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"I'd be Medusa," Lydia says. Across the room, Derek's eyes dart to her. The debate continues along around her - Stiles suddenly backtracking on his argument that he'd be Perseus - but Lydia's eyes slide along the book in her lap, her attention already fleeted. Derek watches her, an odd feeling in the back of his spine.
"Why?" He asks, abrupt. The conversation halts - as it usually does when he jumps in - and Stiles asks something. Derek's gaze remains on Lydia, who looks up. Her face is stone.
"Look up her story sometime," she answers haughtily. Derek swallows, feeling frozen.
"You wouldn't be a siren?" He smirks on the last word. Lydia shrugs a shoulder in response, turning back to her reading. The conversation sparks back up with Scott claiming Lydia would be Athena - earning a grin from the girl in question - and Allison laughingly barks out something about virginal goddess.
The evening passes and eventually Derek ends up in the kitchen, searching the kitchen for some snack to appease the pack. Lydia trails in - her entrance punctuated by the soft padding of her feet and the scent of her, something like oranges - leaning up against a counter silently.
"Is it because of Peter?" Derek asks, head still in the refrigerator. Lydia's heartbeat spikes for a moment - fear, pure fear - and Derek wonders how long that's been happening, how often she feels unnerved in her own pack.
"Not purely him. If it was I'd probably be Persephone. He doesn't define me," Lydia says after a beat. He turns to look at her and she cocks her head, fire-red hair spilling down her shoulder. "I have to admit, Derek, I'm impressed that you know mythology."
"My mom minored in it. The gorgons was one of my favorite bedtime stories actually," he explains. Lydia smiles, an almost unfamiliar look, the softness in it. Derek feels an odd warmness, despite one shoulder propping the refrigerator door open.
"That explains a lot actually," Lydia says. It takes Derek a moment to catch the humor, to realize she's not just mocking him. He smiles when he does. Lydia watches him for a second, then blinks. "Right, well, I'm on snack duty, so snacks?"
"Here, this should hold them until I make some pigs-in-a-blanket," Derek hands her a bag of string cheese, his latter part of the statement earning an odd look. He sighs. "They're Isaac's favorite and I'm still trying to apologize for everything."
"So domestic," Lydia comments over her shoulder as she sashays out of the room. Derek lets her get nearly to the door before he works up the nerve.
"Lydia," he calls and she pauses, turning. Her expression is impatient and suddenly he feels a bit like Stiles. Swallowing, Derek realizes the entire other room could be listening in - even without meaning to. Regardless, he shuffles the can of crescent rolls from one hand to the other. "You wouldn't be Persephone. You're too intimidating for that."
Lydia stares at him, half-squinting in concentration, and for a second Derek thinks he's overstepped. Then, one side of her mouth quirks into a smile. "Thanks Derek."
“You’re underage,” Derek comments to Lydia as he approaches her. From her spot on the ground – in her prom dress - she peers up at him, leaning back on one arm on the dirt floor. For a second, she simply observes him, considering him it seems to the very core of his being. Then, she laughs, head tossing back onto her shoulder with the action.
“I just watched my two ex-boyfriends – werewolf ex-boyfriends - almost fight to the death over me at my senior prom. And then this third guy – human, awfully human and my date to the whole thing, after weeks of badgering - jumped in, blathering about how neither of them deserved me. But you’re right, alcohol is clearly the problem here,” Lydia says, punctuating the entire statement with another swig. Derek drops onto the ground beside her, rather unceremoniously. Lydia sighs and holds the bottle out to him. Upon his refusal, she sets it on the dirt beside her. Derek watches her, the way she composes herself as she turns the bottle slightly.
“You can get really drunk if you want to. It won’t help things, but I’ll keep an eye on you,” Derek says. Lydia turns to look at him and her nose crinkles with a grin.
“Well, won’t that be safe?” She quips. The comment stings – half because it’s true, half because something in the way she says it reminds him of Erica and a million things undone by the girl. He must flinch because Lydia looks back down, licking her lips. “That was mean. You haven’t been that guy for like a year now.”
“I was that guy for a long time,” Derek says, as way of accepting her unspoken apology. A silence lapses, not entirely comfortable but not unbearable. Lydia takes another drink from the bottle, a longer one. Letting out a breath, she leans back, spreading her arms behind her as she falls to lay on her back. Derek watches her, his throat tightening for a moment at the sight. He looks away, upward to the stars, shaking himself mentally. Lydia is too young and perhaps entirely too mean, he reminds himself.
