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Lydia Martin seriously did not like feeling unsure. In fact, it was right up there with mortal fear and heartbreak in terms of unpleasantness. Everything should have a plan, as far as she was concerned. Even the universe's descent into entropy was measurable and foreseeable, after all. Existence was random, but extinction was inevitable. And okay, yeah, that was a blatantly depressing way to make a point, but whatever. She's pondering, here.
Lydia liked schedules. She liked organization. She planned her homework load, her laundry days, her outfits for the following week, all of it. Order was the mother of success, and Lydia was determined to be successful.
Which is why this whatever-it-was with Stiles niggled at the back of her mind like some sort of four year old on a Mountain Dew high. It was this jumbled spot in her psyche, a frenetic pulse of emotions and half-formed thoughts. It was something that refused to be compartmentalized. And it was throwing her off.
Lydia scribbled out an equation she'd done wrong-- seriously? She could do this in her sleep!-- and started over, shoving a lock of hair behind her ear forcefully. Okay, so f''(x) is -sin(x), then... something. Lydia growled in frustration and closed her textbook, thudding her head against the edge of her desk.
She hadn't really seen Stiles since their weekend getaway, other than glimpses in hallways and one-sided staring contests in English. He'd smiled at her once, a bright, innocent flash of teeth when he was fishing a pencil out of the hellhole that was his backpack, and Lydia had felt like her heart was going to thump straight out of her chest. Externally, she'd smiled back and turned to her notebook, scripting a tidy 'Stiles' in the margin before erasing it.
But that's all he'd done; he'd hardly interacted with her at all. She almost craved his foolish antics with fruit, just so she'd know she was on his mind, or something. Instead, he was acting like they barely talked outside of pack business, and it was awful.
Lydia groaned into the silence of her room. Could she be more pathetic? She sounded like the protagonist of some insipid teen romance. Lydia straightened her spine and opened her textbook again, determined to finish the problem set. Two problems later, she was back to taking her ire out on her forehead. Had she said something wrong? She'd thought that weekend went perfectly, or, well, as perfectly as prolonged exposure to Stiles could be.
Lydia bit her lip and peered at the plaid pajama pants folded neatly at the foot of her bed. Stiles had forgotten to take them home when he'd left, and, if anyone asked, she would vehemently deny wearing them every night for the past few days. But no one was asking. Lydia stood, shucking her skirt and pulling the baggy pants up over her legs. She had to roll the waistband four times to avoid stepping on the fabric, but no matter. They were comfy.
Lydia opened her laptop and opened a browser window, logging into Facebook. Maybe the Internet could distract her. Lydia scrolled through her feed, liking Danny's new profile picture, in which his face was smushed against Ethan's, both boys grinning happily. They were seriously just too cute.
A few posts later, Lydia found a video Stiles had shared, which he captioned with “I'm not even gonna lie, I cried laughing.” She clicked the play button before she could stop herself.
And okay, she cried laughing, too.
Lydia pulled out her phone and typed out a quick You bring the rubber fingers, I'll bring the mess. but her thumb froze over the send button. What was she doing? Sending a text to Stiles Stilinski about some stupid YouTube video? Lydia deleted the text, setting her phone aside. No way.
The next morning, Lydia stared at her closet blankly. She'd forgotten to pick out her outfit for the day. And she'd forgotten to put her hair in curlers. And school started in an hour. Lydia blinked at her collection of skirts and tops, feeling a strong urge to forgo the impeccable fashion for one day. She pulled down her one pair of jeans, dark wash skinnies with zippers on the ankles, and paired them with a pastel plaid button-down. She threw her hair into a messy ponytail, carefully arranging it so it looked fashionable and not lazy.
She ate a bagel on her drive to school, licking cream cheese off her lips as she pulled into the parking lot. Allison pulled her aside just as she entered the building, her eyes wide.
“Are you okay?”
Lydia furrowed her eyebrows. “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”
Allison gave her a purposeful once-over. “You look like your from the Midwest?”
Lydia frowned down at her shirt. “Plaid's in style! I look fine.”
“What?” Allison squinted at her, feeling for Lydia's temperature with the back of her hand. “When do you look 'fine'? Seriously, are you okay?”
Lydia batted the hand away. “Yes, Allison, now if you please, I'm going to be late to AP Bio.”
Allison looked at her warily, stepping to the side. Lydia flounced to her locker, applying lip gloss and reassuring herself that plaid was still totally in fashion, right? Right.
Things were depressingly on par with the rest of her week. Meiosis led to Lydia thinking inappropriate thoughts about sperm and eggs. Calculus had her drawing long, thin hands in the margins of her notes. All she could think about was Stiles, and it was driving her crazy. She'd forgotten her AP Government homework at home, and that led to the entire class staring at her in shock. Lydia never forgot homework, ever. Their curious, judgmental gaze made Lydia feel small, and she left Government feeling less confident than she'd felt since puberty.
