A/N: Hullo. Well, this is a basically a series of short, pointless, unconnected drabbles based on Stiles and Lydia. They will probably be less than fifteen hundred words and will feature Stiles and Lydia in different, unconnected scenarios. Basically, these will be a pure dosage of fluff. That is it. So without further ado.

Teen Wolf is not mine.

He is glaring at her with such ferocity that it is a surprise he hasn't burnt holes in her body, yet. The room is silent other than the sound of constant scratching of pen against paper as Lydia Martin continues to make notes on the "The Spiral Relation between Wage and Inflation" and the very deliberate, annoyed sighs that Stiles Stilinski lets out in uneven intervals.

"Stiles," she breaks the silence, eyes still on her notebook as she continues to write, "What does the graph depicting the price and demand relation in a demand-pull inflation looks like?"

"Perfectly horizontal," he growls. He is cradling his chin in his left palm, while his elbow rests on the table between them and his angry stare still doesn't waver.

Apparently all that glaring and sighing and growling doesn't earn enough merit to persuade Lydia to shift her attention from economics to the very frustrated and utterly confused boy opposite her. Because all he gets in reply is a sound somewhere between acknowledgment and uncaring, which Stiles can only hope meant thanks. And the idea that it could have meant thanks only adds to the aforementioned confusion and frustration.

Lydia, reaches out her hand to grab her ruler, when Stiles sees opportunity and smacks his palm on hers before she could retract it. That at least earns him visual acknowledgement. Before Lydia can open her mouth, Stiles interrupts her. "You know what a graph depicting the demand and price relation in a demand-pull economy looks like," he accuses.

Whatever Lydia was expecting, clearly, this wasn't it. She makes a show of blinking in surprise and promptly replies, "Well, now I know."

"I meant before," he says. Not the best of speakers, Stiles Stilinski. "I mean before you asked me," he clarifies, "you drew that graph in class today."

"Hmm. Did I?" Lydia pretends to ponder.

"Lydia, what are you doing?" He asks, his tone leaving the angry, frustrated zone and entering the territory of the confused and the helpless.

She looks towards her notebook, which has pages and pages adorned with her neat cursive handwriting, pointedly in reply. "Economics notes."

Stiles feels his patience slip. "You never do group studies," he growls again.

"Do you see a group," she gestures around them as they sit in the library, without, as she correctly pointed out, a group.

"Or take study partners," he adds, his voice betraying a bit of triumph.

"I don't take study partners with average intelligence." She corrects him, returning to making her economics diagrams perfected with color co-ordinated sticky notes.

"Well, that doesn't me–" He halts as his brain processes her words. "Hang on, is this your way of saying I am smart." He feels himself gain three ounces of self-esteem.

"No."

"No?" He deflates just as quickly.

Lydia just shakes her head, "If I wanted to tell you that you are smart, I would have just told you, you are smart." She meets his eyes again, and shrugs as she continues, "I have done it before."

Stiles has his eyes narrowed at this point and the muscles in his face have contracted and relaxed in a hundred different patterns giving him expressions each more confused and comical as the last. He opens his mouth to form a reply but in spite of all his very tedious attempts at opening and closing it, he doesn't manages to get his throat in co-ordination which his facial movements and emit a sound. That is how confused Stiles Stilinski is, excuse him.

Lydia rolls her eyes, "I have no qualms about your intelligence, Stiles." She informs him, "You are smart. I can straight up admit that. See. I am doing so right now." There is a hint of smile playing across her lips as Stiles tries to grab at something, anything that will help him make sense of the situation before him.

He finally sighs in defeat and bangs his head against the table in front of them. Leaving it there he takes in three deep breaths and counts till ten, praying for some sort of clue as to why Lydia Martin is sitting in the library with him in their free periods, making notes on a topic that must come painfully easy to her and most importantly, why was he dragged along hand in hand when Lydia Martin has never, not ever, appreciated company during her more serious study sessions.

He raises his head again and looks at her, only to find her biting her bottom lip and her eyes twinkling in sheer amusement. He sighs. "Okay Lydia," he begins to make yet another attempt, "Let's start this thing over," he smiles mockingly at her and she nods her head solemnly, acting as clueless as Stiles feels at this point.

"Do you think demand pull inflation is a topic worthy of spending your free period in a library for?" He asks, carefully choosing his words. This is difficult; he has never carefully chosen words, until now. Lydia opens her mouth to respond, but Stiles cuts her off, "And an answer with a yes or no will be much appreciated, thanks."

"No." She complies with his wishes.

Stiles might have been taken aback by her answer had he not anticipated it. Because of course demand-pull inflation isn't a topic worth wasting free periods over. In fact, in his very humble opinion, nothing in their academic scope is worth losing freedom over, but wasting precious hours over something as simple as basic inflation theories is bordering humiliation.

"Okay then," he continues, "Lydia, do you like having any company, specially spastic, hyperactive company around you while you are busy with school work?"

Lydia shakes her head dutifully without breaking eye contact. "No," she responds again, precisely.

"Then why," Stiles spreads his arms wide and hunches his shoulders a little as he implores, "are we sitting here, together, in the library, over a topic that doesn't even require color co-ordinated notes?"

"Hmm," she pretends to think as she cups her chin in her left hand while her elbow rests on the table, very accurately mimicking Stiles' position from earlier, "Why am I using my free period in a library where none of our friends would venture, sitting opposite a person with commendable intellect and trying to make idle conversation over a topic that is so elementary it is mortifying. Is that what you are trying to ask?"

Stiles has not quite processed what she had said, and he would have, if he were just given five added seconds. He would have, he swears, he would have.

"I don't know, Stiles. I have absolutely no idea." He can still trace amusement in her expression and he would have continued this conversation but as if on cue the bell rings, signaling the end of a free period, which Stiles is beginning to question was actually wasted.

He watches her saunter off towards to the exit doors. And the words click. They click. He rushes after her.

"Lydia, wait." He calls as he hurries behind her, "Lydia what does that – Lydia?"

By the time, he steps foot outside the library doors, Lydia Martin is lost in the sea of students at Beacon Hills High.

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