“Derek,” Lydia says quietly after a few moments. He looks down to her and her focus is on the stars. “I know you aren’t drunk because lycanthropes healing powers extend to alcohol, but can you pretend to be drunk? Just for a little while.”
Derek stares at her, watches her fingers as they thread through the grass. Suddenly she points up to the sky, bits of grass falling on her dress as she lifts her arm. He follows her finger to look up at the constellation.
“Cassiopeia,” he points out. Lydia nods, audible to his hearing against the scratchy grass. He leans back on his elbows. “My mom always liked her. Fitting, I guess, all things considered. Laura would appreciate the Andromeda casting on her part, she always liked Andromeda in the Harry Potter books when we read those.”
Derek stares at the sky for a long time. He looks down in surprise when he feels Lydia’s hand grasp his own. She squeezes it without comment. Smiling to himself, Derek squeezes back.
“So, pretending to be drunk, what does that involve?” He asks, looking back up at the sky. There’s a beat and for a second he’s concerned that Lydia’s forgotten the request, or that she’s drunker than he thought and has already passed out.
“Be yourself. Just less lame,” Lydia says. Derek rolls his eyes as she laughs. She tugs on his hand until he flops back beside her. “Drunk you can be really into astronomy and point out constellations to drunk me.”
So he does.
“Stiles is a jerk,” Lydia passes a bottle of water to Derek as she speaks. He takes it silently, watching her as she walks around the couch, looking down at his bottle when she sits next to him. From the corner of his eye, he can see that she pulls her feet up onto the couch under her and the action is almost delicate. “Seriously, he’s a total asshat, but everyone doesn’t notice because Scott’s such a good guy it outweighs it.”
“He’s right, I was a terrible alpha,” Derek says, shrugging. Lydia repositions herself then, her feet nearly in his lap. He looks at them quizzically until she sighs, at which he looks up at her face.
“You’re a good beta though. Besides, one truthful comment does not a good guy make,” one of her hands is fanned over her eyes. Derek practically dives off the couch, crouching nearer to her face. He touches her wrist and she jumps at the touch.
“Is this a banshee thing?” He asks, voice urgent. She looks at him strangely, then blinks. He motions to her arm and she looks up at it, as if unaware that it was previously part of her. Then, recognition dawns on her, visibly so, and she laughs – a short chuckle – as she shakes her head. Derek leans back on his heels, face closing in on itself. Lydia drops her arm back across her face.
“This is a ‘Got in a drinking contest with Allison Argent last night’ thing,” Lydia explains. Derek lets out a breath and tries not to read into the relief he feels. Lydia grins, pulling her arm over her head and looking at him. “You know something weird?”
“Is it related to you, Allison and a bottle of tequila? If so, yes,” Derek grins, all teeth. It’s half bravado and it feels more familiar than the odd swirl in his stomach at the smile she’s wearing that matches his own. At the question, she scoffs and makes a face.
“God, was that a joke? What a weird day,” Lydia crinkles her nose at him. Derek ducks his head, put off-balance again. “Anyway, the weird thing is, I think I’m your best friend.”
Derek freezes at the comment. He keeps his head ducked down, though he can feel the tips of his ears getting red. There’s no word for the feeling running through him. Its part touched – that she’s observed this – but also part something like humiliation.
“Derek,” Lydia says, her hand dropping onto the edge of his sleeve. He looks up – both at her touch and her tone. Her smile is gentler than it was a moment ago. “You’re practically my best friend too. Allison just locked up the top category in that a while ago.”
“As long as I’m ahead of Stilinski,” Derek says, ignoring the way his heart trips when her hand remains on his arm. She laughingly nods and he wonders if the fact that he can hear her heartbeat speed up when he laughs as well should mean anything. He decides it shouldn’t.
“I never thought I’d miss Beacon Hills,” Lydia says, running a finger along the countertop. She looks up in confusion. “Something’s different here.”
“I painted and Isaac and I refinished that rocking chair,” Derek points at the chair, a note of pride in his voice. Lydia smiles and he smiles back, the pride growing at her approval.
“Glad to hear couples counseling worked for you guys,” she teases, earning an eye roll from Derek. She opens the refrigerator and leans into it, her dress riding up slightly as she drops her hands to her knees. Derek looks obstinately at the ceiling. “You eat like a frat guy.”
“Hanging out with a lot of frat guys?” Derek asks, teasing. He grins tightly when she looks over her shoulder at him, the cold air spilling out visibly around her.
