica prompts.
"No, Erica, I don't know what I'm doing when I take midnight strolls sans any semblance of consciousness," she snaps. "Do you have anything less insipid to talk about."
"I didn't know it was that bad."
"Of course it's that bad," Lydia mutters, digs her nails tight into her pillow, maybe a little manically. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have no control over yourself?"
"Yes," says Erica without missing a beat, all steel.
Lydia falls asleep eventually; she can't tell if Erica does or not, but she spends half an hour wondering if the sound of her heartbeat is enough to wake a wolf.
-
Erica touches her kind of a lot. It's not an important thing; Erica probably touches everyone. But since Jackson left, no one really does that for her anymore. Allison, yes, but always in response. Lydia has to start the hugs, the linked arms, the hand holding. There's a hint of trepidation in Allison still, a wariness she didn't used to have—Lydia can't blame her, exactly.
But Erica is just this mess of flailing limbs, always grabbing Lydia by the bicep or resting a hand on the small of her back when they walk down the hall. In theory it should infuriate her; Lydia does not like to be steered anywhere, but when Erica touches her it's more like she's latching on to the nearest thing she can reach, waiting to be led.
Or: she dances her fingernails up Lydia's spine in class to get her attention; she nudges Lydia in the cafeteria line so hard her milk comes dangerously close to spilling; she wakes up too close to Lydia after an impromptu sleepover, cold nose brushing the curve of her shoulder.
When Allison had brought up the Erica situation, it had been unwarranted and absurd. Now—now she has to admit she's spending more time with Erica than anyone else. Since the alphas rolled in, Allison's been slowly toeing the edges of her dad's no-hunting rule, and at any given moment there's a good chance she's prowling the woods with no cell service. Jackson writes, but the mail is so slow. She knows he still loves her, knows it in the way she knows the sky is blue; it's there, but most of the time irrelevant and inconsequential. Danny always says hi to her when he sees her, but she never really grew out of seeing him as Jackson's Friend—there's a gap the size of the Atlantic between the two of them, too, and besides their taste in men, they don't have a whole lot in common.
But Erica is always around, always seeks her out, and Lydia feels strong and wanted in a way that she hasn't in a while when Erica laughs too loud, when they walk down the halls together and stare down the cat-callers.
Sometimes she wonders why everyone finds Erica so attractive. When she pokes her head through Lydia's window in the morning, eyes still half-swollen with sleep, she's not exactly a knockout. Her mouth is wide and awkward, and sometimes it seems like she learned to smile too late, like she doesn't understand the way her lips fit around her teeth. On the days she stays over, she hogs the vanity when Lydia's trying to get ready for school, and she sings in the shower, off-key tunes that get stuck in Lydia's head for days after.
The crux of it is, Lydia doesn't know why she finds Erica so attractive, and that's. Unsettling.
Ignorance has never been a good look on her.
She's studying her intensely one night, while Erica's on her bed combing through her piecey translation of the bestiary ("I can do that? No way.") when her phone buzzes and ruptures her concentration. It's Allison: we doing the notebook or rocky horror for movie night? Lydia has to give credit where it's due; their Thursday night movie date has been treated as nothing short of sacrosanct, however flaky Allison is any other time.
"What's up?" Erica asks, teeth digging into her lower lip. Lydia hated when Jackson chewed on his lips like that; it made them ragged with dead skin. Jackson's lips aren't as full as Erica's, though. She swallows.
"It's Allison," Lydia says. "Tonight's kind of our girl's night. She'll be here in ten, probably."
"Oh." Erica's voice pitches up a strangled octave. "I should leave then."
"You don't have to do that," Lydia tells her. "Allison's my best friend, and—" And what is Erica, exactly? "It wouldn't be weird. I'll put her on her best behavior."
"I don't know if that's such an awesome idea," Erica shrugs.
"Why not?"
"I like spending time with you."
Which is not anything resembling an answer, but it catches Lydia off-guard, and before she knows what she's doing she's saying, "I like spending time with you, too."
"Cool." Erica's smile spreads slow and warm as she opens the window. "I'll see you at school tomorrow, okay?"
Frank-N-Furter is turning people into statues when Allison leans up from their pillow fort and says, "Is that Erica's jacket?"
"She was here earlier," Lydia says, not taking her eyes off the movie. "She didn't want to make things weird."
"Oh," Allison says. She settles back down into the crook of Lydia's proffered arm. "She can stay next time. It won't be weird."
"I'll pass on the message," Lydia says, and squeezes her shoulder.
-
(She does, the following Monday, when Erica's got a lazy arm thrown around her waist, eyes already drooping. "Sounds like a plan," she murmurs. "She'll leave her arrows at home, right?"
