How I Fall Asleep Chapter 1: people in glass houses, a teen wolf fanfic

AN: And so this is it, folks. This is my massive epic Derek/Lydia angst fest. When I say epic, I mostly mean long. It was going to be a short oneshot and somehow morphed into a huge ongoing multi-chapter fic that has taken over my Teen Wolf world. I wasn't going to even start posting it until it was completely finished, but then things happened and someone persuaded me to start posting. (*coughkatheycough*) Which, admittedly, wasn't that hard. It was the shortest ''wear down'' in the history of ''wear downs.''

But here it is! It's depressing and sad, so I hope you enjoy angst! And slow updates. Because there will be slow updates. But what can I say? I love Stiles/Derek and Scott/Isaac as much as the next person, but this pairing needs more love.

Title: How I Fall Asleep
Summary: She is brilliant, she is beautiful, she is reckless when it comes to love, she is too brave, too blunt, too critical, and she is far too young to be this broken, this lost, this tired. OR: How Lydia Martin lost everything during her senior year of high school and subsequently fell down a dark and spiraling rabbit hole of depression, only to slowly gain back what she never knew she needed.
Pairing(s): Lydia/Jackson, Lydia/Derek (although it's a major slow burn - more of a pre-Lydia/Derek), onesided Lydia/OMC. With ''unrequited'' Stiles/Isaac and background Allison/Scott and Erica/Boyd. Also, heavy on the Stiles/Lydia friendship, Stiles/Derek BROTP, Erica/Lydia friendship, and awesome!Danny/Lydia BROTP. There might even be - at some point - mentions of Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa McCall. And lots of pack feels.
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating: T for safety. Might change to an M later on.
Timeline: A few years in the future. The teens are in their senior year, so they're about 17/18. Derek is...mid twenties. I'd say 25/26.
Spoilers: Blanket spoilers for all aired episodes AND possibly some minor spoilers for what we know about season three.
Warnings: Major character death, depictions of violence, gore (some graphic, some not), pregnancy, depression, suicidal thoughts, torture, violence against pregnant women, miscarriage, substance abuse (alcohol abuse), vague mentions of attempted non-con, bodily fluids, possible sexual situations, domestic abuse, child abuse, and basically just massive angst and dark!fic. I think that's it for now - and wow that's a lot of warnings and Bad Things - but if you see anything else throughout the course of this story that needs to be warned for just let me know and I'll add it to the list.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you recognize, or the poems that make appearances in this fic.

How I Fall Asleep

Written by Becks Rylynn

Chapter One

''Life will hit you hard in the face,

wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach.

But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to

remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.''

- sarah kay; b

/i/

people in glass houses

Lydia Martin is many things.

She is brilliant, she is beautiful, she is reckless when it comes to love, she is too brave, too blunt, too critical, and she is far too young to be this broken, this lost, this tired. She should not have to feel this kind of exhaustion. The kind that goes so far past tired, the kind that slithers into every part of your body and makes you feel weak, like your legs can't support you and your head's too heavy. The world is too much, this exhaustion tells you. It is all too much. And nobody should ever have to feel that.

Her great aunt Camilla once told her, in her sweet, crackling voice, beauty shining in her wise and worldly blue-gray eyes - the same eyes Lydia used to look into and think I want this one day, this strength and intelligence. I want it all - that there is only one secret to life: We take what we're given, my darling, and we make our best with it. There is no other option. It was a pearl of wisdom that Lydia kept in her back pocket, folded away like a secret weapon, only bringing it out when the walls crumbled around her, when she needed strength and the memory of Aunt Camilla to help her breathe. She lived by that advice and saw nothing else.

There is no other option.

It was one of those things she never forgot. Like never frown, someone could be falling in love with your smile or I am Lydia Martin and I am going to be somebody one day, somebody that means something, somebody that means everything. It was the light she looked to when Peter Hale was in her head, when she was thrust into the world of the supernatural because Jackson was a giant lizard (she wasn't even surprised, really), when Derek killed Peter (again) for her on Halloween night, leaping in between his uncle and Little Red Riding Hood with her tangled red hair and her ripped clothing and tearing him apart because Peter tried to make Lydia his forever (...again), or when she realized that being a part of the Hale pack was unconventional and strange but also the best thing that had happened to her in years.

It was her own personal honor code.

But, God, it was so much easier to follow back when her biggest problem was her fear of being alone. We take what we're given, and we make our best with it. There is no other option. Yes. It's such a simple notion in theory. The power of positivity, of a smile, of seeing the beauty in everything.

Except Aunt Camilla never told her how to make the best out of something like this.

At the funeral, she sits beside Danny and lets him hold her hand so tightly it hurts. She studies him when he's not looking, watching the clenched jaw, the tears in his eyes, the dark circles. Poor, sweet, wonderfully clueless and safe Danny. This is his loss too, she remembers, and gives his hand a squeeze. The rest of the pack sits in the back of the church, grim faced and tired. Allison is crying openly, weeping into a Kleenex and holding on tightly to Scott and his sad puppy dog eyes. Erica is sitting in between Boyd and Stiles, holding on to both of their hands, all three of them looking awkwardly devastated.

Derek and Isaac aren't there at all.

Lydia and Danny sit behind Jackson's family and they all make a little clump of people left behind.

In the church, people talk about Jackson as if they really knew him. They drone on and on about the boy he was and the man he never got the chance to be (that's not true, she wants to scream. You have no idea what he went through. You have no idea what he's done for the safety of this town. He was just as much a man as any of you). Lydia sits in her seat, squirming, itching to tell them everything else about him; all the things they'll never know, but should know. She doesn't speak, even though she has so much to say.

