promise me this: you'll wait for me only

Notes: Vulnerable!cuddles are the best kind of cuddles don't judge me.

Cold. Dark.

It's kind of what she imagines death to be like, in the end.

"Hang on Lydia," says a voice from seemingly far away. It might be Danny, she can't be sure. "Hang on, we're almost there."

There may also be a blanket over her, but oddly enough Lydia can't really feel it, as though it's hovering over some invisible barrier against her skin so she gets nothing, no warmth or comfort, just the faint sense of it being there.

Am I dying? she wants to ask, but even the words aren't quite tangible enough.

"Okay, we're here—dude, what–? How did you—"

"I can take her." A new voice, warm and even more familiar.

"Isaac?" she says, or tries to say—Lydia isn't sure what comes out, but she feels it in her throat: a sound. There's a clicking—a car door opening, and a rush of cool air. Lydia reaches feebly for where she thinks that open space might be, suddenly overcome by the need to breathe.

"Lydia."

Her shaking hand slips over the fine bones of a wrist, a calloused hand. Long fingers curl around hers. A safe space.

Isaac.

"I've got you," he murmurs, and Lydia finds that she can't really see much, just faint edges and shadows—the slope of collarbones and curls as Isaac leans into the car to pull her out.

"Isaac," Lydia says again, sure of the syllables of his name in her mouth.

"I'm right here. You're okay."

"Did you see them?" She feels drunk, slurring over her words, or close to death; the former is easier to contemplate so she'll just pretend, for now. "In the dark?"

His grip as he lifts her out of the car is tense, just for a second. "Yeah, I did."

Isaac is like a furnace. Lydia leans her forehead in the hollow of his throat; it's only against the heat of him that she registers how her own body trembles.

"S'cold Isaac. Are you cold?"

"They keep a key under there," Isaac is saying over her head to Danny, who presumably opens the door of her house and ushers them inside. "I've got her dude, thanks. You should..." A pause. "You should give Ethan a call."

Another pause.

"Right. Just...let me know how she is later, okay?"

"Yeah."

And then they're moving again, up the stairs, but even as Isaac one-handedly pulls off her shoes, throws back the covers of her bed, and crawls over to contain her trembling, Lydia can still feel it.

Cold. Dark.

Am I dying?

"You are not dying. You are not dying Lydia, do you hear me?" If it were possible, Isaac folds her even closer. "You're not."

Don't tell me what to do, she thinks, but anything after that just drifts away like smoke.

—

"What happened—Lydia? Lydia!"

The sound of Stiles bursting into the room somehow sounds very distant, the way far off waves roll in on the shore. Lydia isn't sure how long it's been since Isaac carried her into the house and took up station as her own personal space heater, but for the moment the blurred image of gangly limbs and dark hair is all that fills her vision.

"They found her like this, freezing. She said—" Isaac cuts off sharply. There seems to be less air, suddenly. "She said they came out of the dark."

Did you see them?

"Stiles?"

It comes out like a plea; the fear has crested up to drag her under and Lydia isn't strong enough to pull herself out. If she looks hard to her right, Lydia can see a dark mark behind Isaac's ear. Somehow she knows even before Stiles crouches in front of her and traces her face with a warm hand, that his knuckles will find that mark on her, too.

"Hey."

His hand reaches further to cradle her head by her ear; Lydia leans greedily into his warmth and the comforting scent of his skin.

"How long has she been like this?"

"Maybe an hour?" Isaac's tone is at once worried and frustrated. "She's not a werewolf, we can't just–we can't just break her arm and force her to heal. Melissa said we just have to keep trying to raise her body temperature, you know like she has hypothermia, or something."

"And?"

Isaac shrugs sort of helplessly. "I think it's working? But I'm–you know, hotter than I was before."

Lydia would laugh if she could.

"It's harder to tell if she's warming up or not."

Stiles looks from Isaac, to Lydia, to the bed. He brushes his thumb along the line of her jaw, almost unthinkingly. "Right." He stands and Lydia almost complains aloud at the loss of him, but then Stiles kicks off his shoes and–

oh.

Despite the clatter of her teeth it's only the sound of Isaac's phone going off that cuts down Lydia's sudden burst of inner panic.