She stuck her head in her locker, squeezing her eyes shut where no one could see. And the spots in her vision looked like Stiles. Lydia could cry from frustration.
“Hey, I like the shirt,” an unmistakable voice said from behind her. Lydia spun around, heart rate accelerating ridiculously easily.
“What?”
Stiles smiled, and it felt like a too-bright ray of sunshine was radiating at Lydia. He shoved his arm against hers, and Lydia realized, with a mingling sense of horror (and delight) that they were both wearing plaid. “It's nice to know that I'm not the only one with decent fashion sense around here,” he joked.
It felt like every compartment in Lydia's brain had flapped open. She'd worn plaid. Stiles wore plaid. It was practically his thing. Plaid button-downs and jeans. Oh God.
Panic bubbled in Lydia's throat, borne of too much obsessing and too little validation.
“So,” Stiles said, leaning against the wall of lockers, “I was wondering if maybe you'd like to come over on Sunday? At World's End just came out, and now I want to marathon all the Simon Pegg movies. I mean, I don't expect you to watch them all, but Shaun of the Dead is practically a classic, so--”
“Excuse me?” Lydia demanded, panic and frustration boiling over and hardening into resolve. “You want me to movie marathon with you? Who do you think I am?”
Stiles uncrossed his arms, caught off-guard and looking hurt, but Lydia was too far-gone to care. “What? I just--”
“Yeah, 'you just.' Just. You,” Lydia replied, eyes glittering meanly. “How dare you. You are nothing, Stilinski. You expect me to watch movies with you? Are you kidding me?”
Stiles blinked, eyes overly bright. “You did before,” he said weakly.
Lydia laughed, feeling detached and unable to stop. “Yeah, I thought I was going to get something out of it, remember? Moron. Did you think I wanted to spend an evening watching movies with you? What reality are you living in?”
Stiles crossed his arms over his torso, hugging at his sides. “Oh. Never mind, then.” He looked down at his shoes, sniffing, and a drop of wetness fell from his face. “See you around, Heisenberg.” He walked away, looking tiny behind his backpack.
And just as soon as it had appeared, the resolve whooshed out of Lydia, and she fell back again her locker. An entire hallway of people was staring at her, their eyes hard and unfeeling. Lydia wished the floor would swallow her whole, because she wasn't sure she could live with herself right now.
The rest of the day passed in a swarm of whispers. Word traveled fast in Beacon Hills, and everyone was talking about how Lydia Martin had completely shut down the Stilinski kid. Hadn't he been pining for her for years? That was just cruel, wasn't it? And what's this about movie nights? Had they been, you know? What a heartless bitch.
Lydia skipped her last class. She couldn't take it anymore. She drove home and holed herself up in her room, pulling on Stiles' clothes and turning her phone off. She cried into her pillow for hours, hating how fucking unsure her world had become, and hating how much she hated herself. Why did she need to be so fucking perfect all the time? Why couldn't things with Stiles have just stayed detached? Everything was so much easier when their relationship consisted of a list and mutual orgasms. This? This was a mess.
Lydia cried herself dry. Every time she thought she was done, Stiles' face, pinched and confused, flashed in her mind's eye, and she started sobbing into her pillow again. Eventually, a cool calm came over her, a weird sort of confidence. Things were back to normal, now. She'd spent years ignoring Stiles, she could do it again. Maybe this was better.
Lydia washed her face and took off Stiles' clothes, putting on her own pajamas instead. She picked out her outfit for tomorrow and did all of her homework. She ate a tasteless salad for dinner and drank two bottles of water to replace her tears. She was fine. This was fine. This was better.
Stiles kissed her in her dreams, curling around her and filling her with his happy, infectious warmth, but Lydia awoke cold. She allowed herself to mourn for exactly one minute, then stood and went to the bathroom to take out her curlers. Her outfit was gorgeous and powerful, and Lydia donned it like armor. Her drive to school was calm and easy, and she convinced herself that she'd be better than fine. She would thrive.
But all that ended when Scott pulled her into an empty classroom, looking furious. “What the fuck did you do?”
Lydia feigned stupidity. “Can you be more specific?”
Scott snarled and punched the wall next to her head, his eyes flashing yellow. Lydia felt a spike of fear claw up her chest. “You fucking know what you did, Lydia Martin. What did you do to Stiles?”
Lydia's half-blinked, faltering. “Is he okay?”
Scott looked at her incredulously and laughed a harsh, bitter laugh. “Okay? Are you shitting me right now? Of course he's not okay. He's been a mess since yesterday, because of something you did.”