Jackson Whittemore was a fucking hero, she would say. Did any of you know that? No, of course you don't. You people don't know anything about who he really was. He was part of the Hale pack and he saved your clueless asses more times in the past year than you can count. He was my everything, did you know that? I'll bet you didn't. Well, he was. He was everything. He was my religion, my faith, my beginning and my end. He was going to marry me, you know. He died because of me, you know. I'm sorry. Did I say that? I shouldn't have said that.

She sits still and remembers there is no other option. She holds herself together with invisible duct tape because she has to. For Danny. It's what Jackson would have wanted. The only time she cries is when Danny speaks about Jackson, about how he was the best friend anyone could ever ask for, about how he loved him, about how they were going to take over the world together, and even then, it's just a trickle of soundless tears. She keeps her eyes closed through most of it and focuses on breathing through the crawling nausea, trying to forget the feel of blood and the sound of gunshots.

Somehow, she makes it through the day.

When she opens her eyes again, she is standing outside in the bitterly cold January air, with Allison on one side and Danny on the other, and Jackson is in the ground.

Her legs feel like jelly and her fingertips are numb, but she tramples across the grass anyway, nearly toppling over in her heels. She doesn't want to be doing this. It's going to cut her open just talking to them. But this is something she has to do. This is her punishment for killing their son. She approaches them quickly, but with dread and unease, heart pounding away noisily.

''Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore?'' She grimaces at the sound of her hoarse voice, pathetic even to her own ears.

They turn around to face her, broken eyes and devastation, and she recoils in surprise, almost tumbling to the ground. They're looking at her like she's the same as them. ''Oh, Lydia. Honey.'' Mrs. Whittemore pulls her in for a tight hug before any protests can be made and Lydia sinks into it against her will. There has always been something about Jackson's mother, something warm and soft and decidedly maternal; something that Lydia has never fully gotten to experience in her life.

A cry bubbles in her throat, a mournful wail, but she stubbornly pushes it back down, deciding that she doesn't deserve to cry. She does not deserve this comfort and warmth. She draws away from Mrs. Whittemore and can't look either of them in the eye. They don't seem to notice.

''How are you, dear?'' Mrs. Whittemore asks, voice trembling. ''You look so tired,'' she adds, reaching out to cup Lydia's face.

''I...I...'' She can't remember what she was going to say. ''I'm sorry,'' she gasps out, body folding into itself. She has to fight to keep herself from doubling over in pain. ''I'm so sorry.''

''Oh no,'' Mrs. Whittemore shakes her head adamantly and takes Lydia's hands, while Mr. Whittemore's hand rests like an anchor on her back. ''This wasn't your fault, sweetie. You can't think like that.''

''It was bad luck,'' Mr. Whittemore says firmly. ''That's all. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.''

Mrs. Whittemore is shaking now, dropping Lydia's hands and holding a tissue to her mouth. Her entire body is quivering with all of the sobs and the screams she's keeping in. ''We have to live with that,'' she croaks out, and it doesn't sound like she's talking to Lydia anymore.

Lydia opens her mouth to protest, to tell them that it was her fault, that their son died because of her, because she distracted him, because he wanted to protect her, and she needs them to hate her for what she did, for killing their boy. Nothing comes out.

''You were good to him,'' Mr. Whittemore says with a sad smile, and it reminds her how she still sometimes can't believe that Jackson was adopted, because he used to have that same sad smile. ''Good for him. I'm glad... I'm glad he had you. He deserved a good girl like you.''

Her breath catches in her throat and she looks anywhere but him, glancing around desperately for something to hold onto. ''I loved him,'' she says at last, because she can't think of anything else to say.

Mr. Whittemore nods brusquely. ''He loved you, too, Lydia. Even if he didn't say it.''

She looks up sharply and forces herself to lock eyes with him, ignoring the way the guilt pierces into her like a needle, like a knife. ''He loved you, too,'' she tells him strongly, loudly, as if she is trying to drill it right into them. She just needs them to know. Jackson was their son and though he stopped saying those three words a long time ago, he loved them both so much. She's not sure if it's the wrong thing to say or the right thing, but it makes Mr. Whittemore's eyes fill with tears and Mrs. Whittemore completely dissolves, breaking under the weight of it all and physically crumpling until her husband has to hold her up. Lydia remains frozen in place, even as another family member comes to lead the hysterical grieving mother away, leaving her standing alone with Mr. Whittemore.

She can't bring herself to walk away.

Out of nowhere, he makes a sudden move towards her and she flinches, despite her efforts not to, because aside from Jackson, Stiles and, for reasons she can't understand, Derek, she hasn't been great with physical touches from other males since Peter. Mr. Whittemore brings both of his warm hands to her cold cheeks and leans in to kiss her forehead, like a father would. ''Thank you, Lydia,'' he murmurs against her skin. Despite all of her attempts to stop the landslide and stall the waterworks, she is crying when he pulls away. ''You get some rest now,'' he orders her, not unkindly. His hand rests on her shoulder briefly, and he offers her one last watery smile, and then he's gone.

She still can't bring herself to move. Warm tears roll down her freezing cold pale cheeks and her breath hangs in the air as she pants, trying desperately to regain a steady breathing pattern. Her eyes seek out something familiar, something safe, but she can't find it. She looks to Jackson, but there is only a pile of dirt where he should be, and she looks to the pack, but they're all whispering to each other, undoubtedly about her. Her eyes dart around wildly, her breathing unsteady and panicked, and she is seconds away from crying out for Stiles because he's been through panic attacks before and he would know what to do, but then she sees him.

