A/N: Written for the Stiles/Lydia Fest 2014. It's AU from Season 2 onwards.

Something More

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Jackson decides not to accept his parents' offer to move to London and instead, stay in Beacon Hills to become the biggest douche the school had ever seen since he was human and roaming the halls.

Stiles literally feels any fleeting hope he once had at hearing about the departure of the newest werewolf crumble violently around him as he finally accepts his fate in a way he never had before.

Of course Stiles wouldn't get the girl. Stiles never gets the girl.

So, Stiles (and he is completely justified in calling himself by the third person) gives up the only way he knows how.

He spends three months playing video games with Scott to take his best friend's mind off Allison, he works hard at making Coach's life miserable, he helps his father on cases that are now too mundane to even think about, and he grows his hair out for the first time since his mom died.

Once in a while he will pass Lydia in the hallway and she would smile at him the way she once did when she had stood in his bedroom and realised that he really was the worst person to buy things for a girl. But, that smile would always fall a second later because Jackson would pass by and ignore her entirely.

It's an expression Stiles has had for the last eight years every time she had ignored him, and nothing hurts more than seeing that expression on her face.

Actually, that's not right.

Nothing hurts more than seeing that expression on her face for someone else.

"Why not kill him?" Stiles asks casually with a shrug. He's justified in his thinking. Completely, and utterly justified. He also might be slightly annoyed that while he's back on the bench, the Biggest Douche in Beacon Hills (yes, that's Jackson's official title) is currently faster, stronger and dare he say, better, at lacrosse than ever before.

Scott sighs from beside him, a sound that Stiles understands to mean that for a few seconds, even he had contemplated that action. "We're not killing him."

"Why the hell not? Look at him!"

They collectively wince when Jackson uses unnecessary force to push down one of their teammates only to walk away without helping him to his feet.

"Class act, that one," Stiles mumbles as he violently puts on his gear.

There is a level of 'unfair' he can accept from the universe. His asthmatic best friend getting bitten only to become a kickass werewolf with ridiculous werewolf powers is one of them. But, he loves Scott and this whole turning-into-a-mythical-monster thing had only changed him for the better, so Stiles can deal.

But, Jackson…

Stiles grits his teeth as he pulls on his laces too hard and nearly snaps them.

He knows he doesn't want the Bite. Once in a while, when he sees the awesome werewolf powers, he's tempted, but then he thinks back to how his best friend kissed his dream girl and how he had to handcuff him to a radiator and the moment passes.

But, then he sees the way Jackson's eyes glow blue as he smiles lecherously just before he uses his new agility in a way that is bordering on inappropriate, and that want is back like a jealous animal clawing for breath.

It's the most frustrating feeling in the world, being jealous. It's even worse when it's for a jackass who doesn't deserve to have anyone be jealous of him in the first place.

"He's not being careful," Scott says softly, his jaw tightening as he watches the way Jackson roughly shoves Danny out of the way.

"I gave a perfectly acceptable solution, you know. One slash of the throat and we're all happy," Stiles can't help but quip, even as his eyes are pulled away to familiar strawberry-blonde strands as a certain someone and her best friend take the stands.

Scott doesn't say a word as his own eyes fall on Allison and Stiles looks away just as he sees them share a small, shy smile. A second later, Coach blows his whistle and they gather around him just before the game starts.

Stiles decides to focus on the game instead, on cheering for his team and raising their energy levels.

In the end, he does end up playing, and all because Jackson inadvertently injures half the team although Scott tries to stop it.

He doesn't get the ball though, because Jackson makes it his mission to score every single goal.

But, at least Stiles was on the field. That's something.

"We could always kill him," Stiles suggests easily as he looks around at the rest of the pseudo Pack he never thought he would ever be a part of. Ever! He also wonders if the loft will ever be fully furnished.

Derek raises an eyebrow and Scott sighs tiredly because he's heard that sentence too many times to count. It's Isaac who surprises him. Isaac nods and shrugs as if that idea is completely feasible and Peter, who shouldn't be here in the first place, actually cocks his head to the side and says, "I like him."

Stiles cringes as he feels like a series of insects are crawling up his spine. Peter Hale agrees with him! Stiles feels the overwhelming urge to put on a hazmat suit when dealing with the former Alpha in the future.

"Don't you want him in your Pack?" Scott asks Derek. Because after the departure of Erica and Boyd, the Alpha is lacking power and they all know it.

"I wouldn't take him," Peter says unhelpfully as he leans back and closes his eyes as if meditating is the most important thing in the world.