"If we're lucky," Lydia remarks. She scoots a little further back, not touching Erica but close enough to enjoy the warmth radiating from her. "We did vote to put you on snack duty, though. As an initiation rite."
"I didn't vote."
"Not a democracy," Lydia yawns. Erica pinches her arm, and the next thing she hears is Erica telling her to wake up and smell the bacon, when really she can't smell anything but fresh shampoo and toothpaste, and she grumbles, "What time is it?"
"Seven forty-five," Erica says, toweling the water out of her hair. Lydia sits up and checks her clock just to be sure. She watches Erica pull a shirt over her head and subsequently get it stuck on her earring, tries not to laugh when Erica warns, "We're gonna be late."
"We won't," Lydia says and smiles. She hasn't gotten ten hours of sleep since freshman year.)
-
It might be because of Erica, or because they found out there were hunters in town, or maybe they just got sick of biding their time, but the alphas make their move that week. Five hits, in five different parts of town, like a calling card. I'm here; you didn't forget me, did you?
Lydia's in the library when it happens, checking out a small pile of books when she notices the claws poking through the librarian's belly. When he hits the floor, Aiden is standing behind him, grinning at her through his fangs.
She doesn't have it in her to scream. He knows, she thinks, heart stopping, that's why it's not me, he knows. She thinks of Peter, of the lacrosse field and the hospital bed, of the taste of smoke in her mouth. She isn't a tool. There won't be any more wolves howling in her brain.
She runs, and he doesn't stop her. It's all part of the game.
The first thing she does when she gets home is bolt every door and window. It's not exactly a sound defense against fucking werewolves, but it makes her feel a little less like hyperventilating. She pours herself a glass of her mother's wine and sits down at the kitchen table, stares at it until the pounding on the front door grows so loud as to shake the windows.
"It's me," Erica shouts from the other side. "Are you in there?"
Lydia thinks about saying no, but the opportunity has fled; she's already got her hand on the knob.
"What were you doing?" Erica says, rushing in and shutting the door tightly behind her. "Oh my God, you look terrible, what happened?"
Erica doesn't look so hot herself. There's tree bark in her hair, and she's paler than Lydia's seen her in a while. She flushes as she talks, though, either from exertion or from excitement.
"How did you know to come here?" Lydia asks, her voice small and infantine. She grimaces inwardly.
Erica hesitates in answering, runs a hand through her hair. "I was around, and then I heard—"
"My heartbeat," Lydia finishes softly.
"You're terrified." Erica steers her back toward her chair, holds her hands until they stop shaking.
"They know," she blurts finally. "The alphas know I'm immune. He could have killed me but he didn't, they want to—I can't let anyone use me like that again, I won't let them—"
"Hey, hey," Erica soothes. She wraps her arms tight around Lydia, and Lydia sinks into it despite herself, fingers clutching at Erica's shoulders. She smells like sweat and hairspray and dirt, and Lydia is not going to cry into her neck. Not tonight. "No one's doing anything to you, alright? We'll keep them away."
"You and Derek?" Lydia mumbles into her neck, not without bitterness.
"You and me," Erica responds. She noses against Lydia's temple, then pulls back with a wince. "But speaking of…"
The front door bangs open again, and Erica turns, snarling. "What the fuck, Derek?" she demands, as he comes stomping through, hauling Scott and Stiles along by their collars. Allison trails them, shuts the door quietly behind her.
"Were you attacked?" he asks, letting go of Scott and Stiles to examine Erica for any injuries.
"What? No," Erica shakes him off, at the same time Lydia says, "Yes."
"Who?" Derek says flatly. Lydia sees his claws digging into Erica's arm, the little shiver of pain she lets show. You don't disrespect your alpha, it would seem, even when he's glad you're alive.
"Aiden," she says, "at the library." She wonders for a moment about whether to tell him the rest, when Allison says, "Kali, at the pool."
Lydia takes in her wet hair and chlorine-red eyes, doesn't even want to know how that went. She wishes Allison would come sit near her, be there to squeeze her hand or nudge her shoulder, like they always do when Derek's got his alpha pants on, but Allison's arms are crossed over her chest and her jaw is set like stone.
"Ennis, at the gas station," Stiles chimes in. "Worst Doritos run of my life."
"Deucalion," Scott says. "In the bathroom." Everyone looks at him. "Oh my God, I was washing my hands, don't be gross."
"But were any of you attacked directly?" Derek asks, eyes darting around the room.
"No," Stiles says thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "He got the attendant. And he didn't even try to chase me."
"The same thing happened with me," Allison adds. "She went after the swim instructor."