He's standing in the trees at the edge of the cemetery, an unreadable expression on his face, and he's looking right at her. She startles, her breathing still jagged and strained. ''Derek?'' She drifts towards him, something invisible pulling her towards him. She hasn't seen him since the day after Jackson died and she has so many things to ask him, to scream at him for. She takes determined steps, fast and stumbling, pushing through the throngs of mourners. But then stupid fucking Greenberg gets in her way, cuts right in front of her, and when she shoves him roughly out of the way (because it's Greenberg), Derek is gone.

''This is why nobody likes you, Greenberg,'' Lydia snaps.

/ii/

cut out all the ropes and let me fall

It's raining.

It's raining, and there is blood on your hands from the gaping hole in his gut and there is blood bubbling out of his mouth, choking him, drowning him, taking him away from you and everything you planned together. There is so much blood. ''Jackson,'' his name falls from your lips in a sob and your trembling hands find his face. ''Oh my god.'' It comes out as a shrill sounding moan. ''Oh my god. Jackson,'' you say again, like a prayer.

''L-Lydia,'' he gasps. ''Baby,'' and there he is, still trying to smile for you, comfort you by grasping your arm, even as he's lying there with his guts spilling out onto the forest floor. ''W-We...We've been h-here bef-before,'' he gurgles out weakly, a sick joke made around the blood in his mouth. ''Haven't we? ...Gotta stop... Gotta stop meeting like this.''

There is howling in the distance and snarling nearby. They won't get here in time, you know this. ''You're going to be fine,'' you say, a wish, a lie. ''Okay? You're going to be fine. Just stay with me, baby. Jackson!'' Your fingers dig into his cheeks. ''Fucking stay with me,'' you hiss at him. ''You promised to take me to Athens this summer, you asshole. Remember? It was going to be our last hurrah before...'' Before everything changes. ''You have to stay with me.''

He laughs. He actually laughs.

''Jackson,'' you beg. ''Please.''

His hand slips from your arm and grasps at your shirt, and he twists it in his quickly weakening grip. He splays his hand out across your stomach and tries to speak. ''I...I...'' He meets your eyes and you can see a million things he's not saying in his bright eyes. ''I...''

You nod and you keep nodding. ''I know.'' You lean down to kiss his bloodied lips and you remember that one poem in that book of Allison's, the one that went ''sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine'' and how you had scoffed and said the poet was more overdramatic than you are, but you get it now. You understand the words and what they mean and you wish you didn't. ''I know you do,'' you whisper. ''I love you, too. I love you so much. Please. ...Please hang on,'' you weep. ''Please don't do this.''

He tries to say something else, he tries so hard, and he manages to get your name out, but he chokes on the rest of it. The hand on your stomach, smearing blood on your shirt, falls away and his eyes flutter shut. ''No!'' You let out a wail that startles even the way past crazy, rabid Alpha trying to beat Isaac to death. ''Jackson!'' You practically collapse against him, pressing yourself closer and closer to him and burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingernails digging into his shoulders. ''Jackson...''

From the shadows, there comes a deafening roar that you've grown used to over the past year and when you look up at the Alpha stalking towards you, there is a sudden blur of red eyes and leather and other unmistakably Derek Hale-like things and he is tackling the Alpha away from you.

On the ground, several feet away, Gerard Argent lets out a groan as he begins to drift back into consciousness, pulled back into the land of the living by the feel of the rain pelting his face. You look at Jackson, lifeless and torn, and you look at Isaac, bloody and crumpled on the ground. You look at Gerard, Allison's grandfather, the man who used Jackson as a weapon during his kanima days and the man who just made Jackson his human shield against a pissed off Alpha.

Amidst the sounds of Derek tearing the Alpha apart, the rain falling heavily, and the rest of the pack crunching on leaves, you crawl towards Gerard Argent.

Lydia wakes up crying and gasping in her lonely bed in her lonely house with the two parents who don't care. She tastes blood in her mouth, feels blood on her hands and cold rain on her skin, and hears Jackson choking on her name. She leans over the side of the bed and vomits into the trashcan.

She pulls up to the graveyard at midnight, wearing one of Jackson's shirts and shorts that are too short to be worn in January, with her feet stuffed into Ugg boots and her father's car keys clutched in her hand. She is Lydia Martin. She is the resident crazy girl, the one people still gossip about, the girl who was mauled, spent two days lost and naked in the woods, and freaked out in class. She figures what's another thing to add to the list. People have already made up their minds about her.

She barely even feels the winter air against her bare legs when she climbs out of the car, vision blurred by the tears in her eyes. She starts her hike through bone yard slowly, staggering slightly, but then she breaks into a run, sprinting through the frozen blades of grass until she gets to that fresh mound of dirt. ''Jackson,'' she pleads with him brokenly. ''Oh, god.'' Cries of panic tumble out, noisy and messy, and she falls to the ground on her hands and knees on the cold ground.

She almost feels a little upset with herself. Here she is, Lydia 'I don't need you' Martin, the same girl who loathes society for making girls think they need a man, and she's having a panic attack because of a boy. ...A dead boy. Her boy. The boy she doesn't remember how to live without. She lurches forwards and curls her fingers into the dirt like she's curling her fingers into him. ''Jackson,'' she whispers. ''You stupid idiot,'' she hisses. ''How could you let yourself get distracted like that? How could you let that geriatric neanderthal use you as a shield? You were supposed to be stronger than that.'' She sobs miserably, staring at the dirt and the flowers. There is no marker yet, no gravestone with his name on it.

There's just dirt.

So much dirt.

