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It’s the eye of the storm and everyone knows it.
There’s nothing to be done, no plans to be made, to research to dive into, not yet anyway. It’ll come, as it always does. But for now, there’s nothing to do but wait for the next inevitable disaster to strike.
The pack is strewn out around Derek’s apartment, all in various states of disrepair. Derek is sitting by the large windows, staring out into the night with a blank look on his face. Kira sits in a chair at the table, her head buried in her hands. Liam is half-awake in Derek’s bed and Scott is gently tending to the wounds across his chest that are healing far too slowly.
Lydia is on the couch, taking in the whole pathetic scene with dead eyes. How much more can they all take? How many more battles will they barely survive?
It’s stupid, but in this moment, she keenly feels Allison’s absence. Somehow this might all be okay if Allison were here. But she’s not. Allison is dead. The best of them is already gone.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Stiles shake his head next to her.
“Do you ever think we’ll get a break?” he asks, voice quiet. “That we might get the chance to be normal for a bit?”
“No,” she answers flatly. She’s all but given up on dreams of normalcy, of Masters degrees and white picket fences.
Stiles laughs humorlessly.
“Yeah,” he says. “’Was stupid of me to even ask.”
She looks over at him. The light is strange in the apartment, casting shadows that make the bruise that’s blooming near his eyebrow look monstrous. Scarier than that, though, is the sad, resigned look on his face.
Lydia thinks back a few years to when he was still plucky and vivacious. He was an idiot then- always blabbering, never thinking, she can’t deny that, but then she’d been pretending to be dumb back then to try to make some idiot love her, so maybe she shouldn’t be so harsh.
She doesn’t recognize that happy-go-lucky albeit thoughtless memory in the boy sitting next to her.
It breaks her heart a little bit, which surprises her. She didn’t think she had any heart left to break.
God, she wishes Allison were here.
The thought of it breaks through the peace of numbness and suddenly Lydia wants to cry. Her eyes burn and she lets out an ugly sort of hiccupping breath, which makes Stiles turn toward her for the first time. She meets his eyes and he looks as helpless and lost as she feels. It’s weirdly reassuring, knowing she’s not alone in this, not alone in the dark and the panic.
He reaches out a shaking hand to gently tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. Always taking care of others, despite the fact that he’s hurting too. She leans into the touch, her face pressed against his hand, and when she meets his eye, he smiles at her. Well, it’s more a quirked lip than anything, but she understands the gesture. He brushes his thumb against her cheek, which earns him a weak smile in return. His hand leaves a trail of fire when he pulls it away, looking toward where Scott is now wringing a bloodied towel out in the sink.
The rest of her suddenly feels cold.
It may seem pathetic or needy, the way she leans over toward Stiles and presses her cheek to the curve of his shoulder, but honestly, she’s beyond caring. He freezes and after a moment, she's about to pull away, but then he puts his arm around her, pulling her closer. The warmth of his body is reassuring.
She doesn’t cry. She won’t let herself cry, because if she starts, she’s not sure she’ll ever stop. Instead, she tucks her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of his cologne and breathing out fear and sadness.
She reaches up and touches his hand where it’s pressed to her shoulder and he interlocks their fingers. She lets him. He presses his cheek to her forehead and, even amidst all the chaos, she feels safe.
Everything is a mess. Nothing is okay. But, just for this moment, small as it may be, she might be somewhere close.