"So what, they're just running around and killing random people?" Scotts says. He hitches himself up onto the countertop.
"They're showing their strength," Derek says. "Intimidation tactics. You weren't hurt, were you, Lydia?" he asks as an afterthought. She shakes her head, doesn't open her mouth because the only thing she's capable of thinking right now is a running mantra of it wasn't just me, they don't know, I'm safe.
"Four attacks, four alphas," Erica says slowly. "I remember five."
"Danny," Lydia pipes up. "He was studying with Ethan. I'll call him."
"Good," Derek says, turning to Allison to talk game plans. Lydia steps over to the back door and dials Danny's number, glad to have a moment to get herself under control. Danny picks up on the first ring, shaken and thin-voiced but okay.
"I'm heading to the sheriff's right now," he tells her. "And then I'm fucking moving to Alaska."
"There are wolves in Alaska," she informs him, and he tells her to shut up.
"Danny's fine," she announces to the room when she walks back over.
"Now we have to keep him that way. All of you," Derek clarifies, looking to Stiles and Allison and Lydia. "I'll have the pack split up, cover your houses. You can't afford to be alone right now."
"Derek," Allison says mildly, eyes glinting with the suggestion of sharpness. "I think I'll be okay."
"I might not know how to kill a man at twenty paces, but I'm alright with a jar of mountain ash," Stiles shrugs. "The pack should stay together. You're tougher that way."
"Yeah, I tried being murdered already; it turns out I'm not so into it," Erica drawls.
"What about Lydia?" says Derek, jerking his head in her direction.
"Lydia is a big girl," she says tartly. "Who is immune."
"And still human," Derek argues. "You need someone to look out for you, Lydia."
"What I need is for you to stop presuming you know what's best for all of us when you can't even keep your own pack from flying the coop." Erica and Derek both bristle at that, Derek taking a few steps forward. Allison watches him carefully, her hand on the knife at her hip, and she's about to make a move when Scott flies in between them, waving his hands like white flags.
"Look," he says, "everybody wants everybody to be safe here, okay? But Lydia knows to call for us if anything happens, and anyway, why would they come for her before they came for any of us? She's not a wolf."
"She's important, and she's vulnerable." Derek cuts his eyes at her. "Weak."
"Derek," Erica starts to protest, but quails under his stare.
Lydia flashes her sweetest smile. He can't hurt her. "Weak enough to almost kill you." It's a struggle to keep her voice from cracking, but it's worth it to see the flash of red in his eyes.
She should probably develop hobbies more inclined toward self-preservation, but antagonizing werewolves is so satisfying.
"Well, I think we're all about tensioned out," Stiles half-yelps. "Why don't we call it a night?"
"Couldn't agree more," Lydia mutters.
"We're not finished," Derek growls.
"I am fucking done with werewolves tonight," Lydia says loudly. "Out, out of my house!" Allison sends her a hurt, questioning look that she really can't process right now, so she adds, "and hunters, and whatever Stiles is, just go anywhere that isn't here."
Scott nods vigorously, elbowing Derek in the arm until he complies. Stiles and Allison follow them out the door in single file.
"You didn't mean me, right?" Erica says, voice soft in Lydia's ear. "I mean, I could walk out and then climb back up to your window for appearance's sake, but—"
"I said everyone," Lydia bites. She doesn't really want to pull away from Erica's warm breath, the way it tickles the hair that glances over her collar. She does it anyway.
"Come on, Lydia." Erica's smiling a little incredulously, like she's trying to urge the punchline along.
"Why are you even here, Erica?" Lydia asks. "Because I'm weak? Because you need to save me?"
"You know I don't think that," Erica says, "you have to know that."
"Then what?" Lydia demands, flings her arms out to her sides. "What reason do you possibly have for spending so much time with me? It's not like we're friends."
Erica's mouth hangs open, pretty lips drawn into a frown. Then she swallows, resolute, and says, "You wanna know? Fine. Give me two days."
Then Lydia blinks, and she's gone.
She checks the door one more time before she goes upstairs. It's already locked.
-
In hindsight, that was harsh.
If Lydia were forced to pick one werewolf to hang out with, Erica would win, no contest. And it's not like she really minds when Erica pops in through her window unannounced, when she texts her during class. She hadn't minded at all when Erica had been in her bed, one arm thrown over Lydia's midriff under either the influence of sleep or its pretense.
Erica is always too warm, smells like drugstore shampoo and that perfume Lydia used to wear in junior high. The scent comes to her one day in Physics, when Erica walks by her desk and deliberately sits on the far side of the room. Lydia doesn't remember any particular Erica-smell from before, hadn't noticed it until it wasn't constantly surrounding her. Isaac and Boyd are both staring at her; she ignores them and does next week's homework in class.