''I'm sorry,'' she blubbers. ''I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault. It was mine, I know. It was my fault. Jackson,'' her voice breaks. ''Come back.'' It is a hopeless plea, she knows this, but it still manages to ignite a painful spark of hope inside her; like she believes if she screams loud enough, wishes hard enough, wants it - needs it enough, he'll claw his way out of the grave and come back to her. ''You have to come back,'' she screeches. ''We need you! And you promised, you useless bastard! You promised you wouldn't leave me!'' She sinks further, falling to pieces in the dirt and sobbing until she can't breathe. It's pathetic. She is pathetic. She is a mess, sitting here in the dirt ugly crying for all the world to see. It is a disgrace. Her father would tell her so. He would tell her she's embarrassing herself. He would tell her to act like a Martin, goddamn it.

''Jackson,'' she breathes out, crawling closer. ''Do you know? Do you know what I did to him? I did it for you.''

The grass crunches.

An irrational burst of frustration floods through her at the interruption and she lifts her eyes. Her mouths dries up. Lydia stares at the pair of boots in front of her and then slowly rakes her eyes upwards, up the jeans and the leather jacket, right up to the furious green eyes. She sits back in the grass and waits for him to yell at her about the dangers of Beacon Hills after dark. In her head, she is already preparing a speech, which mostly consists of fuck off, Derek. I'm grieving.

But he doesn't yell. And he doesn't yell. And he still doesn't yell.

''Why did you do it?'' She means for her voice to come out sounding hard and angry, but it comes out like a keening whine, something like a whimper. ''Why did you tell him to go after Gerard? Why him, Derek? Why my Jackson?''

Instantly, his eyes seem to soften slightly, something akin to guilt flashing across his face. He sighs heavily. Without a word, he moves around the grave, over to her, and then he slips off his jacket and drapes it around her trembling shoulders. She swallows. With another sigh, this one more of an inconvenienced huff, he crouches down to gather her scattered belongings, slipping her cell phone into one of the pockets on his jacket and clutching the car keys.

''What are you doing?'' She whispers, pulling his jacket tighter around her body.

''I'm taking you home,'' he snaps impatiently, before his large hand is closing around her wrist and he's yanking her to her feet.

''No!'' She stubbornly digs her heels into the ground and tries to wrench free of his grasp, but he won't let her. ''No, please! I can't leave Jackson!''

''Lydia,'' Derek whips around to glare down at her. There is something strange and powerful hidden behind the frustration and annoyance and it makes her gasp. ''It's the middle of the night, it's January, and you're not wearing any pants. I am taking. You. Home.''

She peers up at him with her big round glistening eyes. ''I don't want him to be alone.''

His jaw clenches. ''Jackson is dead,'' he grinds out harshly. ''Are you trying to join him?''

Rage swells in her gut and she squares her shoulders, glaring up at him defiantly, drawing herself up to her full height. That lasts about three seconds before her facade cracks right down the middle and she is left a quivering mess.

Derek holds his ground for a minute longer and then he too cracks, allowing a small sliver of an emotion she can't quite put her finger on to show in his eyes. ''Lydia,'' he says her name again, softer this time, almost gently, which is monumental because Derek doesn't generally do gentle. ''You need to start taking better care of yourself.''

She snorts and wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of Jackson's shirt. ''Why?''

''You know exactly why.''

She raises her head, eyes widening.

He stares right back.

She winds her arms around her middle, because she feels like she's falling apart, pieces of her scattering everywhere, into the dirt, where Jackson is, and she desperately tries to keep herself glued together. She throws one last look over her shoulder and then she closes her eyes and exhales. ''...Take me home.''

Derek doesn't have a whole lot of patience for her usually. That wouldn't sound strange, if you know Derek Hale. Or rather, if you think you know him. Most people think that he has no patience, what with all the growling and the scowls. That's really just what he lets most people believe. Contrary to popular belief, Derek actually has a stunning amount of patience. He kind of has to. His pack is a bunch of teenagers. And one of them is Stiles. He has patience. It's just all wrapped up in attitude and frowns and angst. Lydia Martin, though, (and maybe Stiles) is a special case.

She is too jittery, too perky, too much of a smart ass know-it-all, too much of a bitch. Sure, he saves her life when he has to, because whether he likes it or not, she's part of the pack, and he is eternally annoyed when she saves his life, but normally, he hardly even bothers to look at her. This is just Derek. It's nothing personal. Lydia knows this. She's gotten used to it. He's the Alpha. She's the girl who knows everything (because let's face it: she does) and who flits around with Stiles, helping the rest of the werewolves to not flunk out of high school and making sure that they eat properly because they're not only growing teenagers but growing fucking werewolves. She and Stiles are the Pack Moms. It's something she actually sort of likes, even though she had honestly thought she had no maternal bone in her body. It shouldn't surprise her. She has always loved bossing people around.

She and Derek...

They're not friends. They just are.

But tonight, when he drives her home, he keeps looking at her like he wants to say something, like he's worried about her, like he cares. It's unnerving. Although he does keep glancing at her bare legs and shaking his head with this deeply annoyed look on his face. It's his how is it possible for one person to be surrounded by this many idiots look. But he also cranks the heat up full blast and lets her keep his jacket. He pulls her father's car into the driveway, hands her the keys and orders her to go straight inside, take a hot shower and then get straight under the blankets. If it were a better day, she would scowl and tell him that she isn't one of his betas and he can't tell her what to do because she does what she goddamn wants to. Tonight, however, she is too cold and too tired to argue.

She slips back into her big house where her parents haven't even realized she was gone and puts her father's car keys back where they belong. Prada is the only one who even missed her, yipping quietly and jumping at her. She takes an extra hot, extra long shower and puts on something that isn't full of graveyard dirt.

