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It started during English.
The new teacher (since the last one turned out to be an evil druid) was droning on about his completely subjective interpretation of A Streetcar Named Desire, and Lydia couldn’t be bothered to hear another word about how Blanche was some completely innocent damsel.
(Maybe she didn’t want to be reminded of how she too used to fool people with a conjured image.)
Her hand was itching to write something, because Lydia was still a conscientious student, and taking notes was second nature. But she knew that she was bored and would start doodling, and she feared if she started doodling she would end up drawing another supernatural motif.
The guy in the desk in front of hers fidgeted in his seat. His jacket twisted at the back , and Lydia traced the folds with her eyes. And then she was trying to replicate them with her pen.
She never really enjoyed observational drawing in art class. But then life drawing was different. Human models were a much more interesting subject than fake fruits.
The guy in front of her changed his posture again, leaving her first sketch unfinished, and Lydia started outlining his new position.
When he moved again, Lydia moved her attention to a girl in the front row who had been texting under the table for the last ten minutes. She couldn’t see the girl’s face, but she had a good view of her unevenly cut hair with pink streaks, tied up in a messy ponytail.
The girl’s hairdo gave her a lot of detail to work with, but after a while Lydia realised she had been staring at the back of people’s heads, and looked to draw a face. And her gaze landed on the boy next to her.
He was hunched over his desk, chair resting on its two front legs. He pressed the end of his highlighter to his lips as he frowned at a piece of text.
She started tracing the line of his nose first, then his lips, pursed around the cap of the highlighter, then she traced up the slope of his jaw. She found herself dotting in the twin moles that were almost aligned above his jawbone, before she moved to start on his eyes.
The light from the window on the other side of her was bouncing off his eyes, making them appear warmer than usual, and suddenly Lydia wished she was using a pencil to better capture the tonal detail. She hatched a few lines to define the areas around his eye and cheek, carefully dotting in the constellation of moles.
Ten minutes later she was looking down at an upper-body sketch of Stiles.
It was not a completely accurate depiction. The angle of his nose was off. She did not capture the unruliness of his hair. His head was a little too large on the neck she gave him. So she flipped to the next page and started sketching. Again and again.
Until class ended. Which left her third drawing unfinished.
Lydia sighed and shut her notebook as the boy in question turned to her, asking if she was ready to head to their next class.
She vowed to draw him right within the next 40 minutes.
“When you calculate your E-cell is it E-red minus E-ox or E-red plus E-ox?”
“Plus,” Lydia answers confidently. “Provided you flipped the equilibrium and are using oxidation potential. But minus if you are using the conventional reduction equilibrium and thus reduction potential.”
“Come again?” Allison asks.
“I have some working using both methods in my notebook.” Lydia waves her hand at her schoolbag, telling Allison she’s free to take out her notes. “Then you can see which way works best for you.”
She hears the rustling that meant Allison was reaching for her notes, and refocuses on the elucidation question she was doing. Those question types are tough, but nothing she cannot handle.
“Lydia?”
Her friend’s voice wavers, which made her look up.
Her notebook - the cute A4 one with pretty flowers on the cover and alternating lined and blank pages - sits open on Allison’s lap, revealing multiple sketches of a certain whiskey-eyed boy.
“That’s not my chem notebook,” Lydia mumbles, reaching forward to grab the book and hide it under her blanket (or well, Allison’s blanket, seeing as they were at the hunter’s house), as if the act would make Allison forget she saw the drawings.
There is a heat creeping up her neck. She tries not to think about why she is flustered that someone saw her drawings of Stiles.
“What does this mean?” Allison whispers.
“It means I found a way to pass the time,” Lydia says, her voice clipped. Don’t ask me about this. This doesn’t exist. “You know how ahead I am in classes. And it helps tune out the voices sometimes.”
“You’ve been hearing voices?” the brunette’s voice morphs into concern as she leans forward. She winces slightly - the stab wound in her stomach is healing but troubles her still.
Lydia places a hand on Allison’s shoulder and pushes the other girl back until she’s sat up straight. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” she assures her friend. “They haven’t been bothering me. Just want to ignore them someti - ”
“Lydia you’ve been drawing Stiles,” Allison pleads. “The last time you kept drawing the same thing…what if it means something?”
“The last time I…” Lydia feels the blood drain from her face. “You think Stiles is in danger?” she whispers harshly, leaning on to be heard. As if saying it softly doesn’t make things any less likely to happen.
