part one: this nightmare's closing in, everything is lost

.

december, 2011

The first time she meets him-on purpose, in the actual flesh and not just a quick wave during one of his extensive skype chats with Scott-she wants to murder him.

It's cold, and she's wearing one of her longer dresses and a thick coat, and it's still cold and he's an hour late. She knew she shouldn't have agreed, she knew he sounded too good to be true, she knew she shouldn't have worn heels and she fricking knew she should've cut Allison off the second she opened her mouth.

"Did you tell her yet?" Scott's eyes had lit up as he entered the room, bag of Chipotle forgotten on the dresser when he spotted his girlfriend on her bed next to Lydia. He had leant over to kiss the brunette, anyway, and it took everything in her not grimace.

"Hi," Allison had smiled, her pretty dimples showing and her eyes on his like they hadn't seen each other in months when she knew for a fact they had breakfast together that morning. (She was also there to witness them exchange saliva while she tried not to look too bitter while she chewed on her overpriced salad.) They were all in love and perfect and ugh-it really tested her self-control on a daily basis. At this point, she didn't even have to remind herself to not roll her eyes anymore. It was muscle memory.

"Hello, nice to see you, too," Lydia had cut in, flatly as she shoved her textbook in between their faces, hopefully breaking whatever weird eye sex tension thing they had going on there. "Tell me what?'

What now? They've joined a bingo club together? They want her advice on matching outfits? Marriage?

(Those two, they were almost boring . They are sophomores in college, supposed to be partying and getting drunk and dating a lot of different people and making mistakes and growing. Instead, they have date nights, and mom and dad the rest of them and talk about their joint future. If it wasn't for the fact Lydia knew Scott still wears Spongebob underwear and Allison sometimes stress-cries over midterms, she would think they're an old married couple.)

"Well." Her best friend had smiled mischievously, sending a cheeky look to Scott, who was, by the way, too busy playing with Allison's hand to notice the little inside joke his girlfriend was trying to pull. "Remember that guy I told you about?"

She had remembered. The nice, reliable guy who's Scott's best friend from High School and goes to Brown. She'd seen pictures of him, heard the stories about him, she thinks she met him that one time when they were at Scott's birthday party for five fleeting seconds and you know what? She wasn't interested. She just wasn't. Relationships weren't her thing. Not right now, anyway.

Besides, she didn't do guys whose middle names were Nice And Reliable. Knowing herself, she'd end up ruining him and if she didn't need one thing in life, it was another reason to be denied to enter the holy, non-existent gates of heaven.

"Tall, dorky, dark-haired stranger?" Lydia does roll her eyes this time as she watches them exchange another knowing look. "If he's anything like the last guy you told me about, no thanks."

Allison sighs, because she's been here before, to which she almost desperately adds, "No, Lyds, seriously, he's so—"

"Perfect for you," Scott adds, raising his eyebrows suggestively at Lydia, who just crosses her arms in response, pursing her lips.

"Remember the tall, cute, photographer who was oh so perfect for me? And then I ended up having to get a restraining order because he was taking pictures of me in my sleep?"

"Matt wasn't that bad!" Allison intersects, side-eying her boyfriend to make sure he doesn't throw her under the bus, because he had been that bad and she damn well knew it.

"In my sleep, guys."

Scott starts ticking off on his fingers. "For one, Stiles is not a photographer—"

"That's definitely reassuring," Lydia remarks sarcastically, wondering if her friends just- don't get it as they share a giddy look. Like they're about to tell their kid they're going to Disneyland. She isn't in an ' oh my god, mommy ' mood. What the hell kind of name is Stiles, anyway?

"He's super smart, and like, he loves to wear plaid," Scott adds, thoughtful look on his face but Lydia still doesn't look convinced, prompting Allison to seduce her with another fact.

"Did he say smart? He was offered five different scholarships. He's on top of his class and he—"

"Are you calling me some sort of privileged elitist snob?"

Allison rolls her eyes, obviously getting frustrated at her attempts to avoid the actual subject. "No, he's a great guy, Lydia, I promise. I think you guys would be good together."