Derek's jacket is lying haphazardly on her bed.

She glides over to her window to check the lock before she crawls back into bed, and her eyes catch sight of a black Camaro across the road, parked resolutely on the side of the road. She sighs and her hands fall away.

She leaves the window unlocked. Just in case.

His jacket stays on the bed, like a safety blanket.

/iii/

so tell me when you hear my heart stop

Her father makes her go back to school a mere three days after the funeral because he ''won't have a slacker for a daughter.'' ...Yeah. Her father is kind of an asshole. She really wishes her parents hadn't reconciled. Most girls her age would probably be beyond relieved if their parents scrapped their divorce and got back together, complete with lots of loud, unfortunate sex. She is not most girls. She has never been most girls. She thinks that she and her mother were better off.

Honestly, Lydia doesn't care about school. That's such a horrid thing to say for a girl like her. She used to love school. Not only did it mean time away from her parents, but she genuinely liked school. And this is her senior year. She should be working extra hard, graduating with honors, campaigning for prom queen, prepping for university. A few months ago, she was determined to make this the best year ever.

Now, she can honestly say that she doesn't give a shit anymore. What's it matter? She's going to be stuck in this town for the rest of her life anyway.

Lydia does everything in her power to get out of going to school. All she wants to do is curl up in bed and stay there, with Jackson's clothes and his house key and the pictures of them she has all over her room. She doesn't want to have to walk into that school without him, or sit through all the classes they had together and stare at the empty spot where he should be, or sit at their lunch table without his arm draped around her shoulders. She doesn't want the pity or the stares, the inevitable whispering behind her back or the fake sympathy. Just the thought of school makes her stomach churn. But her father remains resolute and unshakable. She will be going to school and she will be working hard and she will be going to Yale (even though he knows it's always been her dream to go to Harvard and what is this, Gilmore Girls?)

Unfeeling bastard.

She walks into school with Allison's fingers threaded through hers, flanked by Scott and Stiles, and everyone stops when she walks through the doors. Well, that's nice. Talk about Deja Vu. Within seconds, trickles of people are weaving their way to her and telling her how sorry they are, that Jackson was such a great guy, and are you okay? Do you need anything? It makes her sick. Not just because some of the girls have the absolute tackiest taste in perfume, but because every word she hears, every condolence, every I'm sorry is agonizingly fake. It's overwhelming and no matter how many glares Allison and Scott send out through the crowds, people just keep coming, treating her like she's a poor pitiable widow.

Seconds before she loses her composure, Boyd and Erica saunter through the crowd and Boyd lazily pulls the fire arm.

...And that's all before first period.

She makes it through the morning, because she's got Allison trading notes with her and Scott keeping one bleeding heart eye trained on her, and she even makes it through lunch because she's got Stiles talking incessantly about The Avengers, which is more comforting than anything else in the world could be, she thinks, and Erica and Boyd keep everyone else at bay by scowling at them. Isaac still hasn't been back to school since the Alpha nearly killed him.

Then comes that one class that she had been dreading all day long. The one without Allison, without Stiles, without stoic but oddly comforting werewolves, and with one achingly empty seat right beside her. To her credit, she doesn't skip the class like she should, like everybody thinks she's going to. She goes, she sits down in that seat, with Jackson's empty chair next to hers, and she does her best to keep her head held high and ignore all of the eyes on her.

She makes it precisely ten minutes into the class before she has to dash out of the classroom to go throw up.

Erica is lounging against the counter, scrutinizing her nails, when Lydia exits the stall looking green and shaky. Because she has a tendency to get a bit bitchy when she's not at her best, Lydia has to physically swallow down a sneer and a rude comment about Erica's poor fashion taste being eerily reminiscent of Christina Aguilera's 'Dirrty' days. She sticks her nose up, sucks in a gulp of air, and pushes her hair out of her face, moving confidently over to the sink, like everything's a-okay. She is perfectly aware that she and Erica have a volatile frenemy relationship and being all fucked up isn't going to change that, but she doesn't particularly want to deal with Erica's condescending attitude right now.

The blonde stares at Lydia through her eyelashes, towering over petite five foot three Lydia in her red come-fuck-me (entirely inappropriate for school) heels. She doesn't say anything, but Lydia can feel Erica's eyes on her, watching intently as Lydia quickly rinses out her mouth and grabs a paper towel. Erica pushes herself up onto the counter, throws one bare leg over the other (that mini skirt is another thing that is way too inappropriate for school - even Lydia knows that, and she's Queen of the Mini Skirts) and pulls out a nail file.

Lydia smirks, a quip about claws sharp on her tongue.

''You should try peppermint tea,'' Erica says, without looking up, cutting the other girl off before she has a chance to speak.

Lydia freezes. ''What?''

''Peppermint tea,'' Erica repeats slowly, as if talking to a small child. She frowns down at one of her nails. ''It helps with the nausea. My aunt swore by it when she was - ''

''I don't know what you're talking about,'' Lydia huffs.

Erica rolls her eyes and looks down at Lydia with her nose scrunched up. ''Oh, cut the bullshit, Princess. Don't try to con a werewolf. You reek of it.''

''You shouldn't sniff people without their consent. It's rude.'' Even as she says it, Lydia is sagging against the wall and feels like crying. She blinks and has to fold her arms to keep herself from raking a hand through her hair and ruining all that work she did to make herself look at least somewhat presentable, despite the paleness and the permanently bloodshot eyes. ''Great. Does that mean the rest of you fluffers know?''

''Well, Derek knows,'' Erica says with a shrug. ''But he's Derek and he's a giant six foot tall creeper, so he probably knew before you did.''