"Allison, h–what? Slow down–oh my god, okay I'm coming, I'm coming okay? Just stay there." Isaac drops his arm and there is new tension in the air. "I have to go. It's Mr. Argent."

Worry strains on Lydia's mind, but her body is too weak to do anything about it. She catches Isaac's eye; his expression is torn and her heart swells with affection.

"I've got her," Stiles says. "It's okay."

The lone werewolf in the room hesitates and takes his turn crouching in front of Lydia, staring as if he's trying to imprint the image of her in his brain. She pushes weakly at him.

"Go."

Isaac just catches her hand and brushes his lips over her knuckles. "Don't go tapping out while I'm gone."

Stiles would never let me. But Lydia would never say that, even if she could, so she just nods instead. Isaac takes one last look before disappearing through the door, leaving Lydia and Stiles alone in her room. She feels vulnerable in a way she hasn't in a very long time, and it doesn't help matters much the way he's looking at her, as though he knows this will change them and he's too afraid to let it.

But he knows he must anyway.

Stiles crosses over in barely two strides, peeling back a corner of Isaac's hastily made sanctuary to reveal Lydia left in her top and tiny boy shorts–his ears go red and Lydia vaguely recalls Isaac's low, frantic voice (I'm sorry Melissa told me to please don't kill me later) but she's a little past dignity at this point.

She can feel herself slipping away again. "Stiles," Lydia tries and that seems to start him, as he crawls across the bed to lay beside her and pulls the edge of the blanket to follow, sealing the space closed. For a heartbeat or two there is an oddly fragile silence, before it is shattered by the rustle of motion; Lydia drags herself forward just as Stiles reaches to pull her in.

Their legs collide and tangle, his arms worm around her waist and lock tight, her fingers find a grip in the soft collar of his shirt and snag on his collarbones beneath. Stiles shudders as Lydia tucks her forehead in his throat and she feels a twinge of guilt.

"S-sorry."

Stiles' fingers slide up the line of her spine and down again. "Don't apologize," he says firmly, his breath warm over her ear. "You never have to apologize to me."

The warmth of him is familiar and grounding; Lydia can feel her body reaching for where it's supposed to be–with him–but the pull is painful and tears well up hot (heat finally) in her eyes.

"Where were you, Stiles?" she asks, as he drags his hand harder over her shoulder and down her back. Friction, she thinks dully. Smart. "Where did you go?"

Lydia thinks he goes tense for a moment, but it passes before she can be sure.

"Nowhere," Stiles says, soft and almost urgent. Liar, she wants to say, but she can't bring herself to do it. "It doesn't matter. I'm here now, I'm sorry."

The rhythm of his hand smoothing up and down her back is lulling her back to sleep; Lydia tries to fight it but it's a losing battle.

"I'm here," Stiles repeats, like a promise. "I'm right here."

Lydia knows somehow that he'll be gone when she wakes up; he'll carefully extract himself and trace the curve of her face with his knuckles to check her temperature and slip out to continue figuring out when exactly they all found themselves so lost– Lydia knows he won't be there, that only the smell of him in her sheets will linger when the sunlight finds her eyes.

But it doesn't make it sting any less.

—

The caller id says 'Beacon Hills Mem Hosp' and at first all Lydia can think is, I'm out of funeral clothes.

"Lydia?" says the voice on the other end; she is startled to realize that she's already answered and has just been sitting in silence with the phone pressed to her ear. "Sweetheart, are you there?"

"Mrs. McCall?"

"You know you can call me Melissa. I was just calling to let you know that Stiles came in just now–"

Lydia's blood freezes.

"He's fine, don't worry, just exhausted. I gave him a sedative to get him to sleep, but I have to run out and I thought you might like to come sit with him for a while?"

"I–" She swallows against a sudden knot in her throat. "You're sure he's okay?"

"He'll feel a lot better when he wakes up, that's for sure." There is a pause then, and in it Lydia is thrown by the sharp stab of guilt.

You should have seen.

This rings too much of familiar and frightening things. Lydia hates the idea of déjà vu—isn't life hard enough without having to relive its strangest parts?—but she feels it now like ice down her spine.

"It's going to be okay, Lydia."

There is an acute, rushing ache in the centre of Lydia's chest; she has to press her hand to her mouth to hold down a sob. "I'm coming," Lydia gets out, praying that her voice doesn't shake as her hands do. "I'll be right there."

