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“It’s time to put the guns down.”
-Chris Argent, Wolves of War
Lydia’s relationships with men have always been complicated. It starts with her father, who not only divorces Lydia’s mom but his daughter as well when he abandons Beacon Hills to start a shiny-new family. She isn’t naive enough to believe it will end with Stiles Stilinski, but deep down in a very secret part of her heart, she’d hoped.
She won't define herself by the men who pass her like ships in the night, but she’s fiercely intelligent, adaptive and insightful, and each signal flash illuminates more of her truth. From Jackson Whittemore, Lydia discovers the cost of hiding who you are; from Aiden Steiner, the price of concealing your heart. Scott McCall teaches her what a family can be, and Peter Hale demonstrates the heights and depths her power can reach. What Jordan Parrish could have shown her she doesn't allow herself to explore, because the fire burning between two harbingers of death can’t possibly sustain life.
Then, there’s Stiles.
The image reflected back to her in Stiles’ warm, brown eyes is always artfully applied cherry-red lipstick and perfectly coiffed strawberry-blond curls, even on her worst days. For years she’s wrapped his devotion around her like a favorite oversized sweater, easily hung back in the closet when the weather turns warm. These days it’s made of tougher, sturdier stuff, things she can’t define, and wears like armor, protecting her heart. Before tonight, she never worried it might not be enough.
Despite no longer sporting crimson eyes and the title of alpha, Derek Hale storms back into town with self-assured confidence, born of blood and sacrifice and evolution, and wherever Derek goes, Stiles’ eyes follow. It makes Lydia feel bruised, skin rubbed raw, body dragged along the concrete under Roscoe’s tires.
“You came back for Beacon Hills?” Scott asks, surprise and gratitude coloring his words.
“No,” Derek answers, “I came back for you.” Derek and Scott hug, grasp each other’s shoulders, bridge years of miscommunication and misunderstandings in seconds as the pack looks happily on. She’s never related to Peter more than when he breaks up the saccharine reunion with a snide, immature comment. There's a petulant child inside her too, longing to scream in Derek’s young, handsome face, I had him first.
She’ll never hang Derek for his family’s tragedy—that yard of rope wraps solely around Kate Argent’s neck, and will hopefully strangle her one day—but Derek’s return to the pack ignites a spark that threatens to burn down Lydia’s whole damn house. It’s devastatingly ironic. Should she laugh, or cry? Or scream.
Inside the vet clinic, she listens with a tight, sardonic smile as Stiles and Derek banter back and forth, weaving the tale of their reunion. “You convinced the FBI to bring an intern onto an extremely dangerous field operation?” Lydia asks Stiles, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.
Derek rolls his eyes. “I'm surprised he didn't convince them he could lead it.” The reply is part slight, part praise, just another round of their endless tug-of-war. Lydia tries not to think about who will fall first.
“Anyway, long story short,” Stiles gestures toward Derek, “I basically had to, you know, save his life.”
If you unraveled the story of Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale, the words would span continents, developed in chapters when Lydia was merely a recurring character, spine reinforced, made stronger by years of wear, tear, and repair. The tale Stiles tells about rescuing Derek is something straight out of a romance novel, the cheesy kind she used to hide under her bed in middle school. While Derek’s version is less flowery, it’s clear they both want to be the hero in each other’s stories. They always save each other.
Instinctually, she doesn’t want to look too closely at Stiles’ face, illuminated in the surgical light of the exam room, afraid she’ll see the ending clearly written across his features: Lydia, holding a white flag, back against the bullet-riddled wall.
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“I should have let you board that plane to Paris,” Lydia tells Malia, statue face frozen in perpetual terror. “Should have pushed you into the arms of those mysterious French men."
She’s lost Jackson and Ethan somewhere in the dark, deserted halls of her alma mater, and a monster lurks outside the closed classroom door, turning her friends to stone. “I love you,” it whispers through the cracks in the wood, between the beats of her heart. It emanates from a Stiles-shaped space inside her head, but speaks with Derek’s voice. She’s heard the phrase before, directed at her, but never with that desperate, broken edge, so sharp and jagged it shreds her apart from the inside out. She squeezes her eyes shut, presses palms against her ears, but the words are peppermint-scented, tickling her nose, the exact scent and flavor of Stiles’ toothpaste.
The ardent whisper of a lover. Now. Darling. Then it changes, a wolf’s growl. Let me in.
“Fear’s pretty motivating,” Derek words from earlier ring in her ears. She sees him, strategically positioned next to Stiles, their bodies turned unconsciously toward each other. It’s burned onto the backs of her eyelids. “Especially when it leads to anger.”
Lydia never imagined she’d be this afraid, but it doesn’t make her angry. She’s enraged.
“You can’t have me,” she tells the Anuk Ite, and thinks of her quiet strength, her loud scream, of bringing an armory full of grown men to their knees.
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“He’s not healing,” Malia cries, desperate fingers scrabbling over Scott’s bloodstained cheeks.
“I’m trying.” Scott’s panicked breaths echo around the library. Her stomach heaves. “It’s not working. I can’t focus.”
Malia cradles his head in her hands. “Hey. Hey! Look at me. Yes, you can, just concentrate.”
But he’s not healing, no matter how much Malia begs, and everyone knows what it means. Stiles looks at Lydia, eyes desperate, unnerved. Lydia grabs Stiles’ hand, holds on for dear life. “Malia...Kiss him.”
Her friend looks back at her, face incredulous. “What?”
“Kiss him.”
There’s a collective intake of breath when Scott and Malia’s lips part, and Scott’s eyes blink open. Something exciting bursts in her chest, strange and startling, and Stiles squeezes her hand. She looks up into his face, thinking, Love can win.
But Stiles isn’t looking at Lydia. As Scott heals, he and Derek stare at each other, faces alive with hope. This is what you do for me.
Her fingers slip from Stiles’ bruising grip.
Lydia’s relationships with men have always been complicated. The end of this one has her feeling curiously sad, like she’s lost something she never even knew she had. But she’s smart, and even tonight, on the eve of all-out war, Lydia still learns new, hard truths.
Love is not bulletproof. And Derek Hale is a smoking gun.