"No," Derek says as he continues to tower over them with his usual brooding personality. "I want him to be careful. He's risking exposing us all. If he doesn't stop showing off—"

"What?" Scott asks incredulously. "You're going to kill him?"

Sometimes Stiles says things without thinking and sometimes his limbs completely agree. So when he screams out a, "Yes!" with a wide grin splitting his face, he really can't help it. But, he does shrug in apology when his best friend gives him a look to mean you-don't-really-mean-that.

Maybe he does mean that. Maybe his life will be so much better and he means it from the bottom of his broken heart (Britney song pun fully intended). And, all right, he's fooling himself, but the fantasy is definitely real.

Derek's expression becomes stern. "If he doesn't heed our warnings, I'll have no choice."

"I'll handle it," Scott says diplomatically, ever playing the Solomon in the group. "Don't do anything until I talk to him."

"Until you talk to him?" Stiles asks incredulously. "Are you kidding me, Scott? You're the last person he'll listen to after 'Brooder One' and 'Brooder Two'," Stiles says as he flippantly gestures towards the two Hales.

His best friend doesn't look the slight bit put-off by the level of truth Stiles puts forward.

"Maybe he won't listen to me," he says softly. "But there is someone who he will listen to."

Realisation dawns and something inside him coils and tightens, because the last thing Stiles wants is to put Lydia through that. The apologetic look from Scott doesn't make the decision any easier.

Peter chuckles. "I could have told you that half an hour ago."

Stiles narrows his eyes at the former Alpha and grits his teeth in annoyance. "Why didn't you?"

Peter shrugs. "You didn't ask."

Before Stiles can say a cutting remark about fires and death, Isaac decides that it's the perfect time to ask a question they had all momentarily forgotten.

"So are we not going to discuss the sacrificial killings, then?"

There is a skill Scott has that Stiles have never truly understood. He can convince people. He can look them in the eye and make them believe in what he believes, which is something that Stiles kind of admires in his werewolf best friend. But, sometimes, as good as he is, that final step is hard to pull through.

Stiles stays beside Scott, his eyes on his shoes with small glances going to the two girls in front of them. Allison is playing with the strap of her book bag as she tries her best not to stare at his best friend and Lydia shakes her head vehemently every time Scott changes tactics to make her help.

"I wouldn't ask unless it was important," Scott says, all wide eyes and puppy dog expressions.

Allison and Lydia share a look, a silent discussion happening between them for a few seconds before Allison sighs in defeat. "Maybe you should."

Lydia shakes her head. "What makes you think he'll listen to me, anyway?"

"He'll listen to you."

And maybe three pairs of eyes snap in his direction because the last conversation Stiles has had with Lydia was over three months ago.

She meets his eyes and he doesn't drop his gaze. "How do you know that?" she whispers, and he swears his spine tingles because for those five words it's as if the world melts away and she sees only him.

"I just know," he says sincerely. "He might not want to listen to you, but he will."

She drops her gaze and that's when Scott goes in for the kill. "You don't have to say anything to him. You just have to bring him to Derek's loft on Saturday. We'll take it from there."

Stiles watches the way her shoulders hunch and how she is about to shake her head again, but Allison's hand circles her arm and Lydia stands straighter, her eyes meeting Scott's. "Okay. I can't make any promises, but I'll do my best."

Stiles doesn't wait for another second more as he turns on his heels and starts for his next class. The coiling jealousy in his gut is getting harder to ignore.

There is something extremely therapeutic about seeing Derek slam Jackson against the wall, claws out and teeth barred with the latter shivering despite the hot weather. Even Allison can't help but hide her smile even though Lydia's wide eyes hold back any emotion.

Stiles can't help but inwardly groan when his best friend intercepts the argument by stepping between the two werewolves. For once can't he just see Jackson be punished? At this point he wouldn't be opposed to a werewolf-fighting ring.

"That's enough," Scott says, pushing Derek back and standing between him and Jackson. "We should be fighting whoever it is who's killing people, not each other."

Derek steps back, eyes glowing red with warning towards Jackson before he nods. "Scott's right. We need everyone if we're going to do this properly."

Jackson laughs, low and dark, as he straightens his shirt and sneers at them all. "Do you think you're some army now? Some hero unit who has to solve these murders? News flash! No one cares! Just let his useless Dad handle it."

Stiles doesn't notice how he had clenched his fists and stepped forward until Scott is suddenly there to stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

"People are dying," Scott says slowly, his tone sincere and strong. "If you can do something to stop it, you should."

"It's not my problem," Jackson says with the stubborn set of his jaw. "And it's not yours either. If you want to get involved, go ahead. Just don't expect me to give a crap to save someone who should have known better."

