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The girl appears from out of nowhere.
It's raining outside, it's almost two in the morning and Stiles is halfway home from Scott's when he has to slam on his breaks because there's a girl just standing there in the middle of the street. He swears loudly, heart lurching in his chest as the brakes squeak, pounding on the wheel with one fist because Jesus Christ sidewalks exist for a reason.
The headlights of his Jeep illuminate her, a girl with long wet hair stuck to her back. She's not dressed properly; she's only wearing a tank top and little boxer shorts and her feet are bare, like she ran out of her house in the middle of the night like this.
And then the girl whirls around and Stiles' jaw drops because Lydia Martin is staring at him, hands held up in front of her face to shield her eyes from the lights.
Lydia Martin, unrequited love of Stiles' life, is the former most popular girl in their class. Last year, when they were sophomores, Lydia ruled supreme in five inch heels and hung off Jackson Whittemore's arm while Stiles pined for her from afar.
No one knows what happened exactly, not even Allison. Some say it was Jackson dumping her before moving to London right before summer break that pushed her over the edge, others swore they saw Lydia out and around with Peter Hale, the town creep, that he did something to her.
All Stiles knows is that something happened to her that summer, something got inside of her and started festering, the timer of a bomb countdown clicking on.
Junior year began and Allison and Scott got back together, which meant Lydia and Stiles started getting pushed together more, the way it happens when your best friends are dating. It was something simple and elemental, like gravity, they just got pulled into each other's orbit and to Stiles' delight Lydia didn't seem to even mind. They got stuck on group dates with everyone else, making faces at each other when Scott and Allison made out in plain view, took twenty minute concession stand breaks during the movies to talk about string theory, or dark matter, topology, whatever Lydia just discovered and wanted to share with Stiles, feeding him bits of information in the quiet moments when it was just the two of them, like her vast wealth of knowledge is a secret.
They started to develop a tenuous but genuine friendship. He started to see the incredible brain under that fabulous head of hair, the vulnerability in her eyes that thick eyeliner and coats of mascara couldn't totally hide.
Something between them was starting. Maybe.
And then Lydia went crazy.
It started with her wandering out of class and sometimes school altogether. For awhile their teachers let it slide because she was so smart it wasn't affecting her grades. But soon enough she started missing whole days, and then there was the incident in calculus, when she was called up to the front of the class to solve an equation and wrote help me in looping circles all over the board instead.
So Allison spent her winter break in France, Scott and Stiles stayed home and played lots of video games, and Lydia took a little trip to the psych ward.
When she came back for second semester she was different. Quiet, more likely to walk away when other girls in the halls whisper about her instead of walking up to them and giving them a verbal tongue lashing. She wears jeans sometimes now, doesn't braid her hair so tightly anymore. She's still friends with Allison; Stiles hangs out with them on occasion but it's different. There's this veil around Lydia now, like a force field between her and everyone else. She's still beautiful but she's changed. She looks a little delicate now, a little haunted.
But right now she's staring at him, his car, like a girl possessed, utterly frozen in place.
Stiles carefully signals and pulls the Jeep over to the side of the street and shifts into park. He turns his headlights off and gets out of the car, looking both ways before stepping out into the street because Lydia's still standing motionless in the middle of the goddamn road.
He walks towards her slowly, hands held out in front of him, like she's an injured animal. "Hey, Lydia," he says. "It's me, Stiles."
Lydia stares at him but doesn't move, doesn't even twitch, and Stiles realizes that although she's looking at him Lydia doesn't see him.
She's not seeing anything.
Something in Stiles' chest tightens. He steps a little closer, hands outstretched in case she does something even crazier than stand in the middle of the street, like run. "Hey Lydia," he says, louder this time. "Lydia, it's Stiles."
Nothing. Like he's not even here.
Stiles knows that you should never wake a sleepwalker, but what is he supposed to do with a catatonic girl who's soaking wet, probably hypothermic, and on track to get run over by a car?
"Hey Lydia, I'm going to touch you now," he announces, wincing, because Lydia is a little sensitive about her personal bubble being invaded.