“Jealous?” She quips, her mouth ajar with a tiny smile. Derek keeps smiling, shrugs one shoulder. Lydia turns back to the open door, pushes his teriyaki sauce away to grab something in the back of it. Finally she answers his question. “Don’t worry, frat guys bore me. I’ve decided to stop hanging around boys who aren’t worth my time.”
Derek watches as she emerges with two beers. Blinking at her, he accepts one of them when she shoves it at him as she walks past him. He hears her drop onto the couch, hears the pop as she twists off the bottle top.
“Are we going to watch some Charlie Brown or what?” Lydia calls, louder than necessary. Derek jumps slightly, then hops over the back of the couch. He lands sprawling, one leg in her lap. Scrambling, he pulls away to one corner of the couch – she gives him a weird look when he settles.
“You’re sure you don’t have anywhere else to be?” He asks, leaning for the coffee table for the remote. Lydia takes a swig of beer, he watches her in the reflection of the glass in the table. Swallowing, her expression starts to harden. He looks up, catching her. “Lyd, it’s okay if you don’t.”
“My parents have work, Allison and her dad are hunting quail, Scott’s on call at the vet’s and nowhere else seems,” she pauses, her eyes searching his for a moment. Finally, she sighs. “There’s nowhere else. Besides, Cora would kill me if I let you be alone on Thanksgiving.”
“I wouldn’t let Cora kill you,” Derek says quietly. Lydia smiles, almost feline in her pleasure at the statement, and sinks back on the couch, her legs sprawling onto his half. Derek huffs a laugh. “Just, don’t tell her that if you don’t have to.”
“Tough guy,” Lydia clucks, kicking a foot at the couch, probably meaning it for him. He grabs her ankle to stop her. The moment changes suddenly, her heartbeat kicking up. A flash of Peter flashes in his mind and he releases her, dropping the ankle as if it burned him.
“I forgot,” he explains, ashamed. He stares at his hands, listens as Lydia sits up, resituating herself on the couch. He looks up. “Are you mad?”
Lydia’s head turns as she looks at him. She looks inquisitive and for a second he can see her in her science labs, the ones she excitedly describes over the phone, but it passes as he blushes, feeling exposed by his own question.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, slowly. Derek stares at her.
“I thought, because of Peter-“
“Peter’s dead. We all made sure of that, remember?” Lydia interrupts harshly. Her expression is different now, angry, and something else. He does remember – the frantic call from Scott asking if Derek would retaliate if they killed Peter, the confusion that followed until Lydia took the phone and explained what had been happening in Derek and Cora’s absence. He also remembers returning – after chaining up a very annoyed Cora – to find Lydia on his porch, bloody, victorious and shell-shocked. Neither of them had mentioned that, how he found her and sat with her even while Stiles yelled about getting her medical help and even while Allison and Scott had carefully cleaned and bandaged her as best they could in their catatonic state. Derek had no idea if him sitting next to her had been any sort of help.
“Your heartbeat picked up,” Derek comments after a long silence. Lydia stares at him, looking almost sad, before leaning back onto the couch. She shrugs, the moment passing before he can catch it.
“Must’ve been a fluke. Let’s start the movie,” she nods at the television and he clicks the remote. Her legs stay on her side of the couch for the entirety of the film.
“You hate snow?” Derek asks, incredulous. Lydia shrugs as best she can underneath a huge winter coat, two scarves and a hat. The most he can see of her is her eyes and a few loose strands of red hair that managed to snake their way through the maze of outerwear. He laughs, easily, shaking his head. “That’s insane.”
“You hate everything, the only person allowed to give me crap for this is Scott. Maybe Isaac, because he gets overly excited about Christmas, probably tied to one of the few good childhood memories he has and I can’t rain on that, but,” Lydia stops with a shriek as she nearly tumbles into a snow pile. Grabbing at Derek’s arm, she rights herself. As they walk on, she keeps ahold of him without mention of it.
“I happen to like winter,” Derek says, haughtily. Lydia huffs a laugh and her head ducks against his arm for a second. Derek’s smile dims at the feel of it. It isn’t that he doesn’t like it, it’s that he does. Luckily, the pair reaches the McCall house and Lydia distangles herself, stomping up the walk to the front door in her barely practical boots.
Derek watches her, his arm still pulled away from his body, spaced for her mittened hands. He breathes out, a sinking feeling in his stomach as she pauses before ringing the doorbell and motions for him to join her. He tromps up the walk, reaching it just as she rings the bell. She looks up at him and smiles, excited for the holiday meal with the pack, assumedly. Derek smiles back, but it fades the second she looks away.