Day two comes, and Erica still hasn't said a word to her. Lydia honestly didn't intend to drive her off completely. Erica always seems—seemed eager to see her, happy. Lydia thinks that maybe she has overestimated her own appeal.
"Did you two fight or something?" Allison asks, leaning against the locker next to Lydia's. Lydia pauses in fixing her lipstick and turns to look down the hallway, just in time to catch Erica spinning around and slinking away in the opposite direction.
She considers asking Allison how long Erica had been standing there; she decides against it.
"We're not fighting," Lydia tells her placidly. "We're just—not seeing as much of each other."
"Is there a reason for that?" Allison raises a pointed eyebrow.
"Well, nothing's been the same ever since I gave up presidency of the Dead Werewolves Fan Club," Lydia says dryly. "You know how those things go."
"Seriously," Allison says, places a gentle hand on Lydia's arm. "Did she do something to you?"
"What? No."
"Because if she did, you know, I could. Handle that for you."
"Holy fuck, Tony Soprano," Lydia crows. It's enough to make Allison blush sheepishly and run a hand through her hair.
"That sounded terrible, didn't it."
"Very," Lydia agrees. "But your heart's in the right place. You're not a bad friend, Allison. You don't have to keep doing penance, all right?"
"Deal," Allison smiles brightly.
"And definitely don't kill anyone on my behalf. For now." Lydia presses up on her toes and pecks her on the cheek.
"Seriously? Again, Lydia?" Scott yells from an unseen classroom. Lydia rolls her eyes and shuts her locker door.
-
Erica texts her as soon as she wakes up Saturday morning. Sleepily, Lydia wonders if she was listening to her breathing. can you meet me at derek's? no one's home, I promise.
Briefly, she wonders what would happen if she declined, the way she always tries to map every eventuality. It's sort of mildly shocking to discover that she really doesn't want to know.
be there in ten, she texts back, pulls on some yoga pants and sprints to her car.
-
Erica's sitting on the front porch when Lydia pulls up, her head resting against a banister, legs splayed out in front of her. Lydia walks toward her tentatively, peering into the darkened ruin behind her, when Erica holds up a hand and says, "Stay there a second."
Her first panicked thought is, trap, which she quickly shakes out of her head. Erica wouldn't do that, and if Peter were here—she'd just know. And if it were the alphas, Erica probably wouldn't be alive to tell her to keep her distance. So that leaves her second assumption, which is: Erica is that fucking mad at her.
And alright; Lydia was mean. Lydia is mean, and Jackson loved her because of it, and Allison loves her in spite of it, and Stiles loves her without acknowledging that or anything else about her besides the fact that she's smarter than he is and she's beautiful. Everybody knows the only thing more dangerous than her brain is her tongue, which means that Erica knew, and she came around anyway, laughed at Lydia's bitchy jokes and slept outside her window for who knows how long. It shouldn't be a big deal.
But Lydia is willing to treat it like one if Erica is. She stands still and says, "Look, I understand that you're probably a little upset with me right now, but I don't have an infectious disease or something, and anyway it's not like you could catch a disease because I've been reading the bestiary with Allison and werewolf physiology pretty completely rejects any sort of illness, but the point is I didn't mean to freak out on you like that. We're friends, we are totally friends if you still want to be, I'm just not as good at this as I used to be, and—" she cuts herself off, frowning. "Are you okay?"
Erica hasn't moved through all Lydia's spiel, and upon closer examination, Lydia can see the way her chest is rising and falling with labored breaths, the deep circles beneath her eyes. She knows, has literally just said, that werewolves don't get sick; their immune systems are too quick for disease, their bodies inhospitable to any virus, but Lydia still wants to lay her hand over Erica's forehead and ask her what hurts.
"I'm sure that was a little bit hard to say for you." Erica smiles weakly. "No shit we're friends, but I, uh. Do have some ulterior motives. Don't freak out, okay?" Lydia nods, and Erica rolls back her shirtsleeve.
"Oh my fuck," Lydia squeals, recoiling. She remembers that gash, from all those nights ago, but she also remembers Erica's unblemished arm, the countless times since then that she's grabbed it and woken up with her head pillowed on it. It's trying to stitch itself together, but slowly, the muscle underneath the skin looking dead and useless.
"Yeah," Erica says sheepishly, gazing down at the wound. "This sounds so freaking weird, but this is what happens when I'm—not around you, pretty much. I start to break down."
"When you're not around me," Lydia repeats flatly.
"When I'm too far away from you or I don't see you for a day or so, yeah," Erica confirms. "I get all corpsey and delicious."