She doesn't respond, just stands there with dead eyes staring off in the general vicinity of his right shoulder. He takes a deep breath and reaches out to grasp her forearm. There's a moment of stillness, where she's frozen as a corpse under his touch, both of them barely breathing, her skin too cold against his palm.
And then Lydia gasps and stumbles back farther into the street, her eyes getting even wider, which Stiles didn't know was possible, and he just reacts on instinct - he throws his arms around her and drags her to the sidewalk and doesn't let go until he has her propped up against the side of his car.
Lydia doesn't even struggle, just gasps and gasp, looking around like she has no idea where she is, and Stiles realizes she probably doesn't. She's shaking, her arms wrapped around her chest because the rain has made her pale blue tank totally see-through and she isn't wearing a bra.
"Lydia!" He may be shouting a bit, because she is freaking him the hell out. "Lydia, are you hurt?"
Lydia blinks. "Stiles?" she whispers tremulously. She looks dazed, like she's woken from a dream and doesn't understand what's happening. "Where are we?"
There's this look of total vulnerability on her makeup-less face and it makes Stiles break a little inside because he's seeing something he knows Lydia would never want anyone to see. She'd rather run a sword through herself than appear vulnerable, let alone practically half naked and soaking wet.
Lydia shivers so hard her teeth clack together and beads of rainwater catch on her eyelashes. "Stiles?"
Something in his brain clicks and he can think again. "Get in the car Lydia, you're freezing."
He opens the door for her and helps her inside, jogs around to the driver's side and collapses onto his seat. Stiles turns the heat on high and points all the vents at her. Lydia's curled up against the door, watching him warily, eyes glazed over.
"Here." Stiles shrugs out of his hoodie and hands it to her. "Put this on."
Lydia spreads it around herself like a little blanket instead, clutching the red fabric between her fingers. "I'm fine, Stiles."
He gapes at her. "Fine? Fine?! You were wandering around in the middle of the night with no shoes on, in the rain! I could've hit you with my freaking car! Anyone could've hit you!"
She scowls, tucking her knees up under his sweatshirt and holding it across her body like a shield. "Nothing happened."
"But it could've! If I hadn't found you"-
"But you did," she cuts him off. "So it's fine."
"Lydia." He looks at her expectantly but she just presses her lips together and doesn't give him anything. "Fine, I'll give you a ride home and let your mom do the lecturing."
The change in her is instantaneous. She lunges across the console and suddenly Stiles can't breathe because Lydia Martin is pressing her dripping wet, thinly clothed body against him, her mouth an inch away from his.
"No," she says, her voice hoarse and shaking but still fierce. "You're not telling my mother. You're not telling anyone about this."
He's hypnotized, all he can do is stare at her lips as they move. Some part of his brain knows that something isn't right here and he wants to protest but mostly he just doesn't understand. "Why?"
Lydia puts her hands up to the sides of his neck and Stiles twitches because shit her hands are cold, how long has she been outside like this? "Because," she whispers. "If my mother finds out she'll call my old doctor and he'll put me back in the hospital and I am. Not. Going. Back. To. The. Hospital."
"Lydia, you probably have hypothermia" -
She pulls back enough to give him a sweet smile that promises a mouthful of venom. "Understand, Stiles?"
He swallows, hard. "I'm just trying to help you."
Lydia tilts her head and her nails scratch lightly against his neck. "Is that right?"
There's something cutting through her words, some underlying tone, and Stiles realizes suddenly, that she's secretly desperate, that she's trying to play him, that she might do anything he wants to get him to agree.
"We're friends, aren't we?" he asks, ashamed that he can barely think past the feeling of her fingers stroking up and down, a subtle suggestion that promises more.
Something in her eyes goes flat. "So?"
He reaches up and detaches her hands from his neck. "So you don't have to do that to get me to do what you want."
She goes still, her eyes shutting, little tremors wracking her body. "You can't tell," she pleads softly. "Please."
He can see it in the way she squeezes her eyes shut that it's killing her say it, to have to ask. To beg. Stiles thinks about it, only for a second, what it would be like to have Lydia Martin be at his mercy, and then he feels sick to his stomach.
