Chapter Text
Lydia is used to nightmares. She's been having them for years, and who could blame her?
She's used to dreaming about the Nogitsune's possession of Stiles, about how terrified she was when the demon's spirit split from his body, taking her with it to Camp Oak Creek. The feel of its face just inches from hers as it consumed her fear combined with the way it looked and sounded just like Stiles would haunt her sleep for the rest of her days. She dreams about being trapped at Eichen House, trapped inside her own mind and unable to speak or move or even blink. Becoming a human lab rat for Valack's twisted experiments and convinced that unless her friends left her there, they would all die, too. Most terrifying of all are the dreams about The Wild Hunt, about Stiles being taken and Lydia forgetting; About her fight to remember and the looming reality that even once she did, she may never get him back.
Lydia and Stiles, and the rest of the pack, have been through more trauma than any person should ever know in one lifetime, and so, it's not out of the ordinary for these memories to seep into her unconscious as she sleeps.
What is out of the ordinary, however, is the dream - no, the nightmare - that she's had for the last three nights now. The one that never changes. The one in which she loses Stiles forever.
When Lydia wakes from the nightmare for the fourth time in a row, she's acutely aware that her dream may actually be a premonition. She sits straight up, gasping for air, and reaches for Stiles, but finds his side of the bed empty.
Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?
Lydia's ears are ringing, and she tries to focus her eyes in the dim morning light. She looks at the clock on his bedside table - It's 6:13 a.m. She fights the urge to scream and falls back into her pillow, pressing both hands against her chest in an attempt to slow her own heartbeat. After a few deep breaths, the ringing in her ears stops and she can hear Stiles singing to himself from the attached bathroom. The sound of his voice, the same sound Lydia hears every morning while he gets ready for work, calls to her like a moth to a flame, and before she realizes she's moved, Lydia is out of bed and padding quietly in his direction.
The bathroom door is cracked, and when she pushes it open, steam billows out, enveloping her like a warm hug. Lydia leans against the doorframe and watches him. She can’t help herself. He’s standing in front of the mirror wearing only a pair of black slacks that sit low enough on his hips that the band of his dark gray boxer briefs peek out. Lydia swallows hard and feels her face flush at the thought of slipping her index finger into the waistband of his pants and pulling him toward her. Her eyes rake over him, over the muscles in his back and shoulders, up to his biceps and forearms. When they were in high school, Stiles was fit but thin. He's filled out some since joining the FBI, and though Lydia would love him either way, she can't help but appreciate the man in front of her now.
Lydia's eyes keep moving, finally stopping at his hands. His hands that are strong, and somehow, still so gentle. Hands that have held her tight, calmed her bad dreams, wiped away her tears and touched every inch of her body more times than she can count. She watches his long fingers deftly work product into his hair, and when he catches her eye in the mirror and winks, Lydia’s mouth goes dry. She closes the distance between them. Pressing herself to his bare back, she wraps him up, laying her palms flat against his chest. She can feel his muscles flex then relax under her touch, and she smiles into him, inhaling deeply.
He smells like he always does - soap and cedarwood. He smells like home. This moment is all it takes for Lydia to forget the nightmare she’s just awoken from. She forces it into the depths of her mind, choosing instead to hold onto something more tangible. She chooses to hold onto Stiles. Stiles, who is right there, smiling that smile that even now, at 27, still holds a sort of boyish quality. It's the smile he’s saved just for Lydia since they were a couple of kids at Beacon Hills High who had no idea how intrinsically their lives would be intertwined.
"Morning, beautiful," he says, turning around without breaking contact. His hands find Lydia's face, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to her lips. "Caught you staring again. I'm starting to think you might like me a little bit."
Lydia shrugs and can't help it when her lips curve into a smile, "You're growing on me, Stilinksi."
Without another word, Stiles picks Lydia up and sets her on the bathroom sink. She hitches both legs up around his hips to draw him closer. "You're gonna be late for work," she breathes, already able to feel him against her.
"Don't care," he says, tugging her strawberry blonde hair from its messy bun. He runs his hands up her bare legs, until they reach the hem of the lavender cotton boyshorts she's wearing. "Really, really don't care."
Their lips are millimeters apart, and Stiles's amber eyes burn into Lydia's bright green ones. Her heart thumps in her chest, only this time she knows its because of how affected she is by him. He bumps her nose with his, and it's all the invitation Lydia needs. Her right hand grips the back of Stiles's neck, pulling his mouth down to hers, and when their lips meet Lydia sees stars. She's kissed those lips thousands of times over the last nine years, but she swears every time is like the first.
Their mouths move together, slowly at first, exploring and finding that perfect rhythm. Lydia's lips find that sweet spot at the hollow of Stiles's neck, and she doesn't think she imagines it when his knees buckle a little. A swirl of her tongue elicits a groan from him, and the sound makes something clench deep inside her.