"I—you just—" Lydia tries to string a sentence together but she can't stop looking at Erica's arm, and she gives up and runs to her, wrapping her in a hug so she doesn't have to see it anymore. Erica doesn't hold her back, conscious of her injury, but she breathes a contented sigh into Lydia's hair.
By the time she pulls back, there's color in Erica's cheeks again, and all that remains of the cut is a faint pink scar which will disappear itself within a matter of minutes. "I can't believe you did that to yourself just to prove a point," Lydia snaps, suddenly pissed. "You could have just said something."
"Would you have believed me?" Erica challenges.
"Yes," says Lydia stubbornly.
"Bullshit," says Erica, waving a hand. "You're always talking about empirical data and proofs and hypotheses. I figured you'd want something concrete."
"I," Lydia starts, and then shakes her head, unsure of what she wants to say. "Who else knows?"
"Nobody."
"Not even the pack?" Lydia raises an eyebrow. "How do they not smell you?"
Erica laughs at her, which is good, because that was blunt even to Lydia's ears. "They smell a dead thing," says Erica. "That's all. I know how to keep a secret from them."
"Well, we have to figure something out," Lydia says practically. "Why didn't you go talk to Dr. Deaton?"
"Because he'd tell Derek, and then Derek would do that thing where he's trying to be my overprotective big brother and guilt-trip me for not telling him," Erica says evenly.
"Big brother?" Lydia asks skeptically.
"He's super weird and affectionate ever since I came back. I mean, as much as he can be affectionate, which is not very, but. Let's talk about something else, okay?"
"How about let's get in the car so I can drive your ass to the vet?" Lydia says, as much and order as a suggestion. Erica grumbles but obliges, and Lydia allows herself a small, private smile. Big brother, huh. Even an alpha can be trained, it would seem.
-
Deaton freaks Lydia out. She's almost completely sure that he has that effect on everyone, but a) she is not everyone, and b) it's not a comfort when even your big bad werewolf friends are afraid of someone. There's something vaguely sacrilegious about it. A veterinarian's office, in theory, is the kind of place Lydia thrives in; organized, sterile, bursting with potentiality. But she knows there's more than scalpels and ketamine in his cabinets, things inexplicable and wrong.
He's polite enough, shows them in and offers them a seat while he asks what the trouble is, but while Erica's explaining he keeps his eyes trained on Lydia in a way that makes her feel like she has no skin.
"Resurrection magic," he says when Erica finishes. "That's dangerous business."
Lydia smiles beatifically. "I'm a scientist."
"I don't doubt it," Deaton replies mildly, "but as our circumstances stand, I think you'll find it best to suspend your disbelief for this conversation."
"Then there's a way to fix us?" Erica urges. "A magic thing?"
"Quite," Deaton hums, turning back to Lydia, "I have to ask first, though. How did you find yourself with a member of Derek Hale's pack that night?"
"I don't know," Lydia says, valiantly keeping her irritation under wraps. "I have. Bad nights, occasionally. I sleepwalk. I wake up in weird places. You know about Peter, I assume?"
Deaton nods. "I think there are two issues that need to be addressed here. First, the problem of Erica's decomposition. My best guess as to what's happening is that there's something keeping you from healing completely, Erica."
"Guess, that's reassuring," Lydia mumbles, at the same time Erica says, "Like a spell?"
"Not quite that complicated," Deaton says, tapping his head. "Physically, you're perfectly capable of recovering. Mentally, you're falling back on Lydia's energy to keep you whole."
"I'm stealing her energy?" Erica asks. "Oh my God, is this an episode of Sailor Moon?"
"You've been through a great amount of trauma," Deaton continues. "I suggest a good deal of focus and a little time, and you'll be back to normal. And as for you, Miss Martin…"
"Yes?"
"As much as I know you don't want to hear it, you have some sort of connection to the Hale pack."
"You're right, I didn't want to hear that."
"I think your sleepwalking episodes, while they originated from Peter's manipulation, are now tied to the pack itself rather than simply him. Specifically in moments of distress."
"Distress? Theirs or mine?" Lydia demands. "Because this conversation is heading for distressing territory, and I'd hate to lose consciousness right now and wake up covered in someone's blood."
"Theirs," Deaton says, ignoring the thinly veiled threat. "Think of it as a magical rescue service."
"So I'm a werewolf paramedic now?" Lydia snorts. "I don't think so. That doesn't even make sense."
"Think about the places you go when you sleepwalk. Are they areas the pack frequents?"
"Fine, I'll give you the woods, and the Hale house." And Scott's, she remembers with a pang. "But the community center?"
"Scott and Isaac play basketball there sometimes," Erica says quietly. "Isaac busted his nose on the concrete once."
