Hey! I know I said that the last chapter was the last one, so I'm making this a pseudo 'Epilogue' of sorts due to a comment I got from a few people regarding Lydia's absence in the last chapter.

I will say, so my own personal reasoning about it, I'm a big fan of the 'if someone is traumatized, they should probably work through their problems before going into a relationship' sort of variety. And with Stiles and Lydia, I picture them as a more fluid ship – that they are presence in each others lives, whether it be friendship or something more.

That said, I do think I owe you all one final Stydia scene. So here it is: the EPILOGUE.

(Also, my tumblr didn't post last time. It's: )

Epilogue

Two Weeks Later

Lydia considers calling in sick for school today. Her grades are fine – she could probably skip the rest of school year and still get into Harvard if she so desired. It would be better than having to deal with a particular absence again.

Because the fact of the matter is, it's been two weeks. Two weeks since she last saw Stiles in the hospital. Two weeks since she gave up on him answering her texts. Two weeks since she saw him roll his eyes at his father, a very real fear ringing around his eyes.

She pulls up to the school, nodding to Scott and Kira as she sees them. Except…

She doesn't go into the open parking spot next to them. Instead, she keeps driving to their confusion, Scott opening his phone as she drives away. His goofy face plasters her phone screen as it lights up, but she doesn't answer. Instead she pressed her heel further against the gas pedal, speeding down the road until she finds herself at the Stilinski residence.

The Jeep's in the driveway, as well as the cruiser. They're both sitting in the driveway as unassuming as cars can be, but instead they just make her angry. She stares at the two vehicles, her face scrunched into a scowl, shoving her door open and stalking toward the door. Out of some sort of petulant spite, she ignores the doorbell and instead pounds her fists against the door.

She should've thought this through, because when the Sheriff opens the door startled and in what looks like his pajamas, all her bravado filters out. "Yes?" He asks, peering curiously at the small redhead.

"I, u-uh," Lydia can't bring herself to say anything of the things rolling around her head in the car ride over here. Instead, she looks at the Sheriff. For someone who almost was murdered by a out-of-his-mind werewolf, he looks pretty good. She can tell there are bandages under the cotton tee and his skin is a little paler than normal, but he looks strong. Healthy, even.

"He's upstairs." The Sheriff smiles, opening the door wider. "I told him he needed to call you, but you know how stubborn he can be."

She snorts, wanting to go on a rant about just how much she knows he can be stubborn, but finds herself deflated. She didn't realize how much half of this was to see the Sheriff – to see how well he's healing and make sure she won't have a scream saved for him anytime soon. "How is he?" She settles on because, what the hell, it really is all she cares about.

The Sheriff frowns, casting a look up the stairs. "Okay, I think." He says, but she can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "Better than what I thought, to be honest. He doesn't talk as much as he used to and I think he's pulling himself away from you guys, but he made me eat broccoli the other night."

Of course the only thing that gets through his thick skull is his father's eating habits.

"That said, I'm not going to make him go to school until he feels like it. No clinics this time." The Sheriff says, his voice low and venomous. "No strangers, no hunters, no sending him faraway. Just us."

Lydia looks at the ground, wondering if she should leave. If this was a good idea at all.

But then the Sheriff puts a hand on her should, a warm smile on his face. He tilts her head up until she's forced to look in his eyes and he says softly, "All of us."

XXX

She knocks on the door tentatively, all the anger and grandiose plans to give Stilinski a piece of her mind filtered out with her conversation with his father. Maybe that was his original goal – a buffer for whatever she had planned. It doesn't matter if it's true because it worked.

She's not sure what she thought he would look like when he swung the door to his room open. She's seen a lot of different views of Stiles when he's opened his door to here – beaten, thrilled, sad, and lonely – but she isn't quite sure how to describe this particular view of Stiles now.

There are dark rings under his eyes, but they aren't as prominent. In fact, he looks more relaxed than he has in ages. There's still that hardness around his eyes, but even that is softening.

She can't help it.

Lydia smiles.

Stiles apparently is in the same boat because he returns it, as if he hadn't been ignoring every single text she's sent him in the past two weeks.

He opens the door a little wider (for a moment she wondered if he would even let her in), and gestures to the room. It's still the mess it was before they found him on the table, red strings webbed across the wall. The pictures are all still up. In fact, the only difference is tucked in the corner of his room is a small keyboard, a few wires connected to his computer.

Lydia shuffles in awkwardly as Stiles rubs the back of his head. "So," he begins.

And that does it.

That one word. That one 'so' that makes her rage filter through her once more. 'So,' as if the past two weeks haven't even been a thing.