Lydia didn't know what to say. She had no idea why she said those things yesterday, other than that she was terrified and didn't know what else to do. She'd never meant to hurt Stiles in the process.
You are nothing Stilinski, she'd told him. What reality are you living in?
Lydia felt tears prickle at her eyes. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “what have I done?”
Scott snorted. “What you've always done, Lydia. You made him feel worthless. You broke his heart.”
But Lydia's heart was the one that was breaking. Breaking for her beautiful, special boy with the widest smile she'd ever seen. “You have to help me,” Lydia begged with sudden conviction. “I fucked up, Scott. I need to apologize.”
Scott sneered at her. “Why, so you can hurt him all over again? No way, Martin. Stiles deserves way better than you.”
“Because I love him,” she whispered, and it was so blazingly true that it physically hurt. Every stupid emotion and thought sorted itself out and fit into its box. She loved him so much and so hard, and it was so obvious now. “I love him and I've ruined everything and I don't know what to do.” She crumpled to the floor and hid her face in her hands.
The warning bell rang and Scott looked out into the hallway. He crouched to her level, eyes soft. “I may be the shittiest friend in the world for saying this, but Stiles is home right now. Go see him, and fix this. And if you ever do anything to hurt him again, nothing in this world will stop me from coming after you. Do you understand?”
Lydia nodded, relief flooding her system and making her cry harder. “Thank you so much, Scott, I promise not to hurt him,” she babbled, light-headed. “I'll never hurt him again, Jesus Christ, I swear it.”
“I'm late for class,” Scott said, standing. “Until Stiles tells me otherwise, we are not okay, you hear me? Not okay.”
He left, and Lydia scrambled to her feet. She was heavy and frail and stupid and, Jesus, so fucking stupid. She raced to her locker and grabbed her keys, then sprinted to her car. She didn't even consider the consequences of skipping two days in a row; it was so unimportant right now.
She arrived at Stiles' house in record time and pounded on the door. She heard footsteps on the stairs and, a moment later, Stiles opened the door. He looked pale-- more so when he realized who she was-- and young in his ratty pajamas. “Oh, hi, Lydia,” he said, voice flat.
Every ounce of courage left Lydia in a rush. “Hi,” she replied, feeling small.
He didn't reply right away, and the silence hung heavily between them. Stiles shifted his weight to one hip. “Did you want something?”
Lydia hated herself so much right then, because he was broken and raw and still asking what he could do for her. Dammit, why was she such a failure? “Can I come in, please?”
Stiles stood to the side and Lydia, hating herself even more, walked in. “Stiles, I--”
“Please don't,” Stiles cut her off, his voice breaking. “Please just don't. There's nothing you can say--”
“I'm in love with you,” Lydia blurted, the words falling easily from her lips now. Stiles stopped dead in his tracks, which gave Lydia the drive to continue. “I've been trying to deny it for so long, Stiles, but I love you so much and I was so scared when I said those awful, awful things yesterday. I couldn't even stop myself and I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, and I don't even want it right now because you should hate me for years for this, but I am so, so, so sorry, Stiles. I can't-- there are no words. You are everything to me.”
Stiles looked like someone at hit him with the entirety of Encyclopedia Britannia. He stumbled to the arm of the sofa and sat on it, staring at a spot of the floor dumbly. “Can you repeat that?”
Lydia bit her lip. “Verbatim? No.”
Stiles laughed and it felt like the entire world had warmed under her feet. “No, just the important part.”
There were several important things in her statement, but Lydia knew exactly what he meant. “I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you, Stiles Stilinski,” Lydia said, voice like steel. “I love you and your hilarious movies and your health food and your dumb plaid and your beautiful smile and just you. I love how much you love your dad. I love how hyper you are. I love how brave you are when you're helping Scott. I love you every single day of the week. I love you more than I have ever loved anything else in this world.” She sniffed, beginning to tear up because it was just so fucking true.
Stiles leapt at her, lifting her into the biggest hug of her life. “I love you, too,” he whispered into her hair. “I always thought I loved you, but then I met the real you and it was like a revelation, Lyds, you have no idea. You're just as beautiful on the inside, when you let people in, and I consider it an honest-to-God miracle that I got to see it.”
Lydia was crying in earnest by now and, judging by the ragged way he was breathing, so was Stiles. She clutched around his neck, feeling at home in a way she never had before. But then Stiles pulled back and kissed her, salty and wet and desperate, and Lydia had to redefine her definition of perfect, because it had nothing to do with putting in her curlers at night. It was right here in his arms all along.
“So,” she whispered thickly, “still got those movies? Because I've only seen Run Fat Boy Run.”
Stiles laughed, and Lydia felt the vibrations of it course through her entire body. “You make the popcorn?”
Lydia leaned back and there was that smile, bright and beaming and all for her, and it, too, was perfect. “Deal.”