"They heal in like five seconds. What would they even need me for?" Lydia tries desperately. "And I'm not magic."
"It's very likely that the pack isn't even aware of your connection. But you're an impressive young woman, Lydia. I don't doubt that you can learn to control your 'bad nights.'"
Erica grabs for Lydia's hand and gives it a comforting squeeze.
"So time and effort," Lydia says finally. "That's your diagnosis for both of us? Next time I'll just pick up the self-help book."
"You might not be magic, Ms. Martin," Deaton says, holding the door open for them as they leave, "but you are powerful. I'd like to know what makes you tick."
"Go read a biology textbook," Lydia advises, stalks to the car and doesn't look back.
-
"So," Erica says, drumming her fingers against the window.
"So," Lydia agrees. She glances away from the road for a second to take note of Erica's slumped shoulders, the teeth cutting into her lip. "It's really not such a big deal, okay? We'll just hang out like we have been until things get back to normal."
"That's the thing," says Erica, "it kind of is a big deal. And you keep pretending it's not because you don't want to talk about the magic elephant in the room, and that's fine, but Lydia, you are literally the reason I'm alive. That's big. And now I'm fucking stealing from you—"
"You weren't doing it on purpose," Lydia argues.
"Could you tell?" Erica asks softly.
"Not really," Lydia shifts in her seat, takes a turn a little too sharp resultingly. "Maybe—"
"What?"
"I sleep better." Her hands are tight on the wheel. "When you stay over, I—I'm more tired, I guess."
"Sorry," Erica says, scrubs hand over her face. "I'll work on it, like Deaton said, it's just—"
"Not a bad thing," Lydia explains. "I used to not sleep at all."
"Really?"
"Don't get all misty-eyed," Lydia warns her.
Erica snorts. "I can't afford waterproof mascara. I don't do misty."
"Good," Lydia replies, but she reaches across the gearshift to grab her hand, anyway.
-
"You're soulbonded to a freaking werewolf," Allison says incredulously, slurping her soda.
"It is not a soulbond, not that those exist," Lydia hisses. "And can we keep it down, please? How many people with superhearing are in this cafeteria?"
"She needs you to live!" Allison reminds her. "Does that not remind you of a crappy teen romance? Just a little?"
"Okay, one," Lydia raises an eyebrow and a fork. "Stones, glass houses. Two, if I were going to star in a teen romance, it would be a bestseller and receive critical acclaim."
Allison swats her fork away, grinning. "Are you Edward or Bella? Come on, I'm your best friend, you can tell me."
"You are," Lydia agrees. "And that's why I know you're not going to repeat this to anyone, right?"
"Of course," Allison sighs, leaning back in her chair. "I can't believe you're soulbonded to Erica."
"You're soulbonded to Erica?" chirps a voice from behind her. Stiles sits down next to her, Scott at the end of their table, deliberately not next to Allison.
"I take it back," Lydia says. "I take it all back, I never want to see you again."
"What's a soulbond? Why are you guys talking about werewolf crap at lunch?" Scott asks.
"I hate you so much," she says to Allison.
"You don't," Allison teases back, shoots her a warm smile. Lydia kicks her gently under the table.
"Please don't kiss again," Scott blurts, and then flushes to the tips of his ears.
"Yeah, his dick's going raw," Stiles mutters, which earns him a snort from Allison and an outraged "Stiles!" from Scott. Lydia likes that he's acting like a person around her, and not a lovesick puppy, so she laughs, too.
Positive reinforcement, and all.
-
"Oh, hey," Erica says, rapping once on the bedroom door and letting herself in. "Is that the Physics homework? I completely spaced in class today."
"That's so sad," Lydia deadpans. She's actually working on next week's assignment while double-checking the one that's due tomorrow, fudges one of the answers a little for appearance's sake.
"We should do it together," Erica suggests.
"I don't abide moochers," Lydia declines, giving Erica's barely-used notebook a critical once-over.
"Well, I guess you're shit out of luck, because I'm pretty much in a constant state of mooching whether you help me or not," Erica says, shrugging coolly. Lydia keeps her eyes on the line of her shoulders, how relaxed they are compared to her own, the suggestion of strong muscles under fabric.
"Come here," she says, and turns back the pages of her book.
She's nearly got Erica sold on the different parts of a wave when the dizziness hits her. Vaguely, she hears her pen clatter to the floor, her hands going immediately to her temples, but it's Erica's voice that stands out the most. "Is it happening?" she asks, low.
Lydia nods, swallows back the threat of bile. Maybe if she just forces her eyes open, just plants her feet a little firmer on the ground—but all that does is make it harder to stay upright, and she lets out an embarrassing whimper.