"So?" She cries, taking her purse and hitting him with it. "So?" She does it again, only stopping from doing it a third because of the bandages up his arms that remind her of the scream in her throat she gave for him and his still heart on the stone table. "After everything, all you can say is 'so?'"

Stiles just takes his purse beating and sighs, sitting on the edge of the only clean part of his room – his untouched bed. Lydia huffs a few more moments to prove a point, but then finds herself caving in and seating herself next to him.

"All I needed was a call," she says softly, hearing the catch in her voice. "Not even a call, but a text. Letting me know that you were alright. That you were… you were still here. It would've taken a second, Stiles. A second. And you couldn't even give me that? I mean, Kira knows more than I do!"

Stiles doesn't speak for a while. Instead he stares at the strings on his wall, the bandages on his arms – anything.

"Are you really not talking to me?" Lydia cries. "Really, Stiles?"

"I thought it'd be obvious." He rasps, his voice old like he hasn't used it in years. When he finally looks at her, there are tears in his eyes and it breaks every piece that's left of her heart. All the anger fades away. "I made you lose your best friend. Twice. Why would you ever want to speak to me?"

Lydia sighs, putting her head in her hands. Of course. Back to the self-flagellation technique that Stiles seems to have perfected. She knows she should've assumed this was the reason, but she couldn't rationalize it. And if she couldn't rationalize it, it was hard for her to consider.

"What about what I think?" Lydia asks, much softer than before. "Does my opinion count at all?"

"You know it does."

"Well, you sure have a pretty shit way of showing it. Stiles, we all lost…" Lydia winces, the name still difficult. "A-Allison. All of us. And it was horrible. One of the worst things I'd ever experienced. I'd say it's number two on the grand scheme of things. But do you know what number one is?"

Stiles looks at her, his eyes tired. "Losing her a second time?"

"No, idiot," Lydia snaps, but the heat isn't there. "Number One, that horrible, brutal, life-traumatizing Number One is saved for the time I kneeled on top of a stone sacrificing table, watching my other best friend's blood go through my fingers as he dies. And how I could do nothing to stop it."

Stiles stills, clutching the sides of his mattress.

"That's my Number One, Stiles." Lydia whispers, not caring about the ears flowing down her cheeks. "That's my Number One. It's what I see every time I close my eyes. It's what I feel on my hands. It's the most horrifying things I've ever experienced – and this is coming from the person who was mauled by Peter Hale in the middle of the lacrosse field. That was the most horrible moment of my life. And it's going to stick with me forever."

He bows his head.

"And I need my best friend," she says. Stiles opens his mouth to argue and she knows exactly what he's about to say, so she puts her hand up. "You. I need you, Stiles. Otherwise I don't know how I'm going to get over my horrible Number One. You suck at asking for help, but I happen to be amazing at everything. So I'm asking you to help me get over my horrible Number One."

Stiles looks at her and it takes her breath away. She doesn't know how she manages to do that with a single look – she never met anyone who could startle her with only their eyes, but he does it. Their soft and warm and feel like home. He hesitantly puts his hand up, it hovering over hers it slightly quakes.

He may suck at asking for help, but that's what she's there for.

She goes the rest of the way, intertwining their hands together.

They sit like that for a while.

Then, as if he's burned, Stiles stands up and rips his hand out of her grasp. "No," he states, his eyes fierce. "No. No, no, no!"

"Okay," Lydia says softly, although not entirely sure what she's saying okay to. "Okay Stiles."

"God, I hate life sometimes!" He snaps, running his hands through his hair. It unruly and long, as if he's forgotten that he even has it. "Because I love you and it's not fair!"

Lydia stiffens.

"I have loved you since the third grade – before I even knew what love was." He states, now pacing across the room. "And sure, maybe it was an inappropriate crush until high school and maybe it wasn't even really love, but I'm certain of it now. And now it's too late!"

Lydia can't do anything but stare at him. She ignores how her chest clenches and she can no longer feel her toes. "What do you mean?"

"I'm broken!" He says, his words shattering in the room. "You said it yourself! I'm broken! And I don't know how to fix it! I-I keep messing everything up and I don't know how to stop! And you're sitting there, telling me I'm your best friend and how much I mean to you and all I can think of is how much I love you and how much it sucks for you to be loved by someone like me."

Lydia stands up, grabbing his quaking hands. She holds them there until the shaking stops – or at least mellows – brushing a few tears away with her fingertips. "Depends on your definition of 'sucks,' I suppose. Because it is an honor to be loved by someone like you."