''And Scott, Isaac and Boyd?''

Erica stares down at her for a minute, lips pinched, and then she hops off the counter and slips her nail file away. ''They know you smell different,'' she says plainly. ''They don't know why.''

Lydia nods and lets out a breath. She licks her lips slowly and leans back against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut and willing her life to be not fucked up and ruined. God, when did her life become a CW soap opera? This is so not how she imagined her senior year going. She can still feel Erica's searching eyes on her. Cautiously, she opened one eye and glances up at Erica. She pushes off the wall. ''Erica - ''

''I won't tell anyone,'' the not-as-intimidating-as-usual She Wolf assures her quietly. ''This is your secret, Lydia. Your life. Your body. Jesus,'' she flicks her long blond hair over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose in offense. ''Even I'm not that much of a bitch.''

Lydia wrangles up a weak smile, and thinks it's a miracle that she did. ''Thanks.''

Erica shrugs. ''Whatever.'' She starts to sashay over to the door, only to stop in the doorway and throw a small smile over her shoulder. ''Remember,'' she says. ''Peppermint tea.''

Lydia nods. ''Peppermint tea,'' she promises.

Huh.

Did she really just have an actual conversation with Erica Reyes?

Apparently, even after werewolves and other assorted things that make their life Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, life can still surprise her.

/iv/

come on, come out, come here, come here

She skips out of school as soon as the nausea passes, sending a quick text to Allison, feigning a headache, and she makes big plans to go home, curl up in bed with Prada and her collection of Ryan Gosling movies, because all she wants to do lately is sleep. Instead, she finds herself taking her mother's car straight to the Hale house.

For the past six months, Derek and the rest of the pack have been working on rebuilding the huge massive mountain of a house and there is still an insane amount of work to be done. This is unsurprising considering it was a burnt out shell with the top floor all but caved in, but she gets the feeling that Derek is starting to wish he had just knocked the whole damn thing down and started fresh.

She approaches the house quietly, parking her mother's car at the end of the gravel driveway and hiking the rest of the way there. She is clutching Derek's jacket in her hands tightly, to keep them from shaking. Her stealth skills are apparently not up to par, because Derek is waiting for her on the dilapidated porch, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He is dirty and sweaty - despite the fact that it's January - and tired looking and why does she always have to stumble across him when he looks like that? Within seconds of that inane thought, she feels a crushing tidal wave of that ever present guilt and grief and sorrow, so painful that it makes her entire body clench. She clenches her teeth to keep her screams in.

''Lydia,'' he says, and drops the rag.

She hates how he makes her name sound like a punishment. She doesn't even have a witty remark to callously throw back at him. She's too tired. ''I brought your jacket back,'' she says, thrusting the coat at him.

He takes it, but he also takes her hand and practically lifts her off the ground - ignoring her ''eep'' of surprise - and helps her over rotted wood and onto the porch. She tries not to think about how it was going to be Jackson's job to replace the front steps.

''Shouldn't you be in school?'' He asks her, turning away from her. ''Education is important, Lydia,'' and there he goes again, saying her name, saying her name like it's a different word altogether; she just hasn't quite worked out if that word is good or bad yet.

She chuckles dryly and leans back against a rotting pillar. The fabric of her pea coat catches on splinters and snags the material. She doesn't even jerk back with a shriek about how expensive it was. ''Says the guy who flat out refuses to get his GED.'' Even though he is clearly much more intelligent than he lets on.

''Education is important to you,'' he amends.

She feels a painful wave of bitterness wash over her. ''There were a lot of things that were important to me.''

His jaw tightens. He won't look her in the eye. ''You shouldn't be here,'' he says eventually.

''Where should I be?'' She wants to know - she desperately wants to know.

He doesn't give her the answers she's looking for. ''Not here. Breathing in all of the dust and mold isn't good for - ''

The unstable wood creaks and groans under the weight of a body and when Lydia turns her head, Isaac is looming in the doorway, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, head down. His body language is hesitant and closed off. She can see the outlines of fading bruises on his face. She stills. She hasn't properly seen Isaac since that night, when he was nearly beaten to death by an Alpha, when the pack nearly lost two of it's members. She saw him briefly the day after, but she was practically catatonic and he was out of commission, nearly unrecognizable, laid up in bed with Stiles and Derek hovering over him. Both of her hands fly to her mouth when she sees him and tears sting painfully at her eyes.

Wounds inflicted by an Alpha (especially a crazed, rabid one) do not heal as fast as other wounds. Isaac was beaten within an inch of his life, into a bloody, messy pile of flesh and bones. He still walks with a limp, there are still cuts and bruises littering his skin, and when he raises his head ever so slightly and she sees the dark bags under his eyes, she knows it's not just the physical wounds that will take some time to heal.

''Hey, Lydia,'' he greets shyly.

She drops her hands and rushes at him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a hug because...well, because it's Isaac and he's a giant five year old. He is totally making up for his shitty pre-bite life by being Alpha Dad's favourite and having everyone else adore him because again: literally a puppy. Like, seriously.

He seem reluctant to hug her back, shuffling from foot to foot awkwardly, and then he cautiously wraps his arms around her and winds up leaning into the embrace like she's all he's got, nuzzling his face into her hair. She runs her fingers through his curls briefly and lets a few tears slip out of her eyes, reminded, again, just how massively unfair that night was for everyone. ''Lydia,'' he squeaks out, voice tight and small. ''I'm so sorry. I should have - ''

She pulls away from the embrace and cups his face, thumb gently grazing a yellowing bruise under his eye. ''Isaac,'' she says in her best Stiles-trying-to-get-the-pack-to-eat-healthier voice. ''I am really glad you're okay.''