They stare each other down, in which Lydia is usually really talented because she practically invented the (St)(Gl)are Holding A Thousand Insults™, only she knows Allison is competitive and persistent and stubborn.

"If I wasn't already with Allison, I'd one hundred percent date him." Her boyfriend states proudly, shrugging a little as he looks from Lydia to Allison and back.

"What?" They both exclaim at the same time, one of them spotting a concerned look as the other one looks slightly annoyed. Slightly, as in shooting daggers from her eyes. Flaming, acid drenched, covered in rusty nails, daggers. Not so much because she's jealous, but just because he's not really helping.

"Sorry," Scott mumbles quietly and Lydia sighs, deciding to put him out of his misery. "Look, guys, I really appreciate it, but I'm just not looking for anyone serious right now."

"I took part in that extensive mathematical small-world experiment last year where you asked me weirdly personal questions about people I supposedly knew in third grade!" She looks smug, arms crossed over her chest. God, she hates it when Allison looks smug.

"Me too," Scott nods in agreement as he raises his eyebrows. "Because of you I have to live with the fact I'm distantly related to Peter Hale. I didn't need to know that."

The Famous Guilt Card, she strongly dislikes her friends. Groaning and childishly stomping her feet, she finally agrees.

She groans again, pinching the bridge of her nose before letting out a sharp breath. "Fine. One date. I'll go on one date with him."

"Yes!" They both exclaim as they high five and and really, she kind of loves her friends, too. Even if she doesn't like them.

Flashforward to the moment where she's wet, cold and incredibly pissed off. An old, beat up jeep pulls up eventually, waving and apologizing about being late before finally reaching her and offering her a hand. His hair is short and his plaid shirt is wrinkled and he smells like beer.

"You're drunk," she states, leaving his hand hanging in the air.

"No, my gi- ex -girlfriend, she. She was pretty drunk and in trouble at some bar with a couple of-"

"You came here directly from a date with your girlfriend?"

He winces, "Ex." The look on his face gives away that even he didn't think that was the best answer to give her right now. He apparently doesn't know how to pick his battles.

She scoffs, shaking her head lightly as she throws up her hands in defeat. "Okay. Let's just forget this ever happened."

She backs up and turns around, thinking about how hard she's going to blast 'best thing you never had' when she gets to her car while he's sputtering some sort of apology. He reaches out to grab her shoulder, to do what exactly? She doesn't know? So she, basically, in some weird self-defensive reflex, elbows him in the face. Muscle memory from when she took those self-defense classes freshman year. It wasn't on purpose, per se, but she isn't going to pretend like she'll lose any sleep over it tonight.

"Oh god," she says, as she gasps at the blood gushing out of his nose. She'll just be helpful for like, three minutes. That's all of the good in her that's left for the day.

"What the fuck?" He spits, eyes narrowed as he pinches the bridge of his nose. An angry flush creeping up his neck. "You broke my nose?"

She doesn't know if it's because he left her to wait for him for two hours while he was with the woman he was obviously still hung up considering he gave up a date with her or the fact she really just does not like him, but it rubs her the wrong way. "Okay, you know what? I'm done. For your information, it probably is broken. I also don't care. Have a nice life."

Allison never asks her about the date, but she does gift her a really nice, expensive purse for her birthday.

.

july, 2013

Being maid of honor to Stiles' best man hadn't been that big of a deal.

They'd managed to divide their tasks in such a way that there was minimal contact beside an email here or there (texts are too personal) and that one phone call that lasted thirty seconds and consisted of yes, no, and a few three-word-questions. So, she's this petty. Who could blame her?

She can't make it to the rehearsal dinner because her layover's delayed (at least she had all the duty free shopping a girl could wish for); he shows up late to the actual ceremony, almost knocking over the bride midst aisle walk in his hurry to stand next to the groom, because his damn idiotic jeep broke down; they both manage to avoid standing next to each other during the photo op (she makes it her personal task to hold Allison's lace chapel train-mostly for aesthetic, also because they're in the woods and it's dirty-and he mainly functions as a person who fucks up almost every picture by posing weirdly or having his eyes closed or just, Stiles ).