She spends five minutes in the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital parking lot just breathing.

Get it together.

When she comes out, there is steel around her heart again.

—

Mrs. McCa—Melissa is pulling on her coat when Lydia arrives at the nurses' station, looking anxious. Her expression softens at the sight of Lydia, in a shirt that slips over one shoulder and her hair thrown haphazardly over with it, smudges of mascara still left around her eyes that she couldn't quite get out. Melissa just points at an ajar door just beyond the desk and squeezes Lydia's arm as she passes.

Her hard won resolve shakes.

Stiles seems to take up the entire tiny hospital bed, one arm angled up next to his head and the other hand clutching at terrible hospital blankets. His face is slacked with sleep, open and childlike and so, so pale. Lydia's heart executes a perfect three part twist in her chest. She drags a chair over and sits down before she has the urge to flee from a Stiles who is too vulnerable for anyone's eyes.

Lydia picks up his free hand, find strange comfort in the way his palm dwarfs hers. She drags her thumb over his knuckles and tries not to let her eyes linger on the depth of the shadows around Stiles' eyes; he looks like he's dying. His hair is wild even in sleep and Lydia is soothed by the simple motion of raking her fingers through it.

"-m sorry, Stiles." It comes out a choked whisper because when will she stop wanting to cry? "I should—I should have—" known. seen. been there. Lydia drops her forehead onto the bed; the guilt has come to drag her down where she will drown in it.

"Hey." His voice is so gravely with sleep she almost doesn't catch it. But then Lydia lifts her head to find Stiles' dark eyes blinking back at her. He takes his hand back to brush her cheek and Lydia knows without looking that a tear or two landed in his fingers. She watches him swallow as he looks at her, watches his eyes go soft and warm and Lydia is transported very sharply back to another lifetime–but those same eyes.

I think you look really beautiful when you cry. She tries to smile but it hurts. "Hey," she says softly. The role reversal makes her heart twist again. "Enjoying your beauty sleep?"

Stiles huffs a laugh and something in her chest loosens. "Drugs. Great." His words are slow and heavy; Lydia's sure he'll fall back asleep in moments and forget she'd even been here.

"What's wrong?" he asks, though it comes out more like, wahss wrong, and Lydia is painfully torn between laughing and crying some more. She opens her mouth to say nothing, or say everything, but no sound is forthcoming and she feels strangely like she failed. Stiles expression changes; Lydia almost gets up right then and there to be rid of his exhausted, probing stare, but then—

"C'mere."

"What?"

Stiles' nimble fingers circle her wrist and go to tug her towards him. "Stiles, I–"

"Please."

She looks at him (please) and all her protests die in her mouth. Lydia gives in with her heart in her throat, toeing off her shoes and letting Stiles yank back the covers and pull her onto the bed with him. She lands on her back and Stiles just curls into her, one arm over her waist to pull her closer, his feet tangling with hers, his breath warm on the bare skin of her shoulder as he leans on her arm.

That arm will go numb later, Lydia knows, but as she brings that hand up to thread her fingers up into the hair at the nape of his neck, Stiles' whole body shudders and the tension drains out. It will be worth it.

"Happy now?" she mumurs, fondness creeping unbidden into her voice. Stiles just presses closer, practically mouthing his words into her skin.

"Safe. With you."

Then his breath goes deep and even and she knows he's asleep again, which is maybe all for the better, because now Lydia is alone to face the ricocheting debris of her heart.

—

Much later, a kindly looking nurse will nudge her awake to tell her visiting hours ended some time ago, but that she's sure "Melissa will send your boy home to you safe and sound."

Lydia doesn't correct her, just slides out of Stiles' grip and tries not to look like she might cry for being forced to leave him. She gives Stiles one last look and kisses him at the very corner of his mouth because there isn't a soul around who would question her for it. The nurse just smiles warmly and pats her am.

"He'll be just fine, I'm sure."

Lydia has never doubted anything more in her life.

Of course, even later still, she'll hate herself for being right.

More Notes: sorry I am so slow - it doesn't help of course that I woke up this morning sick as a dog. Again. Missed Lydia this week so I just wrote her in because you know, otp.

I do not want to talk about how not ready I am for next week.

Annie