He smiles.

It's a start.

She wipes the tears away and loops her arm through his, turning her eyes back over to Derek, voice sharper than before. ''Hale,'' she gripes. ''Tell me you're feeding him something other than whatever you can grab at the service station.''

Derek actually looks taken aback by that, opening his mouth only to shut it again, flabbergasted. ''I am not his parent,'' he manages to sputter out, lacking the venom she's sure he's going for.

She puckers her lips and deadpans, ''Aren't you, though?''

''Stiles brings me food,'' Isaac says, before Derek has the chance to growl. ''And Scott still drops by once a week with a casserole from his mom. This week it was lasagna and Derek let me have the edge pieces. The edge pieces are the best.''

Derek shakes his head and grumbles, looking up at the sky through the hole in the roof. ''You are a toddler,'' he says.

Lydia nods, satisfied, but allows herself to fall deeper into the Pack Mom mentality, grateful for something to distract her from the mind numbing grief and agonizing pain. ''And your homework?''

''Boyd brings it every day.''

She flicks accusing eyes to Derek. ''Math and history,'' she says pointedly. ''I haven't been around to play tutor.''

Derek's shoulders are slumped but tense and his facial expression is miserable, like he's caught somewhere between annoyance and defeat, inches and seconds away from resigning himself to the fact that his life basically consists of playing house. Really, though, it's about time he gets over himself and accepts that this is his life. It's his own fault for running around biting awkward and messed up teenagers left and right. There is a brief moment where all she wants to do is scoff, roll her eyes and flip her hair, like she would have done a month ago when everything was perfect. ''I've got it covered,'' he says stiffly. For someone who appears to have no paternal instinct whatsoever, he sure does look offended at the implication that his parenting skills are not up to code.

''Well,'' she sniffs. ''Excuse me for being concerned, but I have to be. It's my job as the Pack Mom,'' she stresses.

That same unidentifiable something that she saw in the graveyard passes through his eyes again and he momentarily looks like he's been gutted by a poison arrow, or maybe like he's going to puke, but he ducks his head before she can attempt to decipher it. ''Stop fucking calling yourself that,'' he huffs out. ''It's bad enough that Stiles calls himself that.''

Isaac smirks. ''Stiles only calls himself that because he knows you hate it.''

Derek rolls his eyes again and seems to decide, right then and there, that he has better things to do with his time. Grasping his jacket loosely, he flings it over one shoulder and saunters past them, brushing against Isaac's shoulder in that curiously deliberate way of his. ''Isaac,'' he calls out over his shoulder, without looking back at them. ''Make sure she gets home safely.''

And then he's gone, melting back into the shadows of the burnt up house that he refuses to give up on.

She winds up back down the driveway, away from the house and away from Derek, leaning against the rear bumper of her car with Isaac standing beside her. The sky above them is gray and there is a chill in the air, a biting wintery cold. He is kicking rocks because he doesn't know what to say. She keeps her arm looped through his and threads her fingers through his. She tries to tell herself that it's for him, that it's to comfort him, because he's everyone's favourite puppy, but really, it's for her.

They have been standing in silence for the past five minutes when he turns to her suddenly and says, completely out of the blue, ''You know, I think you would have liked my brother.'' And it's a big deal. She recognizes that, because he never talks about his brother.

Her lips part in surprise and her eyes widen, but when she looks at him, she manages to pull a thin sad smile over her lips. ''Yeah?''

He nods slowly. ''He was better at this. Comforting. Solace. He wasn't like me, he didn't talk like Stiles, didn't run himself ragged trying to fix things that couldn't be fixed like Scott, didn't have that pity in his eyes like Allison. He... He was just there. You know? He had this silent way of looking at you - just looking - and making you feel safe. If you were hurt or upset, he would just sit with you quietly, and he wouldn't say much, because he wasn't much for talking, but he would be there. In case.'' He pauses, looking thoughtful, and then his eyes widen and he blinks in surprise, as if he has just had some major epiphany and now knows the secrets of the universe. ''Actually,'' he says. ''He was kind of like Derek. ...He was a lot like Derek.''

Which, in hindsight, is a revelation that explains so much.

Isaac gives her a tiny half smile. ''He would be better at this,'' he says again.

Lydia sucks in a breath and looks down at the ground. There is gravel in her mouth, thick in her throat and she can't breathe around it. She squeezes her eyes shut and waits for it to pass, inhaling deeply when the gravel lets her. She leans in to rest her chin on his shoulder and meets his eyes when he turns his head to look at her. ''Don't sell yourself short, Lahey,'' she says. ''I think you're doing better than you realize.''

His lips flicker into the shadow of a smile. It fades almost instantly and he looks away, kicking at rocks and licking his lips. ''Lydia,'' he says, after a moment of silence. ''You smell different.''

She blinks. ''...Thanks?''

He purses his lips and tilts his head to the sky. ''It's not a bad kind of smell,'' he says. ''I don't think. It's not like a sickness kind of smell. It's more like a... I don't know how to describe it. Like there's more of you. Derek told me to shut up when I asked him if he could smell it. Told me to stop thinking so much. But,'' he looks at her, eyes worried. ''You're not, right? Sick?''

She chews on her lip and pulls away from him a little bit. ''No,'' she sighs. ''I'm not sick.'' And then it all comes spilling out. ''It's probably just because I'm pregnant.''

They both freeze.