Stiles closes his eyes and crumbles on her shoulder. His sobs are enough to break the strongest of hearts and when it came to Lydia's heart in regards to Stiles, it wasn't particularly strong in the matter. She holds onto him like that day in the Hale house, listening to the slowing of his heart and watching his blood rush through her fingers.

She holds him tighter.

After several minutes of this, Stiles straightens a little sheepishly, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "God, that's not embarrassing at all," he laughs weakly.

"It shouldn't be."

He smiles. But then it falters and he manages, "I don't know where you are. And honestly, I'm not sure if I want to know. But I-I'm not ready. I-I can't. I'm barely holding myself together and I can't focus on anything other than that. I'm sorry Lydia, but I can't. I just… can't."

The last word is so delicate, she wants to catch it in her fingers and never let go. "It's okay, Stiles. I understand." She says softly. "Just let me be here. Don't push me away anymore. Call me when it gets bad. Call me when it's good. Just let me be here."

He nods and she wipes a few more tears from his cheek. Then he leans into her palm and the simplicity of that one gesture startles her. It isn't until he takes it away does she truly realize something.

She feels him more when he's gone and that scares her.

With a smile, she peers around his room. "Well, what we can do now is redecorate. You seriously need my help. That's clear now."

Stiles smiles at her in that way that makes her feel infinite. "Perhaps I do."

It takes them two hours to get all the pictures and strings off the walls. A garbage bag and three arguments later, Lydia is handing the box of yarn and tacks to the Sheriff. "Please make sure these are never in this house again." She says with a huff.

"Trust me," the Sheriff says. "These are the last things I ever want to see here. Well, maybe second to another Darach. Or a vampire?"

Lydia chuckles, catching Stiles as he rolls his eyes at his father. Once she shuts the door again, Stiles sighs, "Ever since his supernatural enlightening, he seems to think that everything's real. He asked me the other day if I thought we'd ever see a Sphinx. He sounded a little too excited for my comfort."

Lydia laughs. "At least we know where you get it from."

Stiles only grins in response, but he looks uncomfortable, which worries Lydia because she thought they finally moved past that. "Everything alright?" She asks.

"There's actually… one more thing you could help me with. If you don't mind." He opens a few drawers and hands her a pair of scissors. Tugging at his unkempt hair, he says softly, "My mom used to always cut it. Which is why I shaved my head for such a long time. Because after she died, it was just… easier. You know?" He meets her gaze, his eyes young – younger than she ever remembered. "I don't want to just shave it all off."

Lydia snatches the scissors with a flourish. "You came to the right woman, then."

Stiles laughs. "Oh, that I'm blissfully aware of."

She tries to ignore that and instead seats Stiles in front of the bathroom mirror, a towel around his neck. The Sheriff only peeks his head in for a moment, but smiles and walks away. Lydia may be imagining it, but she thinks she hears, "Change is good," as he passes.

He's not wrong.

It's shocking how well Stiles sits for her, even with his history of fidgetry. She runs her fingers through his hair, snipping at the end, trying to ignore how close she's getting to his face.

She walks in front of him, pulling the sides of his hair to make sure they're the same length. She takes her hands away to grab the scissors once more, but he catches her wrist before she can. She can't be to blame for her heartbeat suddenly going haywire as he pulls her those few inches closer.

It's simple.

When their lips meet, it's only for a moment, but it feels like years. Lydia knows time and relativity, so she's not entire sure how that can be, but that's how it is. It awakens every part of her body and her chest feels like it's about to explode.

She feels alive.

When Stiles pulls away, there's no regret. No embarrassment or second guessing. And that may be the best part.

"Just making sure," he says in a low voice, his eyes sparkling in a way that makes her chest ache more and realize that she missed even though she didn't notice.

Rolling her eyes, she grabs the scissors once more. Stiles doesn't do anything else the remainder of the night and she gets it. She understand that he needs to mend. To no longer be broken.

But she knows he'll be fine. Once the pieces of his soul return – once they inevitably find their way back into the spastic, loving, and explosive person she knows he is – he'll be stronger than ever. And maybe they'll have their chance. Because Lydia knows they could be great.

But even if that isn't the case, she know she'll still be here, with him.

Of that, she is sure.

THE END.

A/N: Okay, NOW it's over. Like, for real! Hahah – I hope you like the added epilogue. Even if you're not a fan a Stydia, I hope you enjoyed it. Like I said, I'm think you need to repair yourself a bit before you jump into a relationship, but that's my opinion.

To be honest, I'm not sure what to write next. Come chat me up on Tumblr if you have time or PM me here.

And please leave a note if you have time! Much Love!