Jennifer Blake was standing in front of Stiles' Jeep. Except she wasn't in creepy Darach mode, she was in hot for teacher mode. All he'd done was pull into a parking spot and put the car in park. When he looked up, there she was.

The anger was back. She knew. She knew where his dad was, and yet she was here, for him. Stiles had just walked away from this whole situation, and like always, he was sucked right back in.

Jennifer was just—just standing there. Like she was waiting for him to make the next move. Stiles set his jaw. This was it. This was the choice—but it wasn't really a choice was it? There were no choices, his father was gone.

He got out of the car.

She was on him in an instant, and Stiles could feel cool blade pressed threateningly against his stomach.

"Stiles. I think we need to talk, dear. I'm very concerned about your home life." She whispered sweetly, added more pressure to her knife. Stiles blanched despite himself, and let out a growl he'd never heard from himself before.

"Where. Is. He." He snarled, looking around as though she might be hiding him in the bushes.

Jennifer smirked at him, pulling back, an iron grip still on his forearm.

"Soon enough. He's still breathing. For now." She took a step backwards, pulling Stiles with her, "Come talk to me, and he could stay that way."

Stiles screwed his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. There were no choices.

"Okay. But I swear to god, if this is—if he's not okay, I'm going to personally find your Druid tree, cut it down, and use it for my fucking Yule Log this Christmas." The sarcasm was back again.

Jennifer smiled again, pulling him along towards the doors.

"Another creative threat. Is that why the pack keeps you around? To hear your petty human wit?"

Stiles gritted his teeth. How many times was it going to be thrown in his face today? He had never, ever regretted his decision back when Peter offered him the bite. He'd seen what it had done to Scott, what it had done to Derek's family. But, back then, when he'd had the choice, he'd declined it simply because he had a gut feeling, a sudden jump in his stomach that it would kill him, that he wasn't strong enough to handle it. He was an ideas guy, his power had always been in his mind, his wit, his head. It didn't belong in his body and somehow he'd known that. Having it thrown in his face time and time again wasn't helpful, but he'd made his choice, and some psychotic bitch mocking it would never make him reconsider.

They were in an abandoned nurse's classroom next to the morgue. Stiles had been ungracefully forced into a desk and Jennifer was leaned against the desk.

"There." She said quietly, "Is this better, more familiar?"

Stiles ignored her, feeling his jaw tense again. What the hell was going on? He focused on clenching and unclenching his fists. Something else to focus on besides attempting to rip her throat out. He would lose.

"Can we just get this over with? Is this the part where you reveal the master plan and I end up being the sad collateral damage of the epic three way battle between the Alphas, you, and the ragtag teenage underdogs? Pun intended by the way."

If he was going to be stuck here, it was going to be a conversation he was proud of at least. Jennifer smirked at him again and took a step forward, crouching to his level.

"Very good Stiles, as a matter of fact, it is." She whispered.

Stiles matched her smirk and leaned forward, placing his chin in his hands.

"The underdogs win." His words were followed by a hard slap across the face. He could almost hear the bruise begin to form across his cheekbone. Warriors.

"Don't you understand that's what I want?" Jennifer's cool exterior dropped away as she let out a shriek, pinning his hands to the desk, "I'm trying to help. This is the only way you stand a chance." Her last words were a sickly whisper, and Stiles felt a spike of anger from deep in his stomach, like fire in his lungs.

"By murdering innocent people? Adding to the body count?" he shot back, and Jennifer pulled her hands from his as though she'd been burned.

"No. By sacrificing them." She snarled, pacing in front of him, "And that's where you come in Stiles. I need your help, you see. I can't complete the ritual without you." Her calm façade was back.

Stiles leaned back in the chair, unimpressed.

"Need help brainstorming the other two guardian sacrifices?" he asked bluntly.

Jennifer gave him an incredulous look, and stepped back in front of him.

"Have you really not figured it out yet?" she asked, she was staring deeply into his eyes, searching Stiles' eyes for…something. It was disconcerting.

"The Guardian isn't another category for sacrifice, Stiles. The Guardian is the sum of the other four." She continued, circling him, "The Guardian is one person. The one person that represents all four in the lives of those the sacrifices are for. It's you, Stiles."

Stiles swallowed. She was back at eye level with him, running her hands back over his in a way that was meant to be comforting.

