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The music is a shock after the silence of the woods, and the lights stab at his eyes, and Jackson can't hear his phone ring as he paces along the edge of the bleachers, but he feels the buzz of it against his thigh. He wants to ignore it, just reach into his pocket and press the mute button, in case it's Lydia wanting to talk about shit.
(Tomorrow he'll consider going to her and begging her to forgive him for the way he's treated her. But right now he doesn't even want to think about the bitch and her "date.")
Something at the back of his mind hisses a sharp note, though, and he answers the phone instead.
"Jackson! Oh, thank God, listen, you've got to get out to the lacrosse field right fucking now!" For a second Jackson is too thrown to speak, because why the hell is Stilinski calling from Lydia's phone?
"What," he says through his teeth, but that's all he has time for.
Stilinski makes a strangled, frustrated, frightened noise. The hairs on the back of Jackson's neck stand straight up and he realizes that he doesn't want to hear anything Stilinski has to say, he really doesn't. There is no reason for Stilinski to be calling his cell, no reason, and definitely no good reason. "Is this some kind of..."
But Stilinski just talks over him. "Jackson. Focus," he snaps. "I need you to focus, you have to help her, he won't let..." Another voice, deep and rough, tells Stilinski to speed it up, Stiles. Panic claws its way up Jackson's throat and clears some of the alcohol fuzz in his brain.
"I gotta go now," Stilinski says, almost stumbling over his words, "I know things are bad between the two of you..." and the roaring in his ears drowns out Stilinski's voice because Oh, God, Lydia, he brought Lydia to the dance.
"...kson, are you listening to me?" Stilinski's voice is pitched higher than it was just seconds ago.
"I'm coming," Jackson croaks, panic sour and hot in his mouth.
"Hurry!" Stilinski says.
The call disconnects.
Jackson can't move for too many long seconds, because something's happened to Lydia, Jesus, no. Then he's running, shoving his way through the crowd on the dance floor like they're the opposing line, not caring who he knocks down or steps on.
(Tomorrow he'll have to buy a new phone; this one shatters on impact when it falls from his nerveless hand. But right now he just wants to get to the door.)
He hip-checks the lock bar as he slams into the outside door with his shoulder. It flies open so hard it jams the automatic closer. He's through the door and running flat-out for the field, faster than he's ever run before in his life. Inside his head, there is a loop of No, and, Lydia, and NO; NO; NO. The last of the alcohol haze burns off in the adrenaline rush.
He thinks he hears someone--maybe Danny--call his name over the buzz of surprise and outrage he's left in his wake, but he ignores it, struggling to control his breathing, to keep the panic down long enough to get to Lydia. He's seen those looks Stilinski gives her when he thinks neither of them can see, the ones Lydia tells him mean nothing to her, so don't sweat it, Jackson, he'll eventually get over it, just leave him alone, and Jesus, how far away is the damn field, he should have been there by now, he...
(Tomorrow he'll have bruises the size of dollar bills on his hip and arm, and he'll limp for two days and have to skip weight training. But right now he doesn't notice the pain.)
His stride falters and he almost falls when he sees the red and white lump in the middle of the field, white, she was wearing a white dress, oh Jesus, but he catches himself, makes his feet keep going even though his heart is stuck, stalled, in his throat.
She's sprawled on the grass; the white satin dress is splattered with gore and blood flows sluggishly from several puncture wounds along her left side. The fabric around the wounds is a deep, dark pink.. Bloody handprints stand out stark against the pale skin of Lydia's arms, her shoulders, her face, obscene streaks of red, and the panic tries to claw its way through Jackson's heart and out of his chest. Her hair is a tangled mess.
One arm is flung out and the other draped across her hip, just the way she always falls asleep in his arms after they make love, but she's so, so still that Jackson's heart slams into triple time. He screams her name as he slides the last few feet across the grass on his knees.
His vision whites out and his hands hover over her arm but he can't seem to touch her.
(Tomorrow he'll have to throw out the pants because it's not worth the total bitch of trying to get grass stains out of fine wool. But right now all he can see is dark pink wicking out into white satin.)
Then his brain comes back online with a click; suddenly everything is in sharp focus and times slows. He takes in the wounds, still bleeding, the slight movement of her diaphragm, the faint sound of her exhale. His hand closes on her shoulder, where gooseflesh rises. He sees the flicker of a pulse in her throat. When he picks her up, she lolls in his arms
(Tomorrow he'll have to throw out the jacket and the shirt and the tie as well, because blood is harder to get out than grass. But right now he only feels the wet heat against his skin.)
"Stay with me, Lydia," he pleads. He can see the lights outside the gym, people standing around, smoking and talking and avoiding the chaperones. He calls out to them for help. Some of them scream at the sight of the bloodied, pale girl in his arms, some of them run. Some of them run toward him, hands reaching out to take some of Lydia's weight, but he won't let them have that, won't let them have her. His voice breaks as he begs someone to get help, and he holds on to Lydia, murmuring shattered words into the hair that has fallen over her neck, until the ambulance screams to a stop beside the gym door. Hands pluck at her, but he holds on with one arm and bats the hands away with the other until a calm, quiet voice commands him to let us help her, sir, we can help her if you let us.
The cops who arrive just behind the ambulance pull him aside for questioning.
(Tomorrow he'll remember that the individual gouges in her side made the shape of a bite, just like the one that's already starting to heal on his own side. But right now he only knows one thing: This is his Lydia, and he doesn't want her to die.)