"God, I fucking love you," he says with a slightly animalistic growl, and the coil inside Lydia tightens.
Stiles lifts her off the counter and carries her back into their room, depositing her on the bed. The weight of his body presses into her, and his lips find hers again with a neediness neither of them can deny. Lydia reaches between them to pop open the button on his pants and manages to wiggle the zipper down before Stiles is pulling the tee shirt she's wearing - his tee shirt - up over her head, forcing her arms up along with it. He sits back on his knees and takes her in, running his fingertips over her bare skin, and she shivers under his feather light touch.
Lydia tries to push his pants down over his hips, but her arms aren't long enough, and after a few futile seconds, she drops her arms back to the bed with a soft thud. "You want to help a girl out here?" she asks, smirking up at Stiles.
He smirks back and slides off the bed, pushing the rest of his clothes to the floor and kicking them to the side, "I don't know why I even put those on in the first place."
"I don't know why either," she pulls him back down to her and quirks an eyebrow. "You really should know better by now."
Stiles and Lydia spend the next 45 minutes in bed, loving one another in every way they know how. And though he doesn't make a habit of being late for work, the 10-minute tongue lashing from his superior officer is worth it to keep Lydia in his arms for just a little longer.
As soon as Lydia is alone again, details from the nightmare come rushing back.
Flashes of Stiles's smile, their fingers intertwined across the console of her car, then rain beating down on the roof and a jerk of the wheel when she hits a slick spot on the road. The car spinning out of control, the feel of Stiles's hand slipping from her grasp as he pins his arm against her chest just before the car slams into a tree and flips onto its side.
Then darkness.
When Lydia opens her eyes, she's on the wet pavement a few feet from the totaled car. Glass from the windshield is everywhere, and she doesn't stop to check whether the wetness pouring down the side of her face is rain water or blood. She looks to her left and sees Stiles on the ground, his body still half inside the passenger's side window. Lydia calls his name, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't move. She tries to stand but her legs buckle, and she's back on the ground and dragging herself to him, screaming his name over and over.
Stiles... Stiles, wake up! STILES! Please wake up, Stiles!
Lydia pulls his head into her lap and runs her hands over his face, hoping her touch will stir him, but it doesn't. It's not until she looks into his open eyes, those big, brown eyes with the shining golden hue, that she realizes the light has gone out of them. Stiles is dead.
And so Lydia screams. She grips Stiles's lifeless body and wails, louder and longer than she ever has before.
Lydia pulls herself out of the memory and leans over the kitchen sink trying to catch her breath. She's dizzy with fear, and her fingers grip the counter so tightly that her knuckles go white. It's so vivid. So real. And Lydia can no longer deny that this nightmare might not be a nightmare at all, but a look into their future.
She picks up the phone and begins to type out a text to Stiles, "Can we talk tonight? Something's happening. Don't freak out."
Her finger hovers over the send button but she can't bring herself to do it. Besides the fact that she knows he'd leave work and rush home to her without a second thought despite being late getting to the office that morning, she's not even sure how to tell him what she's seen. Instead, she deletes the text and scrolls through her contacts until she finds the name of the only other person she knows who might understand. The phone rings three times, and then a familiar voice on the other end picks up.
Lydia breathes a small sigh of relief, "Hey, Scott."
"Lydia, hey," Scott's voice is gravely. Lydia remembers the time difference, looks at the clock and realizes it's only 5 a.m. in Beacon Hills.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," her throat tightens, and she almost can't speak. "I completely forgot what time it was there."
"No, no it's all right," he says through a yawn. "What's going on? Is everything ok?" It's just like Scott to know immediately that something's off. Maybe it's his wolf intuition, or maybe after more than a decade of friendship, he just knows her all too well.
"Uh, no, actually. It's not." Lydia's resolve begins to crack, and before she looses her nerve, she tells Scott about the dream. She explains every detail, until she is certain he understands. It's comforting to know he won't try to tell her she's overreacting or that she shouldn't worry. For a few seconds, Scott says nothing, and Lydia can hear the usually steady rhythm of his breathing waiver.
"Have you told Stiles yet?" he finally asks.
"No," her voice is barely above a whisper. "I can't. Not until I figure out if this actually is a premonition."
"Ok, well what are you going to do? Has this ever happened before, where you can't tell whether its just a dream or..." Scott's voice drops. "Or something else?"
"Not like this, no. Scott, you can't tell Stiles. Not yet," Lydia starts to feel panic build in her gut, slowly rising into her chest. She trusts Scott. She trusts him with her life, but he's still Stiles's best friend. Is she foolish to think he'd actually keep something like this from him? "Please don't tell him."
He sighs, and Lydia can tell he's struggling with the decision. "I won't tell him."