He reaches around her to pick up his hoody, abandoned on the seat, and tenderly wraps it around her shoulders. "I just want to help you," he says softly. "Tell me how I can help you, Lydia."
A little noise slips from her throat, like his words have wounded her, but to his surprise she just leans into the weight of his hand on her shoulder. "Your dad works nights sometimes, doesn't he?" she asks.
"Yeah," Stiles says uncertainly, because what does that have to do with anything?
"Tonight?" she prompts.
He stares at her blankly. "Yeah."
"Perfect," she says crisply, sliding back over to her side of the car, like something has been decided. "I'll sleep at your house, then."
"You'll - you'll - you're gonna do what now?" Stiles sputters.
"If I go home now my mother will wake up and figure out what happened. If I sleep at your house I can come back in the morning and say Allison had a best friend emergency or something and I slept at the Argent's."
Stiles raises an eyebrow. "What kind of emergency would make you forget to put on shoes?"
"I'll figure something out," she says faintly. She looks tired, her head tipped back against the seat, her bare feet streaked with dirt and curled up under her legs.
What is he supposed to do, say no to her?
"Put your seatbelt on," he mutters, and checks his mirrors before pulling back out onto the street.
Lydia's quiet for the short drive back to his house but when Stiles parks in the driveway and cuts the engine she unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn't get out, turning sideways in her seat instead.
"It's called a dissociative fugue," she says quietly. "What happened, that's what it's called."
Stiles nods and bites his lip to keep quiet because he recognizes this tone of her voice, the one that tells him things when no one else is around, when it's quiet, like right now, the only noise the pounding of rain against the roof of the Jeep.
"It's a dissociative disorder," she explains. "It's rare. They don't know why it happens. I just...I wander off. I don't know that I'm doing it, I don't even remember what happens when it's over. I just...wander. Until I come back to myself."
"That sounds...really scary, actually," he comments.
She turns away from him. "I'm cold," she says stiffly. "Lets go inside."
Inside the house he leads her up to the second floor, watching as she pretends she's not shivering, her wet hair glued to the back of her neck.
"Do you want to take a shower?" he offers. "You have to be freezing."
She glances down at her dirt-streaked shins. "Alright," she says casually, like Lydia Martin taking a shower in his bathroom is a totally normal occurrence. "And I'm going to need some dry clothes to sleep in."
"Yeah, sure" Stiles says, trying not to have a panic attack at the thought of her sleeping in his clothes.
He gets her a clean towel from the linen closet and shows her to the bathroom, where Lydia promptly thanks him and shuts the door in his face, only to pop her head out half a second later to demand a toothbrush, which Stiles produces from the cabinet under the sink before getting thrown out of his own bathroom.
He goes to his room and frantically makes his bed, shoves a pile of dirty clothes in his hamper and straightens up the piles of paper on his desk. He digs out a clean pair of lacrosse shorts and an old burgundy Beacon Hills High shirt with the sleeves cut off and puts them on the foot of the bed for Lydia. Then Stiles sits on the edge of his bed and reads everything he can find on fugue states before Lydia comes out of the shower. He gets submerged in online medical journals, jumping when he hears Lydia clearing her throat from the doorway, where she's wrapped in a towel.
"Hey," he says. "I uh, got clothes out for you, I'm just gonna brush my teeth." He grabs a pair of sweatpants and flees his bedroom, goes into the bathroom and deliberately does not think of Lydia, naked, in his shower while he brushes his teeth.
When he comes back to his room the overhead light has been turned off and Lydia is in his bed, dressed in his clothes, curled back against the pillows. Stiles ignores how dry his mouth suddenly is and goes to his closet to dig out his sleeping bag.
"What are you doing?" When Stiles turns around Lydia's sitting up on her elbows, looking bemused.
"Uh, I was gonna sleep on the floor" -
"Stiles."
"Yeah?"
Lydia flips back his comforter. "Get in the bed."
Stiles drops his arm. "You sure?"
"I'm aware you're doing me a favor here, I'm not going to kick you out of your own bed." Lydia slides back down and gives him an expectant look.