"The Guardian is the ultimate sacrifice."

He pulled his hands back from hers. This could not be happening.

"You didn't take my father because he was a guardian, you took him to get to me." He realized. It all made sense, and he was inexplicably grateful that Mrs. McCall was safe. Jennifer nodded slowly.

"Very good. You catch on quickly. I'm surprised you didn't discover Ms. Martin's secret sooner. I know I'm surprised that I didn't. It all fits." Jennifer mused, "Banshees even have a reputation for being fairly unattractive."

The anger was spiking, and all evening he'd felt it, but never like this. Just hearing her speak about Lydia made him so angry he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe. It was a physical anguish, as though gravity was increasing tenfold and something deep inside of him said that it shouldn't be this difficult to feel this way. That something was off and—

Jennifer's hand was on fire. With real flames. And she was laughing. Stiles watched in horror as his anger reduced to disbelief and a strong feeling of 'what the living fuck is going on?'

"Of course, it will be a shame to extinguish such a spark." Jennifer continued coolly, the flames on her hand extinguishing as suddenly as they had appeared, "Here we are in the most energy barren spot in Beacon Hills and it still manages to break through."

Stiles looked away in horror as the charred flesh began to heal itself. He was reminded of the Jungle and the mountain ash last spring. What was it Deacon had said? 'Be the spark?' His mind was racing. He wasn't a spark. Scott was the spark. Scott was the true alpha. It had to be.

"Look, I'm flattered that you think I'm the Guardian and all, it's a great vote of confidence but I really think you've got the wrong person."

Jennifer looked at him, eyes wide, the skin on of her hand nearly back to normal. She leaned forward, whispering in his ear.

"Why are you so adamant not to believe? After everything else, what makes you so hesitant to step into your own greatness?" she whispered. She was circling him again and Stiles shivered.

"You've clearly made no effort to manage your own skills, so why not let your death be meaningful. Let it stand for something." She crooned. Stiles glowered at her and stood up, fists at his sides.

"If you think I'm going to just sit here and listen to some bullshit about Guardians and whatshit, I'm going. I can find my father some other way. We've found your pattern. We can find the bodies." He snapped, starting for the door.

Jennifer made no move to stop him and instead began ticking off on her fingers.

"Healer. How many times have you helped Scott heal his physical wounds? Helped heal your father's emotional ones? Warrior. It's a stretch with your frail human body, but you've seen battle, there's no denying it." Her voice had taken on a singsong quality that quite honestly scared the shit out of him.

Stiles stopped dead in his tracks and wheeled back around to stare at her. The rage was rising again and she was making sense. Every word coming from her mouth was true, and by the quirk of her lips, she knew it too. He suddenly registered the crashes coming from outside. There was fighting, they were fighting in the halls. Someone was here. Someone had come for him and his father. It only added fuel to the flames that were licking up his body, that were consuming him in tongues of rage.

"Philosopher. Even I knew that was the easiest one, Stiles." Jennifer continued, stepping closer. They were almost nose to nose, "You've taught your friends everything about this world, and until now it seems you never knew you truly had a place in it."

Stiles was shaking with anger and the crashes and unmistakable sounds of werewolves fighting were getting closer. Jennifer's fingers walked their way up his chest and she tilted her head forward.

"Virgin—"

"Are you sure because there was a drag queen that really, really wanted to blow me behind a dumpster a couple weeks back so we're kind of toeing the line a little bit with—"

Defending his virginity was a sad habit that apparently did extend to life or death situations.

Jennifer snarled, cutting him off with a harsh slap to the face and forcing the blade of her knife to his throat.

"Virgin." She repeated, "And every second we waste here is another second your father is struggling somewhere. Struggling to breathe, Stiles. Are you absolutely certain you want to be an orphan—"

She was interrupted by a deafening crash outside. The ceiling shook and the old, dirty blackboards rattled from their place on the floor. One of the wolves let out a chilling whine. Jennifer looked from the door back to him.

"Sounds like they're losing, Stiles." She sounded almost desperate, "Do you really want to be responsible for their deaths? For your father's? For Scott's? For Lydia's?"

Each person was her knife. It was her knife plunging into the rage and anger and hurt and Stiles didn't have a choice. There hadn't been a choice since she took his father, and he'd known that. She'd known that. He closed his eyes and breathed hard through his nose.