Allison’s hand wraps around her arm as she leans in as well. “You’ve been hearing voices. You hear them when you draw him. Lydia, what if something’s happening?” She pauses for a breath, then, “What if you’re drawing Stiles because he’s going to die?”
Lydia finds herself shaking her head even before Allison is done speaking.
“It can’t be. The voices have been quietly lately. I haven’t felt like screaming.”
“What if you’re gaining more control of your powers?” Allison presses. “What if you’ve found a way to channel them in less violent means? If something’s happening - if Stiles is dying - we need to tell Scott.”
Lydia bites her lip to stop it from quivering.
“He can’t die. We just got him back.”
The radio is playing some old rock song that she neither recognises nor appreciates, but it’s better than silence. Silence means thinking, thinking means considering the possibility of Stiles dying.
She doesn’t want to think about Stiles dying.
She meets Allison’s eye in the rear-view mirror, and the hunter clears her throat.
“You know,” she begins, “there might actually be one more explanation for this.”
“What?! Why didn’t you tell me?” Lydia shrieks.
“But I didn’t think you’d like it,” Allison adds at the same time.
Lydia turns to her friend in disbelief. “What could be worse than me predicting Stiles’ death?”
“That you’re drawing Stiles because you want to.”
She knew Scott would be at the clinic. Allison mentioned he was working today. Lydia wishes he weren’t there, not until she’s sure of what’s happening. But she also knows Allison is right - if something really is happening to his best friend, Scott deserves to know.
What she did not expect was Stiles being there as well.
“What are you doing here?” she asks him, her voice rising slightly, the same time he looks up from his book and says “Oh hey, what are you two doing here.”
Lydia stares at him for a few long drawn-out seconds, during which she’s pretty sure her eyes widen to give her an expression that’s either incredulous or deer-caught-in-headlights. Or both, because she’s caught off guard by his presence, but tries to make him go away by having an air of superiority.
Who is she kidding, she hasn’t been able to do that around her friends for a while now. She’s changed; everything that happened this semester has made sure of that.
Allison comes to her rescue. “There’s something we need to ask Deaton about,” she tells Stiles. Then - “You should come too.”
Allison is a traitor. Lydia loves her to bits, but right now she’s a traitor.
She tries to tell the other girl just that, making frantic expressions behind Stiles’ back as he leads them to where Deaton and Scott presumably are.
Deaton looks up as they enter and gives them a warm smile. “Allison, Lydia,” he greets. “How can I help you?”
Lydia was hoping Allison would do the talking for her, but the other girl is busy smiling shyly at Scott, who’s washing something in the small metal sink but looking over his shoulder. So she holds her head up and faces the vet. “We were wondering if…you’ve heard of any case where a banshee…um…used the different way to predict someone’s death other than screaming?”
“Technically the scream doesn’t predict the death, but it brings the voices to attention, allowing you to focus on the ones that matter.” Deaton takes his gloves off and holds his hands out in front of him. “Imagine, you’re listening to someone speak at an event, but everyone else around you is talking as well. The scream is like when you announce for everyone to keep silent, so you can listen to the speaker.
“But you need not necessarily scream to predict death, not if you can hear what you need to,” the vet continues. “For example, when you heard the baby drowning when you were at the motel. And if you do scream, the voices need not necessarily tell you if someone will die, seeing as you yourself have listened to voices that did not speak of death.”
Something brushes her elbow, and she turns to find that it’s Stiles’ hand. His eyes are watching her with concern. “Lydia, did something happen lately?” he asks.
She looks away, not knowing how to break the news to him, but it’s not much better when the alternative is seeing Allison, Scott and Deaton all looking at her expectantly.
“Lydia…”
It’s Allison who speaks this time. The brunette tilts her head, imploring Lydia to tell them what’s going on.
Lydia sighs and pulls her notebook out of her bag. She lets it drop on the table before flipping to a random page. Then the next page, and the next. Each turn of the page reveals one or more different sketches, all of Stiles.
“It’s like when you drew the Nemeton,” the boy himself breathes.
When Deaton speaks, his voice stills sounds calm, but there’s a new furrow between his brows. “How did this start?”
“I just started drawing in class one day,” Lydia answers. “It was just random classmates at first. Then Stiles was next to me, and…uh, I guess…I don’t know.”