“It’s going to be midnight pretty soon,” Lydia calls to him as she weaves her way through the crowd. Derek glances at the clock behind her to see that it reads 11:30 and smiles to himself – Lydia’s pressing need to always be early for things is endearing at times. Derek’s gaze drifts to beneath the clock, where his baby sister is laughing at something Stiles is saying. Lydia steps forward, the motion of it drawing him back. Lydia stares up at him, her smile more in her eyes than her lips. “Stop worrying about Cora, Stiles is harmless.”
“Maybe I’m worried about Stiles,” Derek says, just to be difficult. Lydia tips her chin up as she grins and he’s suddenly aware of the proximity. He tries very hard most of the time not to do anything wolf-ish around her during normal circumstances. He tries not to listen to her heartbeat, especially after the Thanksgiving debacle, though sometimes when she falls asleep after pack meetings he falls in tune with it automatically. More than that, he tries not to smell her, yet it’s memorized in him, the way she smells a little like vodka on most weekends, and like oranges and something metallic the rest of the time. Now, she smells like oranges and cherry – not at all like vodka, despite the holiday.
“You wouldn’t worry about Stiles if he was on fire,” Lydia replies. Derek smiles, ducks his head with it, and jerks his head back up when he nearly bumps into her. Lydia’s smile freezes and she drops a hand against his chest. He stumbles back at the touch and she blinks at him. Her neck flushes slightly and she crosses her arms.
“Lydia,” he says and his voice is brusquer than he meant for it to be. She recoils and nods, as if she understands. Spinning on her heel, she starts to step away. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Derek groans and grabs her arm. Just as quickly, he drops it with an apology.
“Why do you always do that?” She practically spits the words at him, turning back to him. Her arms are still crossed, her jaw tight as she stares up at him. He always forgets how tiny she is, how much of a girl is contained in such a small body. He raises eyebrows in confusion and she huffs, her arms dropping to her sides with an audible smack.
“You act like touching me is going to burn you. Is it a banshee thing?” She asks, her eyes focused on his elbow. It takes him a second to recognize what her expression is. He startles when he realizes it is embarrassment.
“I thought you didn’t want me to. After Peter, I figured you wouldn’t want any Hales…” Derek trails off as she shakes her head. He feels very small suddenly. “Oh.”
One side of Lydia’s mouth tips into a smile. Derek swallows, examines his hands.
“Lydia, I’m not good at this sort of thing,” Derek says. He’s still examining his hands when her petite ones slip into them.
“That’s okay,” Lydia says. “I’m great at this sort of thing.”
Derek looks up from their hands and sees her smile. His hands drop hers and find her waist as his lips crash into hers. He backs her into the wall, winding one hand in her hair. His other finds her hipbone, his thumb digging into the jut of it. Her own hands wrap around his neck, her legs fluidly slipping around his waist. She tastes of oranges and Derek smiles into the kiss at the realization. He breaks away, smiling as she breathes uneasily.
“We should’ve waited for midnight,” he says, earning a laugh. Her head drops back against the wall, an amused smile on her face. Derek watches her, smiling as well. He brushes a hair away from her cheek and she rolls her eyes at the simplicity of it.
“I’ve wanted to do that since I found out you knew anything about mythology,” Lydia admits as she slides down to stand. Resituating her heels, she looks up at him. “It’s okay if you mess up with this, y’know. Or if I do. We’ll work it out.”
“How do you know that?” Derek asks, though he nearly believes her at her word. Lydia shrugs one shoulder as she stands back to her full height – which is still barely to Derek’s shoulder.
“We’re basically best friends, but with make-up sex,” Lydia leans in with a wicked grin. “And as good of a friend as I am, my forte is truly the latter.”
Derek grins as she grabs his hand and leads him back to the party. The clock strikes midnight sometime later. They don’t kiss, but only due to Derek being preoccupied with prying Cora off of Stiles.
“Who would I be?” Derek asks as he gardens. He glances over his shoulder at Lydia – who refused his request for her to join him, opting instead for a lawn chair – who smirks at the question.
“You’d be Cerberus,” Lydia quips. Laughing, Derek spins and grabs her, pulling her from the chair into his lap. She kisses him as she falls onto his lap, pulling back with a grin. He traces his thumb down her cheek, leaving dirt behind, and she still smiles. Derek smiles too.