"Okay." He ground out through gritted teeth. "Do it. For them."

The blade disappeared, and Stiles had always wanted his death to be sudden, to have no time to prepare. But, he prepared. He wouldn't remember this moment later, blocked out by the adrenaline maybe. But he stood there, waiting, ready for this sacrificial death. Somewhere, Lydia was screaming.

But death didn't come. Stiles opened his eyes and bolted backwards. Jennifer was on fire again. It was engulfing her, and Stiles was suddenly so, so tired. His whole body sagged as he watched her burn. She was charring all over, and Stiles definitely could not handle that kind of gore right now.

Jennifer was screaming. She was screaming in that chanting voice that Lydia said she'd heard before the bodies were taken. The one on the recording of the piano teacher.

"This shouldn't be possible." She rasped out, "You'll overpower us all." Stiles took a step back again. She was crumpling, turning to ash.

"Stiles! Oh thank God." He whirled towards the door, looking for something, anything to defend himself with. Something collided with his chest and he backed away, finally letting the exhaustion he felt take him to his knees.

"Stiles. Stiles please don't. Are you hurt?" Lydia was kneeling in front of him. She was covered in blood splatters, and her dress was torn. She had tear tracks running down her face, and she was beautiful. She was always beautiful.

Stiles shook his head. Jennifer had left him with some slashes in his stomach, but nothing a few stitches wouldn't fix. The room was spinning. He might have just set a person on fire with his mind, and Lydia. Lydia was here and she was okay, and it was unlikely that she thought he was an asshole, or crazy.

Lydia was looking past him as Jennifer's ashen remains.

"What happened? Is that—"Stiles shook his head vigorously. He couldn't talk about it just yet. It wasn't—he could barely form a coherent sentence right now.

"I can't, please—later." He managed. Focus on one thing. Keep your thoughts steady. Breathe. He watched as a tear fell onto Lydia's skirt, and it registered as his own. Lydia took his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes.

"Stiles. Stiles we got him. Your dad—he's fine. He needs stitches and rest, but, we got him." There were stars in her eyes as he looked into them, "I found him before it was too late."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and leaned their foreheads together. His father was going to be okay. He wasn't an orphan, they'd found him in time—Lydia had found him in time. And now she was here, and so close, and he'd always wanted this, but now he didn't want it unless she did. She was so much more than the pretty girl with the dinosaur lunchbox that she'd labeled scientifically. She was a person, a beautiful, brilliant, person.

"You got him. You got him." If he repeated it enough it would stay. It would make him better, keep him from falling into the darkness that so desperately wanted to engulf him. Lydia nodded and let the smile fall from her eyes to her mouth. She looked back into his eyes, and bit her lip. Stiles could feel more tears slipping down his face. He didn't remember the last time he'd had a reason for happy tears. Now that it was here he wished for more. Lydia wiped a tear with her thumb and placed one hand on the back of his necked before—

Lydia was kissing him. Her mouth was on his, and it was like he had always imagined. She was warm, and soft, and he needed to snap back into this or he was going to lose her. He let his mouth move with hers, softly. He was a teenage boy, he'd always imagined this as wildly passionate, but this was different. It was warm, comforting. Lydia's hands tangled in his hair, and his fell to cup her cheek as he coaxed her mouth open with his. They didn't battle for dominance, there was an easy rhythm that they fell into, and he could feel the air around them crackling with…something. The word was becoming something of a theme with them.

Considering he'd just almost been sacrificed by his English teacher, he couldn't say he was cursing his need for air as they pulled apart, but it wasn't exactly a highlight right now. Lydia smoothed another hand through his hair, she'd never looked more beautiful.

He went to say something, anything to keep this happening, to make it happen again, forever, but the darkness was coming. His shoulders were sagging and he couldn't fight it any longer.

He just made out Lydia grasping his hand and saying his name before he hit the ground.

A/N I love hearing the feedback and it's great to know I'm getting the characterizations right! I'm sorry that this is such a simple solution, but I really really don't want to get into all the details we're going to be getting in the next few episodes. This story is about Stiles and Lydia as characters, and it's driven by that more than all of the wolf-y plot stuff. So please understand that. :)