As soon as the words fall out of her mouth, for the first time since she found out, her eyes widen and she feels a whoosh of agony as it all sinks in. Isaac's eyes have gone as wide as saucers. ''You're - oh.'' His voice comes out sounding squeaky. He scrambles off the bumper and stands straight, staring at her with his mouth working silently. ''D-Does Derek know?''

She pushes off the car and plants one hand on her hip, because of course that would be his first question.

''Sorry,'' he waves a hand. ''I don't mean... I'm not implying that he's the... It's just that would explain some, uh,'' he clears his throat, ''new habits of his.''

Oh, why does that make her want to squirm? ''New habits?'' She echoes. ''Such as?''

''Well,'' he mumbles, more to himself than to her, under his breath. ''Certainly explains the recent rash of wall punching.''

''What?''

''He's been watching you,'' he confesses.

''Watching me?'' She folds her arms over her stomach. ''Isaac.'' She pinches the bridge of her nose. ''Define Derek's version of watching someone. Is it like a 'oh, if I happen to run into Lydia today, I'll be sure to keep an eye on her' kind of watching? Or is it like an 'Edward Cullen is watching you while you sleep' kind of watching? ...Which can also be defined as stalking.''

''Um.'' He looks greatly pained. ''Do I have to pick one of those?'' When she huffs and tosses an indignant glare in the direction of the house, he hurries to explain. ''It's not a stalker thing,'' he assures her. ''It's an Alpha thing. You're part of his pack and he's just been keeping a closer eye on you, that's all. He's... He seems worried.'' He shrugs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. ''I just thought it was because - '' He stops abruptly and clamps his mouth shut firmly, frowning deeply and fidgeting uncomfortably.

''Because...?''

''Nothing. Nevermind. Lydia - ''

''You can't tell anyone,'' she blurts out, because she's just had an awful vision of everyone finding out and looking at her with pity marking their faces like scars. She fixes her hands over her stomach protectively and feels her breathing hitch. ''Isaac - ''

''Okay.'' He moves forwards and she manages a miniscule victory in the way she only twitches lightly when he moves, instead of a full on flinch. He wraps his arms around her carefully, like she is glass, sighing quietly. ''I won't tell anyone,'' he vows. ''I promise.''

She closes her eyes and relaxes. When she eventually does pull away, she touches his cheek briefly and then has to turn away so he doesn't see the tears running down her cheeks.

Isaac asks her, before she leaves, ''Did Jackson know?''

And she has to remember everything all over again.

The look on his face when she flipped over the Clear Blue test and shakily announced that it was positive. There was panic, at first, but then there was something else; something that lit up his eyes so beautifully that she could hardly believe it. Hope. Idiotic happiness, foolish joy, like he was so happy - ecstatic, really - about the prospect of having a future with her, a baby, a son or a daughter, despite how young they were. She remembers that she hadn't seen him that hopeful in years.

(A week later, he was dead.)

''Yes,'' she whispers out, car keys dangling from her limp fingers. ''He knew.'' Then she smirks, full of bitterness and sorrow and wasted futures. ''You know what he did when I told him?''

Isaac swallows. ''...What?''

''He asked me to marry him.'' She licks her lips. ''I said yes.''

From the distance, the house that Derek built, a loud, spectacular crash sounds, and Lydia jumps.

Isaac releases a breath. Doesn't look surprised at all. ''You should head home,'' he tells her quietly, and kisses her forehead.

/v/

and i cannot get you out

(Isaac leans against the doorframe of one of the upstairs bedrooms, unsurprised and unfazed by the destruction before him. Inside the bare room, Derek is breathing heavily, all wolfed out and wrecked, hands and fingers bleeding because he has just knocked down a wall with his bare hands. Isaac gnaws on his thumbnail. ''What are you doing?''

When Derek turns towards him, he's shifted back and he is trying too hard to look nonchalant. It's shameful. ''Boyd and Erica want a bigger room.''

Isaac laughs in his face. ''Uh-huh.'' He absently reaches up to run his fingers over a bruise on his cheek. ''And they say I'm the damaged one.'' He pushes off the frame and takes a cautious step forwards. ''Derek,'' he tries. ''Jackson - ''

''Isaac,'' Derek snarls. ''I don't want to talk about Jackson.''

All Isaac hears is I don't want to talk about the boy I got killed, because he knows - he knows - that's what Derek is thinking. ''Okay,'' he agrees easily. ''Then let's talk about Lydia. You know, the girl you've recently discovered is your - '' This time, when Derek growls, Isaac has no choice but to shut up, shrinking back slightly. He sighs again, resigned. ''You don't have to go through everything alone,'' he says quietly. It only feels like he's talking to Camden a little bit.

Derek says, ''Isaac.'' It comes out sounding gruff and ragged, like his throat is full of glass and blood. ''You have homework.'' It's not a question.

Isaac bows his head. ''Fine,'' he murmurs tiredly. ''But if you don't calm down,'' he adds, on his way out. ''I'm calling Stiles.'')

And ''Baby,'' I'll tell her

''don't keep your nose up in the air like that

I know that trick,

you're just smelling for smoke so you can follow

the trail back to a burning house so you can find

the boy who lost everything in the fire

to see if you can save him.''

- sarah kay; b

end chapter one

AN: Oh yeah, and I accidentally wrote Pack Mom Lydia. I just love the idea of Lydia and Stiles teaming up to be super awesome Pack Moms together, with Stiles being the fun parent and Lydia being the one that scares the crap out of you and can make you feel pocket sized with one well timed look, and Derek...blinking at them a lot and thinking ''how is this my life?''

i: from the proverb: people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones
ii: from Skinny Love by Bon Iver
iii: from Possibility by Lykke Li
iv: from New York by Snow Patrol
v: from In My Veins by Andrew Belle