“And when you’re drawing,” the vet says, folding his arms. “Does it tune out the voices? Bring certain ones into focus?”
“Tunes them out. All of them. But they haven’t been loud lately,” she adds. “I haven’t heard anything to cause alarm. The drawing just happens to help make them…more quiet, I guess.”
Deaton nods and closes her notebook, sliding it towards her. Lydia tucks it into her bag as he faces the rest of the pack.
“Seeing as there is no connection between Lydia’s banshee intuition and her act of drawing, I believe there is no dire need to be concerned about Stiles.”
“Okay, but there’s still a need to be concerned about me, it’s just not dire,” Stiles interjects.
“I assure you, Stiles,” Deaton says, and - is he actually smiling at the situation? “This time, for once, it is not as bad as you think.
“A wolf seeks a pack, because it provides strength and protection. It has a psychological need for companionship. The pack can also provide comfort and ease of pain.”
“I look for my friends,” Scott mumbles. There’s a hint of realisation in his voice.
Four pairs of eyes land of him.
“It’s something I was thinking,” he explains. “After we sacrificed ourselves…when you said we would feel a darkness around our hearts. And when I felt it, I would try to find someone, see someone, even just hear one of your voices, and it would make me feel better. Calmer.”
Something warms in Lydia’s heart when she hears Scott’s words, knowing how much he values the as his friends, and how much the pack relies on each other.
Deatons nods in agreement. “Quite right, Scott. Banshees, however, do not have the liberty of seeking out other’s voices with supernatural hearing. And unlike wolves, they are known to be solitary creatures. Their companions are little to none. But because of this closed behaviour, whatever bonds they do form can be very strong.”
His eyes cast over Stiles’ form before looking straight at Lydia.
“I believe your subconscious is seeking to strengthen a connection,” he tells her.
When they get outside, Stiles gestures for her to climb into his jeep, which she does, and he clambers into the driver’s seat, settling down next to her.
“So…your subconscious wants to spend more time with me.”
“He didn’t say that.”
“It was implied.”
“It wasn’t implied.”
“Well how else does your subconscious want to ‘strengthen our connection’, Lydia?” Stiles asks, making quote marks with his fingers. “It’s not like we have a telepathic link where I can dial in and be all ‘Hey, inner Lydia, let’s talk. The more we use this line the stronger it gets.’”
Lydia has to press her fingers into her closed eyes because yes, she wants to spend more time with Stiles. Ever since they defeated the nogitsune, he’s been distancing himself from her, choosing to spend time with Scott teaching Malia. She’s tried telling herself he needs space, that helping someone would be good for his recovery from being possessed, but some deep, selfish part of her yearns for her to be the one he choses to spend time with. She misses hanging out with him, even if they were trying to figure out all the murders around them.
She settles on “I miss you.”
“You’ve been doing fine without me,” Stiles says, looking down and away from her. “You said the voices haven’t been bothering you lately.”
“And drawing you makes them bother me less, did you not get that part?” she stresses. “Stiles, look at me.”
He does, and her voice catches. There’s always been something about the way he looks at her which she wishes she appreciated sooner. His gaze is intense, but it makes his face soft.
“You’re my tether too,” she says, almost a whisper. “All the times I spent with you trying to solve supernatural mysteries, I - we had something Stiles. I miss that. I miss us.”
He’s gaping at her. “Us - we had something?”
She nods and reaches across the console to grab his hand. HIs fingers slip between hers. Naturally.
He blinks a few times. It’s rather comical, and she tries not to laugh.
“So, uh,” he starts. “Scott ends in around twenty, and we were gonna hang out at my place, do you and Allison wanna come? Then you could stay for dinner and we could read Nancy Drew or something.”
This time she lets a chuckle slip past her lips. “Nancy Drew?”
“Well you said, I mean, that’s our thing, right? Solving mysteries.”
Lydia smiles. “Stiles. I liked spending time with you. Period. It wasn’t just about solving mysteries.”
Stiles stares at her for a while, then a grin slowly spreads across his face.
“So you do want to spend more time with me.”
She shoves his shoulder. “Yes. Whatever.”
She tries to sound nonchalent about it but in reality she’s smiling because he’s smiling and her heart is skipping thinking about their plans for the day.
Her heart hasn’t skipped since she was fourteen.
And later, when he tells her that she’s good at drawing and asks to keep one of her sketches of him, it skips again.