Stiles nods, closing his closet door. He makes a detour to his desk and shuts off his table lamp, bathing the room in darkness, Lydia's pale skin glowing in the trickle of moonlight coming in from his window. He crosses the room, sliding into the side of the bed Lydia has left open to him.
He lies down next to her, watching the way her hair spreads across one of his pillows, like a waterfall. It's not the first time he's been in his bed with her - the night Jackson told her he was moving to London she'd showed up in Stiles' room around midnight and sat on his bed for three hours crying on his shoulder. Except she'd been wearing way more clothes then, her clothes, and they hadn't been under the covers, her bare toes just barely brushing his calf.
Lydia sighs and flips onto her side so she's facing him. "Thank you," she says softly. "For letting me stay."
"You're welcome," he says, thank god, instead of something stupid and sentimental, like, I'd do anything for you.
She looks so small like his, in his clothes, without her armor of hairspray and eyeliner and lipstick and all he wants is to protect her, give her something safe. "I'm not crazy," she whispers.
"Hey," Stiles says. "I don't think you're crazy."
She flinches. "Everyone thinks I'm crazy."
"Lydia, hey." He finds her hand under the covers and squeezes. "You're not crazy."
To his surprise she flexes her hand and curls her fingers around his. "My grandmother went crazy," she says, so quietly, like a confession. "I was just a kid. They institutionalized her. My mom took me to visit her once. She told me to stay in the car." Lydia's eyes shut like she's remembering something painful.
He squeezes her hand again and she lets out a shuddering breath before continuing. "I don't even know how I got back there, the security was a joke. But I found the room they were in and they...they were..." Her eyes flutter open with a horrible blankness like she's remembering something terrible. "My mother just kept screaming at me later, I told you stay in the car. Over and over again."
Stiles runs his thumb over the back of her hand. "What did you see, Lydia?"
She turns her cheek to press her face into the pillow. "They were experimenting on her. She died in there, Stiles, all alone. Locked up."
"Lydia." He slides his free hand up to the top of her head and cups his hand over her, spreading his fingers over her forehead.
She lets out a faint gasp to turn her head enough to press into his palm, eyes resolutely shut. "Did you know," she says shakily. "In the psych ward at the hospital all the doors are locked. No matter where you go you're always in a prison."
"Lydia. Lydia, hey, look at me."
"I can't go back there, Stiles. I can't do it again."
"Okay." Stiles pulls their linked hands to his chest to pull her closer to him and lets go of her hand to wrap his arm around her. "I won't let you go back there. I won't let anyone hurt you."
Lydia opens her eyes to give him a sad smile. "You can't promise me that."
"I can try," he vows.
"I'm sorry," she says. "For pulling you into my shit."
"Hey, what are friends for?" he jokes, grinning, because she looks so sad.
Lydia looks at him with big eyes and to his surprise closes the inch between their bodies. She's so small, and soft, and Stiles can't help but tighten his arms around her because she's here and she's safe, and he's just so damn grateful. That's how much he loves her; it doesn't matter if she ever feels the same way back as long as she's here, as long as she's okay.
"I heard a rumor about you," Lydia whispers. "You and Malia Tate."
Stiles almost chokes on air. "Jesus, way to change the subject Lydia."
Malia Tate is this year's version of Allison Argent: new in town, gorgeous, tough as nails but endearing as hell. She's been hanging on the fringes of their group ever since Stiles randomly got assigned to tutor her during his free period to help catch her up.
"We're not together or anything," he says, because he's pretty sure losing their virginities to each other in Danny's basement at a lacrosse party and then never speaking about it doesn't count as a date.
"Good," she says, her voice faint. "Don't."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't date her," Lydia says.
Stiles stares at her. "Why not?"
Lydia's tongue darts out to lick her lips and Stiles almost dies. "Because I'm asking you not to."
"Because...?"
Lydia's eyes flick away, like she's suddenly shy. "Do you remember what things were like, before winter break?"
"Sure," he says cautiously. Scott and Allison were glued to each other's lips, Stiles was just starting not to suck at lacrosse now that Jackson was gone and he got more play time, and he and Lydia were becoming...whatever it was that they were becoming.