Besides the compulsory dance that Allison makes them have at the reception, it's all going according to plan.

He grins, a little goofy, as his long fingers tighten on her small waist. "Can you tell I'm trying very hard not to step on your toes?"

He looks different than the last time she saw him, she notes. His hair is longer and he looks older, more mature. He is cute. But. She is really good at holding grudges.

She huffs, rolling her eyes as she reminds herself that three minutes isn't that long. The song should be over in no time. "Why? It's not like you've ever been considerate before."

He doesn't sound sad or defeated, only a little bothered, like he wants her to like him. "I don't want to give you any more reasons to hate me, basically."

She finally looks up at him (up to this point it had been a nod of 'over her dead body will Allison give up her quest to get us to dance so we might as well get it over with'-acknowledgement, a shimmy of her back to get his hand further up and not that close to her ass, and suddenly finding everyone and everything else but him incredibly interesting), tilting her head a little trying to figure out his angle. He doesn't give in, doesn't reveal some kind of ploy to embarrass her eternally, so she figures that, hey, maybe after more than two years, they can move on.

One step closer / I have died every day waiting for you / darling don't be afraid I have loved you / for a thousand years

The corner of her mouth tugs up, and if it's a tiny bit arrogant, it's not her fucking fault. Her body is conditioned to react this way around him. "I don't hate you, I just think you're very annoying."

"Well. You look very pretty." He slides his arm off her waist and up her arm to run his hand over the lacy strap on her shoulder. He grins. "Green's a good color on you."

She bites down on her tongue to keep from correcting him, because it's emerald, not green, and Lydia thinks that maybe this is it, you know. That they've reached the point of adulthood in which they could possibly be civil, friends even maybe. The part where you stop publicly calling out other people because you don't get along and carry a secret hatred towards each other, and instead just give half-assed passive-aggressive compliments and do basic smalltalk. She feels like there's hope yet, and even manages to smile at him, too.

The effect is lost a little, because his watch catches on the lace of her strap, and instead of, you know, asking for her help, he decides to just forcefully yank his wrist away, ruining her dress and almost rendering her half naked. As he's apologizing and she's trying (her hardest) to get away from him, he steps on her foot and her ankle gives way, foot twisting awkwardly.

"Oh my God, Lydia. I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean, I didn't mean to, shit, it's turning purple?" His hands are in his hair, frantic as he tries to hold her arm to steady her. "Oh, no, no. I can't-I don't, I screwed up. Shit. Let me get some ice, or, or something?"

He babbles on and on and on, and she's about three words away from possibly yelling at him, maybe crying in frustration, and definitely punching him, but, because this is Allison's wedding and it's her day-and she's an adult?-she just shushes him, holding up a hand.

"Don't. However unbelievably nice this was, this will be it for us tonight." And hopefully forever.

Then, head held high, she hobbles away to her seat and lets one of Allison's other bridesmaids, Kira, who's pre-med, take care of her for the rest of the night while she glares holes into Stiles' back as he breaks into a chicken dance on the middle of the dance floor, like her ankle isn't throbbing and weddings haven't been ruined forever.

I felt it in my chest as she looked at me / I knew we were bound to be together / bound to be together

She hisses as Kira presses a champagne bucket filled with ice to her ankle, watching Stiles transition into the robot, dress being kept together only by her fist (anger is heavily implied). This, this is why she doesn't associate with him.

.

may, 2014

She makes it back in time from her trip to South-America for Scott's 23rd birthday party because she loves Scott, maybe even more than she loves Allison (it's a badly guarded secret) and she voluntarily skipped hers, because, like. Allison's mom is scary.

By the time she arrives, everyone is either drunk, or about to be. It makes her potty piano gift (she ordered online months in advance) and the ' coffee makes me poop ' mug (she picked up at the airport because faith ) ten times funnier. Allison hugs her for five straight minutes, and Scott kisses her cheek, sloppy and wet and affectionate, and she missed her friends.

It was great teaching underprivileged children english and basic math, humbling her in a way nothing else could have, but God, she didn't realize how much she had missed home until she saw her friends.