Pushing Scott's shoulder with his own, he starts toward the doors, muttering, "This was a waste of time," under his breath. He throws open the door before he looks over his shoulder, his expectant look falling on the strawberry-blonde. "Are you coming or what?"

Lydia's gaze falls on Allison, who gives her a meaningful look before her gaze falls on Scott apologetically.

On some deep, deep level Stiles understands the love she feels for Jackson, but it nearly breaks his heart to see her follow him in such a submissive way. That's not the Lydia he knows. He doesn't even realise he's spoken until everyone looks at him.

"Don't go with him."

Jackson eyes him openly with hatred in his eyes as he slams his fist against the door and watches as Lydia winces when he yells her name. "Lydia! Come on!"

Stiles steps forward, his own voice pleading and Scott holds him back gently by clutching onto the back of his shirt. "Please don't go with him. We need you."

He can see the battle she wages within herself as her eyes fall on Jackson first and then the group of werewolves and humans who are waiting for her decision. Stiles sees the exact moment when she falters, when she bites her lip, mouths I'm sorry, to Allison and without another word, leaves the loft by walking past Jackson.

Stiles feels the anger inside him snap when Jackson eyes them all smugly before slamming the door after him. It's Scott's steady grip that keeps him centred.

"You okay?" Scott asks carefully, his expression saying how he knows exactly how Stiles feels because of the unfair advantage his powers have given him.

"Yeah." Stiles nods. "I'm fine." He shrugs and decides to shake it off. Lydia will always choose Jackson. He should have learned to live with it by now. He's just a glutton for punishment the way he keeps holding out hope that one day things will change.

He sees the way Scott tilts his head, listening to something his human ears can't hear and curiosity takes over.

"What is it?"

Scott's eyes fall on the door of Derek's loft a split second before it's pushed open and Lydia strides in, head up, shoulders back and a sense of confidence in her steps that have been missing for a while.

She flips her hair over her shoulder and eyes them all seriously. "I want to help," she says sincerely, making Stiles look at her with awe he can't quite hide. "What do I need to do?"

He doesn't ask about Jackson, because he just doesn't care.

It suddenly becomes a thing, the four of them.

They meet regularly at the library and at lunch; they walk each other from one class to the next to exchange information that is later conveyed from Scott to Derek. More often than not, Lydia stays with them, resolutely ignoring the glares that Jackson throws their way, her head high as she smiles back brilliantly only to make him sneer.

It's not long before her intelligence stops surprising Scott and Allison as her proficiency for languages and books makes her an asset that encourages Derek to rely on her.

She spends so much time at Stiles' house that his father learns to prepare salad on the nights she stays over for dinner, although that's a personal choice he'd rather live without, if he could. He spends so much time at her house that her mother starts referring to him as 'Stiles' with a heavy breath, because he may or may not have broken a thing or two by being too clumsy to function.

He even learns that her stuffed giraffe is named 'Muffin' who he holds hostage on days she insults his intelligence by disguising it within a pretty compliment.

"I didn't say you were stupid," she says with a roll of her eyes as she puts out her hand and looks at him expectantly.

"I don't know," Stiles says, looking at the giraffe seriously. "What do you think, Muffin? Do you think she insulted me? 'Cause I think she just called me stupid."

He pretends not to notice the way she tries to hide her smile, because his heart stutters each time he makes her laugh and it's the best feeling in the world. She finally gives up, not by apologising, but by whacking him on the arm with a pillow and taking back her stuffed giraffe when he's busy faking an injury and an almost-heart attack. She laughs again, and he calls that a small victory. Because isn't this the dream, to not be awkward around her, but be himself, good ol' boring Stiles, sitting with her on her bed with a pile of mythical lore between them?

"Did you tell Scott what we found?"

"Phone died," he says with a shrug as he starts collecting the internet research they had deemed important an hour ago. They do this now, research and then hang out after even though their eyes are tired and one of them shouldn't really be driving home so late.

"Use mine, genius," she says, rolling her eyes as she tosses him her phone.

He catches it easily and presses 'one' too long by mistake only to blink at the screen when it changes.

"What?"

He looks up to see the way her head is tilted as she eyes him with confusion, and he clears his throat nervously.

"Nothing. It's just…" He gulps down something that has been lodged in his throat as his gaze meets hers and he shrugs in an attempt to look casual. "I'm on your speed dial. Actually, I'm number one on your speed dial."