"When they put me in the hospital..." Lydia shudders and tucks her head under his chin. "It was the first time I realized how alone I was. They medicated me. I could barely talk, I couldn't think. It was like being trapped inside my own head and I couldn't get out."
Stiles thinks about how terrifying that must have been for someone like Lydia, whose identity is so wrapped up in her intelligence. He resists the urge to flatten his body over hers, to cover every inch of her so no one can touch her, harm one hair on her strawberry blond head.
"I'm afraid of being alone now," she says, in the smallest voice. Lydia's never confessed to being afraid of anything before, not to him at least. She always acts fearless, like she's daring the world to fuck with her and really, who would be dumb enough to risk incurring the wrath of Lydia Martin anyway?
"You're not alone," he says fiercely. "You're not alone, Lydia."
"Stiles, I..." Lydia's voice breaks.
"Hey," he whispers, and leans down to kiss the top of her head because he has to, he can't help himself. "I'm here."
She sniffs quietly. "Just - don't let go. Okay?"
"Okay," Stiles promise. "Okay."
They lie there with his arms around her, her feet tucked under his shins, Lydia's hands gripping his waist, until the sound of their breathing pulls them both under and at some point they must fall asleep because when Stiles wakes up sunlight is streaming in through his window and he's sprawled out on his back and -
And Lydia is sleeping on top of him, head on his chest, her legs draped over his hips, and of fucking course he's hard in his sweatpants because this is his life now.
Stiles reaches down clumsily to pat her head. "Lydia."
She mumbles something and then curls into him more which feels amazing but is really not helping the situation in his pants so he says her name again and lightly tugs on her hair, and Lydia makes an adorable little sleepy sound and lifts her head and their eyes lock.
“Hey,” she says, voice thick with sleep, and then she gives him a little smirk. “Good morning.”
Stiles just blinks at her because he doesn’t know if he loves her or hates her right now. “Morning.”
Lydia props her elbows under her chin. “Can I borrow your phone? Allison can drive me home, it will look less, well, suspicious.”
“I’m kinda gonna need you to move then,” he points out weakly.
“Oh,” Lydia says innocently, and rolls off of him. “Better?”
Yeah, he thinks he hates her, just a little. He finds his phone in the pocket of the jeans he was wearing last night and tosses it to her. Lydia texts Allison and gets out of his bed to hand his phone back, crossing her arms self consciously across her chest because oh right, no bra.
“She was already up,” Lydia announces. “She’ll be here soon.”
They go downstairs and step outside to wait on the front porch for Allison, and Stiles thanks every deity he can think of that his dad isn’t home from his shift yet. He sinks down next to Lydia, who sighs and tips her head against his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she says. “For last night.”
Stiles reaches around and lays his arm across her shoulders because they’ve slept in the same bed now, they’ve cuddled, some physical barrier has clearly been broken between them. “Do you remember that time you called me for a ride last semester? When you were at the pool and you wouldn’t tell me what happened?”
Lydia stiffens but she doesn’t pull away. “I remember.”
“It was happening then, wasn’t it?”
She nods against his shoulder, turning her head so her hair falls across her face.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, then.”
“Does Allison know?”
“The important parts,” Lydia says hesitantly. “I don’t want…you know what she’s like. She wants to save everyone.”
Stiles looks down and brushes her hair off her face. “You’re worth saving.”
Lydia looks up at him, giving him that wide-eyed vulnerable expression he’d never seen before last night. “Stiles.”
“Lydia, please tell me you know that.”
She exhales and pressed her cheek into the palm of his hand. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me. Because I’m messed up.”
“Everyone’s messed up in some way, Lydia.”
She sighs. “Why do you have to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“Sweet,” she whispers.
“Is sweet bad?” he asks hesitantly.
Lydia smiles, really smiles, and it’s brilliant, it eclipses everything in his vision. “No,” she says. “Not at all.”
A car door slams and they both turn to see Allison getting out of her car, holding a shopping bag in one hand and her keys in the other. She jogs up the walk, looking bright eyed even at eight in the morning, holding the bag out towards Lydia. “Brought a pair of shoes like you asked,” she announces.
