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When she shows up at his house with red rimmed eyes and a brown paper bag conspicuously poking out of her purse, Danny feels his heart break ever so slightly.
“Can I come in?” she asks, although they both know he would never turn her down. Its 2 a.m., his parents are fast asleep, and Lydia looks like she is on the verge of breaking down. He can see her shaking, see the way her lip trembles as she waits.
He steps aside, and she glides in, making her way to the basement where they spent many a night complaining about Jackson’s asshole tendencies and talking about life.
“I brought us something,” she says with a pseudo-smile as she produces the bottle of vodka from the brown paper bag. She is sitting with her back to a wall, her eyes fixed on him and yet seeing right through him, looking past him.
“Aren’t we a little young to be drinking?” Danny raises an eyebrow at her as he slides down the wall to sit next to her. It worries him that she has the bottle; Lydia was never one to drink heavily, having at most a glass of wine with friends or one beer at a party.
“Well I’m a little young to know when people are dying, but my age doesn’t seem to stop that from happening.” Lydia twists off the top and drinks a little, wincing as the burn trails down her throat. “God, I should have bought a chaser.”
She hands him the bottle and he takes a sip, watching her watch the air. Lydia’s right, of course: she should have bought a chaser. But he thinks that she wanted the burn. That she wanted to feel something other than sadness for a little while.
This goes on for a while, the two of them taking small sips of vodka in silence. Danny takes note of Lydia trembling but not crying, of the empty stare that he’s come to associate with her these past two months.
“Lydia…”
“I’m just so tired, Danny,” she says quietly, letting her head lightly hit the wall behind her. “I am so tired of everything.”
He places the bottle on the ground between them and turns to her as tears leak out of her eyes.
“All I ever do anymore is find dead bodies. That’s it,” she says, her voice giving no trace of inebriation. “I used to be smart, used to be normal. But now, it’s like the only thing that matters about me to my friends, to the pack, is that I find the dead bodies.”
She continues to cry, her eyes closing for a few brief seconds as the sobs make her chest heave up and down, up and down.
“And they want me to keep working on it. They say it’s to prevent people from dying, to save people in harm’s way. But Danny,” she says, rolling her head to look at him. “All I ever do is find dead bodies.”
He knows immediately that she is talking about Allison, thinking about how she knew her friend would die and still couldn’t save her. He moves the bottle out of the way quickly and puts his arm around her, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. “That’s not all you do, Lydia,” he says quietly, rubbing her arm with his hand. “That’s not all you’re good for.”
Danny keeps whispering soothing words, quiet praises, trying to think of anything to make her feel better. She tells him of how she keeps trying to improve, doesn’t want to feel someone else die (and he knows she is thinking of Allison, of Aiden) and doesn’t want to lose anyone else (and his mind jumps to Jackson and her father and so many other people in Lydia’s life). Malia suggested she go to a hospital to train her supernatural abilities, and they all agreed, and so Lydia went and instantly regretted it and now she is here, because everything reeked of death and she can’t get the feeling out of her head. And Danny feels a small hatred in his heart for her so-called pack, and knows they mean well but this is his friend they are hurting by not understanding her. Now that Jackson is gone, this might even be his best friend, and they are tearing her apart.
There is a break in the conversation while they both sit next to each other and she cries, the vodka finally starting to hit her. She is staring back at the empty space, still crying softly.
“It’s been two months, Danny. Some people say it like I’m supposed to be over it by now. Like my grief should just be gone. But I can only think that it has barely been two months. That it has just been two months since I lost my best friend.”
“You shouldn’t be over it. You don’t have to be over it. No one can tell you how to grieve for Allison,” he says soothingly, hoping she will cry herself out and fall asleep on the couch and sleep. She does look tired, so tired. “Remember, you have Scott and Stiles and Kira and Derek. They're going through the same things.”
She snorted, a humorless smile on her face. “It’s more like I have Scott when he’s not too busy with Kira or the rest of them. Everyone else is a little tired of me talking about Allison and Aiden.” She stops, and a small smile appears for a brief second before fading. “Although I have been thinking Derek and I should just start a ‘Peter Hale Ruined Our Lives and Everyone We Love is Dead’ club.”
He laughs and she stops crying, finally looking up at him. “It’s just they all have each other. Scott has Kira and Deaton and his mother, who knows about all of this stuff. And Stiles has Malia and his dad. I have no one. I’m alone. My mom doesn’t know anything about this. Jackson’s in Europe and Isaac left. Allison and Aiden are dead. I’m completely and utterly alone.”
He tightens his arm around her and smiles. He and Lydia have always been friends and yet, there has always been some sort of distance between them. But he feels that fall away, the last of the wall between them that has been crumbling since Allison finally broken down.
“You aren't alone, Lydia. You have me. You will always have me.”
Danny and Lydia sit in his basement, where they have spent many nights just talking about life in Beacon Hills, much like they did tonight. In this basement, where she told him about werewolves and he laughed that he knew, that of course he knew, and where he was amazed that banshees existed and what did she do? In this basement, where they both ranted incessantly about Jackson leaving, even though he knew it hurt her much more because he and Jackson would still talk. Where she helped him with math in the 8th grade and he told her that she shouldn’t pretend to be anyone other than herself.
She feels herself breathe, listens to her own heart beat, and is glad that, for the moment, the vodka has stopped the feeling of death that seems to constantly surround her now. For once, it seems, her mind is completely silent.
Lydia exhales, her eyes drifting shut. She hasn’t slept well in two months, but as Danny moves her to the couch, covers her with a blanket, and sits down with her for just a few more minutes, she thinks she just might be able to.