Her eyes widen a fraction before she drops her gaze as she straightens papers that have already been straightened. "So what? You told me to call you when I find something. Are you telling me that I shouldn't?" she asks suddenly, eyes narrowing and tone becoming sharper, more defensive. "Would you like me to not call you at all? 'Cause I can call Scott, if you want. It doesn't have to be you, you know. I just—give me that." She reaches forward but he pulls back his arm by instinct, watching as her voice becomes stern and her eyes widen with panic. "Give me the phone, Stiles."

He hesitates before he gives it to her, and he watches as she fidgets with it for a few seconds, her teeth gritted in frustration before she gives up and tosses it away from them both so it lands on the other side of her bed.

The few seconds that pass are awkward and filled with tension before he asks quietly, "You removed me from your speed dial?"

She doesn't look at him, her eyes roaming pages that he knows she has already read. "Yup."

"You put Scott?"

She hesitates a beat before she says curtly, "Yup."

"You want me to leave?" he finds himself asking then, 'cause this whole thing is weird and he doesn't know how he should react.

He sees the way her lips part, the way her eyes focus on the pages without really reading them and then he makes the decision for her.

"I'll just leave."

He collects his things fast, eyes lifting only to see her look away from him whenever his gaze lands on her. He reminds himself that they text constantly and for the past month she hasn't gone to sleep unless she has spoken to him first.

But this, whatever this is, confuses him too much, and so he leaves her with a small wave and a quiet, "G'night,' before he closes the door after him.

When she starts finding dead bodies, things change even more.

There are things Stiles have been forced to get used to.

He's used to spending hours at the Sheriff's office, doing homework or getting into trouble, he's used to the fact that his best friend can now grow massive amounts of facial hair in a very short time and he's used to the fact that he will never see his mother kiss his father on the cheek before kissing the top of his head ever again.

He doesn't know if he can ever get used to the fact that Lydia Martin likes to sleep on his bed, on his pillow because it is super comfortable, because a large part of his brain has been convinced that this is a dream while the other part thinks it's a prank that will go very wrong, very fast.

"You're staring again."

He jumps from his position on his computer chair, practically falling over as he stammers, "Who? Me? What? Staring? I don't…" He gulps as he sees the way she pops open one eye and smiles at him with amusement.

He smiles back, because maybe this is a dream, but it's a good dream and he's going to enjoy it.

She stretches languidly before she sits up in his bed, her hair a messy bun and his lacrosse jersey falling over one shoulder to give him a glimpse of her skin, which should, in all honesty, be illegal.

It's been two months of this. Two months of them going through all supernatural information they can get their hands on, two months of her helping him cover his bedroom wall with articles and clues, two months of her falling asleep so often that she now steals his shirts, jerseys and shorts whenever she spends the night on his bed while he sleeps on the floor or his computer chair.

Two months of dodging the safe sex talk from his father because they are not like that.

"Did you find anything?" she asks sleepily as she squirms in a way that is too cute to ignore.

He drops his gaze from her bare legs (because he was not staring, obviously), to squint at his laptop screen tiredly. "Nothing much. The myth is similar to what we found a week ago. Three seems to be the popular number for anything based on killing and maiming. I still have to go through the articles about African…"

He looks up in time to see her lying back down on his bed with her back against the wall, an arm outstretched before her as she sleepily calls out to him. "It's late. Come to bed."

His mouth is dry and every cell in his body screams, "Yes!" But he stays where he is, sitting up straighter to get himself under control.

"You're right. I'll go get a blanket."

But she shakes her head, her eyes drooping close as she slams an open palm against his mattress and continues to call for him. "There's enough room for the two of us, Stiles."

He hesitates longer than he should before he finally moves from the chair. He sits down on the bed, takes of his shoes, and slower than he has ever done anything in his life, he lies down so that he's facing her, his body taught and unyielding.

She smiles softly at him, her hand rising to run her fingers through his hair as she shifts closer, her breath warming his lips and her chest brushing his.

"Are you sure?" he whispers, because he doesn't want to be the rebound or the second choice. He wants to be the person she wants as much as he wants her.

She nods sleepily, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, just as her lips pull against his.

It doesn't feel right. It feels wrong. Because even though in his dreams he gets into bed with her, reality is far more disappointing since he never joins her even when she sleepily asks him to.

He blinks and the dream shifts, the fantasy dissolves, and Jennifer Blake grins widely as a blade is pushed into his shoulder and she watches him cry out.

"Why don't you just kill me?" he asks with a wince, his body shuddering from the metal intruding into his skin as she leans forward and teases him with her nose against his cheek.