“You’re a goddess,” Lydia says graciously, reaching to pull out a pair of Nikes out of the bag.
“Hey Stiles,” Allison says, clearly bemused at the situation. “How’s it going?”
“Oh you know,” he says, shrugging. “It’s going.”
Allison arches an eyebrow. “Lydia, you did have your own clothes at some point last night, right?”
Stiles watches as Lydia’s cheeks, to his utter fascination, flush a deep pink. “They got wet.” She ducks her head, pulling the sneakers on and tying the laces
Allison giggles. “Oh yeah? How wet, exactly?”
“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters.
“Allison,” Lydia says sharply. “Contain yourself.”
“You’re the one wearing his clothes,” Allison says gleefully. “I’m just pointing out the obvious.”
“Yes, well, mission accomplished,” Lydia says dryly, standing up and reaching out to pull Stiles up next to her. “May we go now?”
Allison rolls her eyes. “Yes your highness, ready when you are.”
Lydia grins. “Fabulous.” She turns to Stiles and he thinks if Allison wasn’t here maybe they’d hug but then Lydia’s putting her arms around him anyway. “Bye Stiles.”
“Bye Lydia.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, just for him to hear, before releasing him.
He watches her turn away and fall into step with Allison but when they get halfway to the car Lydia abruptly turns back around and runs down the walk, throws her arms around him and kisses him. Stiles gasps into her mouth and she takes the opportunity to scrape her teeth against his bottom lip, reaching up to thread her fingers in his hair. Something in him just releases and Stiles sighs against her lips, hands sliding up her back to cup her neck, reveling in the softness of her lips, the curves of her body against his, doesn’t give a shit if Allison has to wait an hour for this to end because Stiles could drown in Lydia like this.
A car honks and Lydia jumps in his arms, their lips pulling apart, and Stiles groans when he realizes it’s his dad, who’s pulled up to the driveway in his cruiser.
Lydia smiles and slowly pulls away, watching his dad get out of his car. “I should probably go,” she says wistfully.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.
Lydia reaches down to squeeze his hand. “See you at school on Monday?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, head still spinning, because Lydia just kissed him in broad daylight and seems rather pleased with herself because of it.
“Bye Stiles.” Lydia goes back down the walk where Allison is waiting, hand on one hip.
Stiles watches as Lydia says something to Allison that makes her squeal and do a little dance right there on the grass as his dad gets out of the car and crosses the lawn, waving to the girls, who wave back cheerfully before getting into Allison’s car.
“Was that Lydia Martin?” his dad asks, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Yep.”
His dad snorts. “Kissing you.”
“Yeah, that kind of threw me too, to be honest.”
His dad squints. “She sleep here?”
Stiles winces. “Maybe?”
His dad rolls his eyes. “You, in the house, now. We are going to have a long talk just as soon as I take a shower and have enough coffee to handle this.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Stiles!”
“Okay, okay, coming.” Stiles follows his dad back into the house, ambles up to his room with a ridiculous smile on his face. He changes into a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, lays down on his bed where just an hour ago Lydia was here, looking at him like she was seeing him, really seeing him for the first time.
“Stiles!” He can hear his dad yelling from all the way down the hall. “Why the hell are there ladies pajamas hanging up in the bathroom?!”
“I can explain!” he shouts back. “It isn’t what it looks like, I swear!”
“It looks like we’re going to have a long talk, mister!”
Stiles flops over onto his back, grinning. “Okay Dad, whatever you want, you’re the boss!”
“You’re damn right I am,” his dad grumbles, and then there’s the sound of the door slamming shut and the water turning on.
Stiles sighs and stares up at the ceiling, still smiling, even though he know he’s probably about to suffer from another sex talk and really, wasn’t the first one traumatizing enough? It’s worth it though, when he remembers Lydia, curling her fingers in his, whispering secrets into his ear, kissing him on the grass in the sunlight, like a living, breathing fantasy. Like she wants him too, like she could've stood there for hours kissing him.
Oh yeah. Totally worth it.