She's talking to a very inebriated Isaac about his new girlfriend who apparently likes kickboxing and has the prettiest hair ever and smells really good as he twists her silk scarf around her neck (while she tries to get equally as tipsy twice as fast) when Stiles appears into view. He's wearing a New York Mets cap, backwards, and a plaid she feels like he's always wearing.

He's surprisingly sober as he shoves a new red solo cup her way, charming smile on his face. "Truce?"

She hesitates, eyes narrowed, before taking it, because she half feels like he might spill it all over her within seconds if she doesn't. She takes a sip, figuring she can be decent.

"How was your trip?"

She eyes their friend warily, because she doesn't want anyone to think that she's like, friends with Stiles now. Isaac seems to be in a zone as he stares at the brightly colored fabric around her neck and leans back against the arm of the couch, and she decides that in this state, he probably won't remember any of this in the morning anyway.

"It was amazing, honestly. It was a total culture shock at first, but the people were so welcoming and, the children. God. The children were so nice, and, I learned a lot. I saw even more. It was- good ." She knows she's grinning like an idiot, but it's not because of him, it's because that trip changed her life, confirmed her dreams in life, taught her she can make a difference.

"I'm glad. It sounds awesome." He smiles, politely, as he rubs the back of his neck, almost awkwardly. "So, graduate school after summer?"

She nods, swallowing tightly. It's… weird. A little uncomfortable, even, to be talking to Stiles, out of all people, like this. This is not how they communicate. It's too… girl from my high school cheerleading team in the grocery store, or, old creepy uncle I only see during the holiday season but my mother wants me to be nice to.

"Yeah. I'm going to try and get my master's degree in mathematics." She pauses. Isaac's still petting her scarf so she sits him down on the couch with it, figuring he seems to love it way more than her, anyway. She turns back to Stiles, biting her bottom lip. "How's…" she licks her lips, trying to stall, but fuck it. "Okay. Yeah. I'm not even going to pretend like I listen to Allison when she tells me about you."

He laughs, and it's genuine, and what the hell is happening. "I finished college. Tried to get into the police academy. Failed my physical fitness exam. Four times." He grimaces, sighing, as he downs the rest of his cup. "My ten year plan of becoming the youngest successful detective in California has been severely delayed. Life is great."

Right. She remembers. Stiles wasn't dumb, but he had trouble focusing, always tried to do too much, take on too much to handle. Last thing she heard he was triple -majoring in political science, criminal justice and human relations, minoring in Spanish, and juggling two part-time jobs to finance himself through it all, on top of it.

Okay, so maybe, sometimes, she did listen to Allison when she mentioned him. But. Only to see if she was winning the game of life. Apparently she was. He was graduating a year late while she was on her way to travel the world. At the time it made her feel good, now it makes her feel a little bad for him.

She sees her hand reach out and squeeze his forearm, but she doesn't really register it until her cold fingers wrap around his warm skin. She pulls away quickly, like maybe, he wouldn't notice. "You'll get there," she tells him, tense, as she avoids his gaze, taking a gulp of her own drink.

The air's tight, pulse in a gallop for no reason. He smiles, shy. "Thanks."

Scott pulls her over to play (beat him in) Mario Kart, and an hour, three shots and five drinks later, she's making out with Stiles. It's warm and sloppy and drunk and even a little great, her hands under his shirt and his hands in her hair, until mid-kiss she vaguely registers Liam saying something along the lines of, "We get it! You won."

She's dumbstruck for about three seconds, looking from Stiles (he's smiling uncomfortably) to Liam and back to Stiles, when it dawns on her. She's about to very dramatically quote She's All That ("am I a bet, am I a fucking bet?!") until she figures punching him will do, too.

After that she stalks over to Liam (she'll forgive him, eventually, because he's still a child) and pulls the fifty from his grip (fifty, really. She was worth twice that, at least), flipping off everyone who's looking.

He's still groaning like the little bitch he is, blood dripping from his lip. Good, she thinks. The thing she comes up with to announce her departure is not her greatest but her blood-alcohol level has taken a serious beating today and it somehow convenes all her feelings, so it'll do.

"Die."