"I wonder if—there's a thing we do, on full moons, to keep us from losing ourselves completely," Erica murmurs. That's her hand, Lydia realizes, stroking her hair, her back. Of course it is, who else would it be, Peter Hale isn't here. "You try and find an anchor. Something that makes you want to stay awake. Aware. For Scott, it's Allison. But it doesn't have to be a person. It could just be a feeling, or a math problem, or anything. Whatever keeps you you."
Lydia nods again, tries to think. Jackson comes to mind, but all that does is make her head hurt; a brief flash of the kanima appears behind her eyelids and she nearly squeaks. Allison, Allison, she loves, but there's so much sadness there, too. Regret, repentance.
It's not that she means to think of Erica at all; that's just what ends up happening. She just thinks of the way she feels when she's with Erica, thinks of the eyes on them constantly when they walk down the hall, thinks of how Erica cackles at her jokes like a witch in a fairytale, thinks of the two of them whispering to each other, sharp-toothed, while they watch passersby.
She feels like herself around Erica. Like Lydia Martin, not the town nutjob.
That's about the time she passes out on the floor.
When she comes to, she's in bed, pillows fluffed up behind her and everything, and Erica's sitting at her desk, going through her Physics notes. "I said no mooching," she croaks, and Erica jumps.
"Hi!" she says."Shit, you're not concussed, are you? I thought about taking you to the hospital, but I figured if something happened, that might be a terrible fucking idea, so."
"I'm fine, just tired." Lydia pushes herself up on her elbows. "Wait, if something happened? I didn't go anywhere?" Erica shakes her head, and Lydia squints at her with scrutiny. "Did I try?"
"Didn't even move," Erica reports happily, kicking her feet up on the corner of the bed. As an afterthought: "You did drool a little, though."
"Shut up," Lydia says, but she's smiling. An anchor. Okay.
-
The head-stuff doesn't ever stop, but the nightly jogs through town do, almost immediately. Lydia had almost forgotten what being rested felt like, but now she wakes up at six in the morning every day, having to remind herself that it's not wasteful to close her eyes again, settle back into her blankets.
What she gets now are these brief head-aches, accompanied by a five-second-long blackout and a sweeping wave of nausea. Really, it's no worse than PMS.
Unless she goes near the Hale house, but she makes a point not to.
When Stiles gets kidnapped, though, she feels obligated. She's still not part of Derek's pack, no matter how soft his stare is these days, no matter how much Isaac and Boyd smile at him like he's their friend instead of their alpha, but Allison's there, too, and if an Argent can tough it out, so can Lydia.
Plus, if they didn't have her and Allison to construct their plans, they'd all be dead of their own short-sightedness by now. They're pouring over a map, devising the most efficient search routes to take, when the headache comes. It's more severe than the ones she's been having since the sleepwalking stopped, but the blackout she's expecting doesn't come. Instead she sees blurs, maybe this one a tree, maybe this one a swingset, this one a—
"The elementary school," she gasps, blinking out of it. She's braced over the table, Allison and Erica each holding onto one of her arms. "Stiles, they've got him at the elementary school."
"You're sure?" Derek says, even though it doesn't sound like a question.
"I—yes," Lydia nods resolutely. "That's what I saw."
"Then the elementary school it is." Isaac's grin is like a knife. "I always hated that place."
They find Stiles two hours later, tied up and abandoned in an attic room. "I'm getting really fucking tired of being passed around like a chew toy," he says, rubbing his wrists, but he's not hurt.
"You're an easy target," Lydia shrugs, half-teasing, and Stiles makes an ugly face at her, turns it into a smile when she softens her eyes.
Scott drives him Stiles home, and Allison rides along with them, hugging Lydia and whispering praise in her ear before she leaves. Lydia's got her own car door open, getting ready to sink into her own bed and sleep off today's excitement when Derek comes up behind her, claps her awkwardly on the shoulder and says, "Good work."
Lydia could blush and demur, say thank you, but instead she raises her eyes to his (green eyes, she notes, not angry red), and tells him, "You, too."
He blinks a few times; she thinks he understands.
He doesn't say anything else to her, though, because Erica comes bounding over to her, picks her up and spins her around. Erica lifts her like she's weightless, and the lightness in Lydia's stomach makes her feel like she could fly. "That was amazing," Erica grins, setting her down gently. Lydia sways a little on her feet, can't help but smile back. "You didn't just figure out how to keep it under control, you know how to use it."
"Are you staying over tonight?" she asks, because flattery has never made her uncomfortable before, but saying thank you now seems like the grossest understatement, and Erica nods, hops into the passenger seat when Lydia sticks the key in the ignition.