"Now, why would I do that when you're the best weapon I have against the werewolves? Don't worry, Stiles. The Philosophers are last on my list, so you still have time."

Leaning back, she grins, twisting the blade just a fraction to make him cry out. "I swear to God, I know nothing!"

"You know everything!" She twists the blade a fraction more, and her grin widens when he almost arches from the pain. "How is that imagination of yours working for you? Are you picturing something calm? The waves of the ocean, maybe? Is that helping you to keep the pain at bay?" She pushes the blade in further and he blinks back the tears as his flesh burns. "You can keep dreaming, Stiles, but you will tell me everything." She pulls out the blade and leaves him without another word.

And Stiles closes his eyes and begs all things Holy for Scott to find him before he's buried under the roots of the Nemeton.

He's not saved by Scott or Derek or Isaac or Allison or Deaton. He's saved by Jackson, who has enough of a heart not to comment on the open wounds that litter his body. Jackson uses a strong arm to pull Stiles up as he is helped out of the place he has been held captive for the past three days.

"Scott?" Stiles can't help but gasp out, only to have Jackson grunt something about handling Jennifer during the Lunar Eclipse along with Derek and Isaac.

He stumbles and nearly falls, but Jackson keeps him upright, and part of Stiles says a silent 'thank you' to Scott for never listening to him when he had jokingly suggested killing the newest werewolf.

He's helped up from the root cellar, and before he knows it, a five foot three strawberry blonde tackles him with a force that makes him wince before she holds him up with strength that surprises him.

It takes more strength than he knows for Stiles to meet Jackson's gaze over her shoulder, blue eyes that stay sadly unwavering, before Stiles closes his eyes and buries his face in her glorious hair while his arms tighten around her.

"Don't ever do that again," she breathes against his chest, and the only thing Stiles can do is nod, because she knows as well as he does that such a promise will be an empty one.

His father grounds him for a month, which is a slight overreaction to being kidnapped and repeatedly stabbed with various instruments, with the threat of death hanging over his head every second of every day.

He's supposed to rest and recuperate, which he does with the help of his best friend spending the night whenever his mother has the night shift at the hospital and Lydia popping in to surprise him with sugar-filled candy that he had banned long ago because of his father's sticky fingers.

"Does it still hurt?" she asks him carefully as she leans forward to study the cut on his lip.

His arm is in a sling, stitches decorate his body in various avenues, but the way she looks at him, as if he is a puppy that needs to be cared for rather than a survivor, hurts him more than he understands.

"What? This? Psh," he says flippantly as he gestures to the bruise on his cheek and the deep gash on his forehead. "Nah. It looks worse than it feels."

She cocks her head to the side and gives him such a stern look that he falters.

"A little," he says finally. "It stings."

"Where?"

He points roughly at the cut on his forehead and flinches in surprise when she raises her hands to keep his face steady. He watches her with wide eyes and baited breath as she leans forward and brushes her lips with a gentle touch near his hairline. His breath leave his lips explosively when she pulls back, her thumbs rubbing against his cheeks gently as she smiles in a way that gives him hope the way nothing has before.

"Better?" she asks shakily and he nods, just once, because her hands are still on him and he can't seem to breathe anymore. "Where else?"

He points towards his injured cheek and watches as she leans forward to place a warm, soft kiss on the purpling bruise, his eyes closing when she stays longer than she needs to.

When she pulls away, he lets his eyes meet hers, and he can't help but drop his gaze to her lips because she's so close that he can count the freckles on her nose. Her thumb lightly strokes the cut on his lip and he hisses, earning a wide-eyed look of panic from her as she whispers, "Sorry," against his lips.

It's forgotten a moment later when her lips meet his with a light touch, and he feels his heart slam against his chest, because suddenly, breathing is the hardest thing he has ever had to do. As she pulls back, he follows her, his lips pulling against hers and his uninjured hand reaching out to hold her to him. She is so soft and compliant, her lips moving against his gently even as his lip stings and her touch burns him.

He can't stop himself from asking, though. With a heavy sigh he pulls back, his words hoarse and unrehearsed despite the number of times he has asked her in his dreams. "Are you sure?"

She nods, her eyes wide and welcoming and her touch gentle as she continues to caress his cares away. "Are you?"

"Lydia, the fact that you have to ask me that…" He laughs, because such a question is nothing but ridiculous. "So... Does this mean you'll put me back on your speed dial?" he can't help but ask cheekily.

"Oh my dear, sweet, stupid idiot," she says with a quirk of her lips. "You were never off it."

And if her smug expression doesn't deserve a kiss, Stiles doesn't know what will.