.

november, 2015

Next time she sees him, it's Thanksgiving. Deciding nothing and no one will ruin her time with her friends before she has to spend Christmas mediating between her mom and dad over peas and steak, and then fly back to Massachusetts. Not even Stiles, thus, she's taken upon ignoring him completely.

She busies herself with helping Scott prepare his mom's famous turkey tacos; fawning over Allison's small baby bump and then crying over how she'll have to witness the remaining part of her pregnancy through skype; judging Kira's new doctor boyfriend; actively rooting for the football team Stiles is not rooting for; secretly helping Isaac pick out a ring for his girlfriend Malia, who-Lydia guesses by the way she always wears tacky, obviously fake, neon-colored, usually wooden (?), jewelry-couldn't give two craps about size, color, clarity, cut or carat, but she will for her; fawning some more about the bean-sized infant that's going to be her unbiological niece while eating some leftover tacos.

It's like regular Thanksgiving, only now there's constant stream of star wars related trivia entering her ear canals at any given moment that she pointedly gets to ignore.

.

april, 2016

She would have said no, honestly. If she'd known, she'd have said no. But, after Allison bruises her hand from squeezing too hard and she sees an actual human being come from her best friend's vagina, she needs a breather. When she comes back, Stiles is holding the baby, rocking it gently and they've obviously already asked him when they blindside her.

She holds out her pinky for the baby to hold, and the tiny human does, the pressure soft but, strong, so strong. Scott, standing next to his best friend, lovingly look over his shoulder at his daughter, asks, "We, uh," he looks over at his wife, and Lydia inwardly panics, because this is it. "We wanted to ask you if you wanted to be her godmother."

So, technically, she knew this was coming. Logically, who else were they going to pick? She's known them forever, she's been Allison's friend for longer than that, she loves both of them, she already loves this little baby that's real and squeezing her finger so what's the problem? Sure, Stiles is the godfather but she's been dealing with him fine for a few years now, and they could alternate visits. She wouldn't actually have to do anything besides buy expensive gifts and be the coolest aunt ever. And in return, God-in return.

She looks over at the hospital bed, and Allison's smiling, looking perfect, even though, well . Human being out of vagina. She is totally the annoying kind of person who by tomorrow will already have picked up taking care of an infant while doing her yoga exercises and, like, rock-climbing.

"Yes," she answers, grinning down at her as the baby sucks on her finger. It's a stupid thing to do, but it makes her chest tighten and a warm feeling spread across the rest of her body. Confirming, louder, she adds, "Yes. Of course."

Allison's beam widens, and Lydia leans over to hug her, tight and thankful. The brunette talks against her hair as she announces, "Samantha Melissa McCall, meet your godmother."

"Stiles, you're supposed to give her to Lydia, now," Scott remarks, softly as he delicately runs his finger down the side of his daughter's face while his friend just groans, petulantly.

Allison narrows her eyes, sitting up a little, as she snaps, "Stiles, hand her the damn baby. Don't make me get up to come take her from you."

This actively seems to scare him, and before she knows it, she's sitting next to her best friend on a hospital bed, holding a tiny bundle of blankets and a little human, part Allison, part Scott, and she's completely in love.

"Samantha," she whispers, tapping her on the nose gently. "Hi. I'm Lydia."

She would have never said no, even if she knew what was going to happen. Honestly.

.

august, 2016

Like faith, like one big joke, like some sick alternative universe, she's in town when it happens. She decided on coming home to put the finishing touches on her thesis, keep her mom some company and get some much needed Samantha time.

She's pulling an all-nighter-because once she starts, she can never really stop until she's finished-when the phone rings.

It's strange, because when you answer, you don't know it's the call. The call that changes your life. You just pick up, and it's three a.m., so you expect it to be Kira—maybe she broke up with her boyfriend again and she needs a tub of ice cream and some company—or Isaac—maybe his motorcycle broke down again no matter how many times she tells him to get a vehicle that's less life-threatening—but you don't expect it to be about them. Anyone else. Just-not them.