"So what about you?" Lydia asks.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you have your thing under control? Or are you still, you know, only mostly dead?" Her headlights flash once on the closed garage door, and Erica hesitates, getting out of the car.
"It's coming," she says finally. "I think."
"That's good," says Lydia, means it.
"Okay," Erica starts once they're in Lydia's room, door shut behind them. "It's weird question time."
"I'm not going to try and spy on people with my brain," Lydia says, kicking off her shoes.
"Tempting, but no." Erica's fidgety, which means she's uncomfortable, which also means she's biting her lips in that way that draws Lydia's eye irrevocably. "So, once this thing's gone, fixed, whatever, are we still gonna—you know." Lydia doesn't; she tears her gaze away from Erica's mouth to raise an eyebrow. "This," Erica finishes, exasperated. "Are we still going to do this—this hanging out thing?"
"Are you seriously even asking me that?" Lydia gapes at her. "I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation already."
"You said we'd go back to normal," Erica points out, sitting on the bed beside her. Lydia leans into her without thinking. "Our normal doesn't exactly have room for this."
"Then we make room," Lydia shrugs, pales a little when she hears herself. "I mean," she continues, wincing at what's about to come out of her mouth. "I like spending time with you."
"Yeah?" Erica's eyes are glinting darkly, her wide mouth curled into a smile.
"Yes."
"Good, because I fixed the rotting thing three days ago." She sees Erica leaning down, long, precious seconds before she feels the press of her lips. She thought it would be rougher than this, faster and more desperate, but Erica's mouth moves slow and sweet over hers, a lazy kiss that Lydia can smile into.
She pulls back a millimeter, whispers, "This isn't a weird magic side effect, is it?"
"I don't want to make out with you because you brought me back from the dead," Erica returns.
"Only checking," Lydia says brightly before she throws a leg over Erica's lap and knocks her flat on her back. She's a little bit wet already, a result of adrenaline and looking at Erica's mouth for too long, and she knows that Erica can probably smell her, if for no reason but the way she grinds her hips up into Lydia's, lets her hands wander down to settle at Lydia's hips and squeeze. Neither of them makes any move to get undressed, though. Erica's mouth is so hot, and when she scrapes her teeth over a lip she moans, and this is enough, for right now. Erica is kissing her like she could do it forever, and Lydia doesn't need to come right now, is not a bit frustrated when Erica slides her down to the bed and their kisses turn short and chaste, when Erica’s hands travel back up to her waist and stay there.
"Hey," Erica whispers, nosing against Lydia’s jaw. "We still okay?"
"If you keep doing that, we will be," Lydia sighs, stretching her neck up to give Erica more room. "Have I mentioned I’m really glad you’re not dead anymore?"
"Likewise, I’m sure," Erica says wryly, and bites down on Lydia’s collarbone. Which is a perfect time for her phone to start going crazy on the bedside table; she cuts off her pleased yelp with a groan, pushes herself up to reach for it.
"Are you serious?" Erica asks, arms tight around Lydia’s waist.
"It could be important," Lydia counters, wriggling free and scrolling through her texts. "I lied, it’s Derek."
Erica snorts at that, mouth warm and open at Lydia’s shoulder. "What’s he say?"
"Pack meeting tomorrow morning."
"Are you going?" Erica says, propping her chin up on Lydia’s arm. Frankly, the more immediate question is, you were invited?, but Lydia will let courtesy trump honesty, just this once.
She’s a little surprised herself.
"Maybe," she considers. "Will you?"
Erica only gives a half-hearted little shrug, curling into Lydia even more. "I follow where you go," she teases.
"No," Lydia says seriously, because as much as she wants Erica to keep kissing her, as much as she wants Erica to want that, too, she can’t let it be that way, not anymore. "You don’t."
"I really don’t," Erica reassures her, finds her hand and squeezes it tightly. Lydia lies back down gingerly, letting herself relax into Erica’s warmth, Erica’s strength, Erica’s slick mouth over hers. "But while I’m here and all..."
Erica’s soft hands start slinking up her thighs and leaving Lydia a half-ticklish, half-horny mass of limbs, and she opens her mouth to says yes, come on, please, and then yawns into Erica’s mouth, which is maybe not the most unsexy thing she’s ever done, but it’s enough to make her cheeks flush pink.
"Or we can wait until the morning," Erica giggles, moving her hands and Lydia wants to protest but Erica kisses the words out of her, pulls her close and holds her firm around the waist, and tomorrow is sounding fantastic, actually. Lydia yawns again, closing her eyes and sighing gently.
Erica's spooned up against her, all warm and content, and she'll be there in the morning. They've got time.