"I think... I think I need to come back to Beacon Hills," she says, blowing out a heavy breath. "I don't know, maybe Deaton can help. Maybe there's some way to figure this out."
"Are you just going to leave without telling him where you're going?" Scott asks with a tinge of concern for his friend. "He'll lose his mind, Lydia."
Lydia hadn't thought that far ahead, but immediately she knows she can't leave D.C. without talking to Stiles first, "No, I know. I'll talk to him tonight. I'll tell him I need to go see my mom or something."
"He's gonna want to come with you."
Lydia can feels the irritation building inside her, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from lashing out. She knows Scott's right. He's only trying to help, and she did call him after all. "I'll figure something out."
They discuss logistics for a bit longer, and Lydia books a Red Eye out for that night with plans to meet Scott and Deaton at the animal clinic when she gets to town. As they say their goodbyes, Scott senses her pain and unease, "It's going to be ok, Lydia. We're going to figure it out."
She presses her lips together in an uncertain smile but is thankful for her friend in the moment, "I hope so, Scott. I'll see you soon."
By the time she ends her call with Scott, it's 8:30 a.m., and Lydia can't bring herself to care about work. She sends a quick email to her team letting them know she'll be out of the office for a few days but is reachable in an emergency. Despite having Scott and Deaton in her corner, Lydia can't quell her fears. All she wants is Stiles. She wants to be wrapped up tight in his arms, against his solid chest, close enough to feel the steady drum of his heartbeat. She wants to look into his eyes, so full of life and love for her, and never, ever stop.
But Lydia knows she can't. Not now. Because she's a Banshee, born with a gift that is part blessing, part curse, and so, she has to leave. She has to do everything in her power to keep Stiles, her Stiles, safe, whatever the cost.
"Hey, beautiful," Stiles calls from the front doorway of their two-bedroom apartment. He's arrived home from work in time to catch the tail-end of Lydia's packing. "Where's my girl?"
Lydia takes a long breath and steels herself for what she's about to do. She zips the carry-on suitcase and sets it on the floor just as Stiles appears in the doorway. He takes one look at her and the luggage, and the wide, beautiful smile she's grown so used to seeing falls from his face.
“Lydia, what are you doing?” he asks, dropping his work bag at his feet. He takes three long strides across the room and catches Lydia's hand in his own as it reaches for the handle of the suitcase.
She doesn’t look up at him when she says, “I’m going to stay with my mom for a few days.”
“What? Why?" His brows are knit together in confusion, and Lydia can feel the growing panic radiating off of him. She doesn't answer, unsure of what she could even say to make this any less terrible. She won't lie to Stiles, but she knows if she tells him about the dream he'll insist on coming with her, which is the very thing Lydia is trying to avoid.
"Lydia, come on. Please, just tell me what’s going on.”
Because she won't lie, she tells him the most vague version of the truth she can think of, “I just need some time to think."
“To think about what?” his voice is low and cracks with emotion when he asks, “Us?”
“Stiles…” Lydia can feel the intensity of his stare on her but still doesn't look up at him. She can’t. If she looks at him, she'll see the pain she knows is behind those golden-brown eyes, and she’ll break.
“No. No,” his hands are on her shoulders now, and finally she has no choice but to meet his eyes. "We’ve been through a lot of bad shit, a lot of things that didn’t make sense. But you and me? We’ve always made sense. So, tell me, Lydia. Tell me what’s really going on."
“Stiles, please…” Lydia's voice breaks, and she's not sure how much more of this she can take.
His tone is desperate when he says, “Lydia, don’t leave.”
But even through his myriad of emotions, Stiles's touch is gentle when his hands find her face. He pushes her hair back out of her eyes and off her forehead, as if that might give him a clearer understanding of what's happening. Lydia wraps her hands around his wrists as they continue their exploration of her face. He swipes a rouge tear from her cheek with his thumb, then leans down and touches his forehead to hers.
“I have to,” she pulls his hands from her face and brings them to her lips, pressing a heavy kiss against the knuckles on each one. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Why does this feel like goodbye?”
The tears that threaten to spill down Lydia’s cheeks are falling freely now, and she isn’t sure she’ll ever be able to forgive herself for breaking Stiles’s heart this way. She can only hope that he’ll have enough forgiveness for the both of them.
“I love you, Stiles.”
She takes one last look over her shoulder at the man she’s spent the last nine years building a life with. He’s planted like a tree at the foot of their bed, unmoving and still trying to comprehend what’s transpired in the last 10 minutes. Lydia silently begs him to reach for her, to stop her from leaving, but he doesn’t. She makes it out of their bedroom and to the front door, and her resolve nearly crumbles again when she hears the crash of something against the wall, followed by Stiles's heavy sobs.
"Please, forgive me," Lydia whispers. She exhales a shaky breath and walks through the door, locking it behind her.