She rushes to the hospital in the rain, almost wraps her own car around a tree on the way there, heartbeat loud in her throat, and when she sees him, head in hands in the waiting room in the stark, bright lights of the hospital, it drops down to her stomach and she can't breathe, practically crashing into his arms when he rises to his feet, barely holds herself together. They might not be friends, but he's the only person who really understands exactly how she feels right now.

He's shaking his head when she pulls back, but she can't, she can't hear this.

"How-have… where's Samantha?" She asks, blurts out, just to be safe, to buy herself a little bit more time. She doesn't want to know. It's selfish, but Stiles nods, understanding. She notes his cheeks are wet, that it was raining outside. There's still hope.

The corner of his mouth lifts up, a little, but his eyes. His eyes are empty. "Liam is actually pretty good with babies."

She swallows, hard, pulling on his jacket, giving him a look that's somewhere in between desperation and an utter feeling of loss and pain, so much pain. He clenches his jaw, unclenches it.

"The doctors, they, uh. They can't say much. Sc…" He closes his eyes, collecting himself. "Sc-he, he, uhm, was pronounced dead on the scene. They're operating on Allison, but, but it, it doesn't look too good."

Tears gather in her eyes, her chest tight. "It doesn't look too good," he repeats, slowly and quietly, more to himself than to her.

She kind of just stumbles into him, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, burying her head in the junction between his neck and shoulder, as he holds her up, telling herself she'll remember to be embarrassed about it all later.

Stiles sits them down on a waiting room bench after a few moments, rubbing her arm comfortingly. She doesn't remember actually sobbing, just that her throat hurts after a while, and that it becomes hard to breathe.

They sit there, like that, for hours, like a mess, and she hates it, because momentarily, it seems like maybe Allison is going to pull through, maybe she'll make it. She won't ever be the same, quite possibly she'll never walk again, but she'll be alive. God, she just wants her to be alive. She doesn't think she can do this, any of this, without her. Not without Scott, here, too.

But then, she doesn't, and Lydia can't believe this, and she's angry and she's yelling for Allison to wake up in a hospital hallway, because she's strong, she's always been so strong and this , this can't be it. She can't go like this. She can't leave her, and, and Samantha and, and-she feels two arms wrap around her, momentarily stopping her train of thought. Or that particular one anyway.

Scott, flung out of a car. Allison, impaled. That was not supposed to be the end of their story. He was about to take over an old animal practice downtown. She was on her way to become chief deputy sheriff. They just had a baby-they were a dad, and a mom, and good ones, too. Not like the shitty dad card she got dealt.

"It's not fair," she hears his voice, but it seems distant, like an echo. "I know it's not, and this is the worst thing that's, that's ever fucking happened to me, and I, I would trade my life for theirs, in a second, I would. I wish I could." It's not much of a reassurement, doesn't make her feel better or makes her understand why, but it makes her feel less lonely.

Even if it's just for a moment, because she doesn't see how she could ever be okay again. Not without Allison.

.

present

Liam is asleep on the couch when they get there, and she thinks Stiles called him, sometime that night, to tell him what happened, and she can't-she can't look at the boy who was basically Scott's little brother, can't comprehend how any else is feeling right now, because what, what she feels is the worst -so she goes upstairs into Samantha's room and stays there until he's gone.

A woman from child protective services calls her while she's unbuttoning the little one's pajamas to tell her that for an ' unforeseen amount of time ' Samantha is hers, and Stiles, because they're her legal guardians and ' it's a weekend '. She figures telling this absolute inconsiderate trollop that she's a bitch for making it seem like her friends' death is an inconvenience won't do much good for Samantha, so she bites down on her tongue until she tastes blood.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, tickling softly under her chin and making her squirm giddly. Lydia forces herself to smile, but a lone tears drips onto her light pink romper and all she really feels like doing is scream. She leans down to press a kiss to her forehead. She's barely three months old. "I'm so, so sorry. You don't deserve this."

They're the logical choice-they're not wrapped up in a time-consuming medical internship or living across the ocean in france or a freshman in college-and it shouldn't bother her, because today, she really needed him and he came through, but thinking of spending most of her time with him? For the next eighteen years?

Maybe it's petty, and stupid, and there's probably a really good psychological reason for her laser focus on this instead of-yeah. Something like survival of the fittest.

She doesn't know what she wants, she just doesn't want that. Doesn't want him.

Deep down she also knows that she could, could give up the baby. Liam wouldn't be the first single teen parent, Kira could and would probably quit her job, or Isaac could give up his life and move back, or Stiles-he could just do it by himself. She knows that she could. It just wouldn't feel right.

He's standing in the door opening when she turns around with Samantha in her arms, fully dressed in the cute, frilly dress she gave Allison right after her birth, and because she had no idea about baby sizes, it didn't fit. It does now. He looks awkward, still in his uniform, wrinkled, and he's fidgeting, trying to find a way to make it seem like he wasn't watching her.

"I'm, uh.." He stares at Samantha, chewing on her own fist, and it makes him smile a little. It still doesn't reach his eyes. "Can I please hold her? For just a second?"

"Yeah," she says absentmindedly, because he doesn't need her permission but it's nice of him, to ask, anyway. She looks like a mess, hair up in a messy bun, make-up smudged under her eyes and cheeks still wet from crying, and he looks worse.

He takes her carefully, rocking her even more careful until she giggles a little, reaching out for his face. She seems to recognize him, probably because he's over here all the time and she's just-she's just been her mom's visiting friend for all of her short life. He kisses the side of her head, before handing her back over to Lydia, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh.

"I, uh, I called the lawyer. He's coming over later and, I-" he gets distracted by Samantha grabbing onto a clump of her hair, voice trailing off and his eyes filling with tears. Lydia looks down, and the dimples in her cheeks, her brown eyes-it's like looking at Allison and Scott. Right now that feels a lot like watching a car crash in slow-motion. He clears his throat, wiping at his eyes with the base of his thumbs. "Around four, okay?"

She nods, eventually, watching as he runs the back of his hand over Samantha's cheek carefully. It creates a strange feeling in her stomach, like maybe she doesn't belong here.

.

It's a lot to take in. Samantha is theirs, for now, while she doesn't even understand yet, can't even comprehend that her parents aren't there anymore. They're supposed to start living in their house, their friends' house with all their belongings and memories and it's theirs. They just finished talking about their will, about their funerals, stuff that wasn't supposed to matter yet. That they made, thinking-thinking lies.

"What about other family members?" The lawyer-Aaron or Adrian, she thinks-suggests.

"What about them?" She snaps, because he's their lawyer, isn't he supposed to know? He winces a little as he starts flipping through his file quietly. "I mean, family. Like grandparents. They were fairly young parents themselves, surely there's-"

"Allison's dad died a few years back before Samantha was born. Hunting accident," she informs him, sarcastic smile on her face. The last thing she needs is to be reminded of how she watched her best friend cry through a computer screen and she couldn't do anything to fix it. "Her mom has Borderline with severe anger issues and lives three states over. She couldn't possibly take care of an infant."

Stiles look over at her for a second, dumbfounded almost, before he starts to talk. "Uhm, Scott's dad was never really around. Melissa, she, she was a nurse in the army. She died on duty during our freshman year in college."

"Thanks for reminding us though," she spits, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares him down. The lawyer clears his throat, uncomfortably, as he pulls on his tie a little.

"Miss Martin, I understand this is a very difficult time-" she huffs, because isn't that the understatement of the century, but he doesn't seem too fazed as he continues, "but you have to understand there's no shame in saying no. There's other options to explore, we could temporarily place her in foster care until we find her a permanent fam-"

"No," it's Stiles firm voice this time, and her head snaps to look at him, gaze focused on the lawyer. He's frowning, persistent. "We're her family."

She swallows hard, and it aches, it aches so bad but it's the truth. They're all she has now. She nods, slowly, jerkily at first, then, more firmly. "Yeah. He's-sorry. I'm not usually, I don't. I just never thought this could happen, and it's just a lot to take in."

She clenches her jaw, pauses as she digs her nails into her hands to distract herself from the gaping hole in her chest, her eyes burning with the need to cry.

"But. Stiles. He, uhh, he's right. We're all she has, now. We're.. She's ours. We're not backing out."

.