A/N: I ship it. Sue me. Also, I didn't give Parrish a name because I want this to remain at least sort of un-Jossed. Plus, he seems like the kind who goes exclusively by his last name.

Warnings for: some mild underage activity of the kissing variety, lightly implied Stiles/Lydia.

Title comes from 'Brooklyn Baby' by Lana del Rey.

He gives her his number after the whole Walcott thing. His cell phone number.

"Listen - I don't know what your deal is," he says to her, handing her the Post-It Note with his phone number scrawled on it, "or why you keep turning up at crime scenes. But if you find yourself at another one and you need help, call me."

She raises her eyebrows at him, and her smile is too quick. Her fingers tremble slightly when she takes the slip of paper from him. "Thanks," Lydia says, and then she's gone, taking her mysteries with her and leaving him to call in the dead bodies in the meat locker.

He's not expecting a call, but he supposes later that he should've been. The rumors are true, after all - Lydia Martin does have an uncanny knack for finding herself at crime scenes. People are still whispering about an episode she'd had a while back - something about running naked through the woods in a fugue state? Parrish really doesn't know what her deal is, and it's eating at him. He's not really the 'unsolved mystery' type.

She calls him the next Friday - he's on his way back to the station, his shift nearly over, and his cell starts buzzing in his pocket. The number is unfamiliar, but when he answers, the voice on the other end isn't.

"Can you help me?" Lydia says, and he doesn't miss the quaver in her voice. He's a cop - he's been trained to pick up on that sort of thing. "Don't call for back-up or anything. It's okay. I can call somebody else if I need to, it's just - all my friends are at the lacrosse game, and -"

"Where are you?" he asks.

She gives him an address on the outskirts of town, and Parrish makes a U-turn.

When he pulls up, she's standing on the curb near an old warehouse. He gets out of the squad car and approaches her, giving her a once-over. "Are you alright?" he asks. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," she says, brushing a stray curl away from her face. He tries not to notice the way her hair glints copper in the dusky light. "No bodies this time."

"You sure?" he asks, looking up at the derelict building. It's creepy as hell, even to him. "Certainly looks like there could be some bodies in there."

"There's not," she says, and her voice is suddenly and noticeably brittle. For some strange reason, he finds that he believes her.

"Come on, I'll take you home," he says, gesturing to the car.

"Do I need to sit in the back, Officer?" she asks, and he surprises himself by laughing.

"Only if you want to," he says, and wow, that came out a little more flirtatiously than it should have. Lydia's only response is a weak, subtle smile before she gets in the car - she takes the passenger seat, of course. He takes his place in the driver's seat and asks, his tone purposefully even, "Where to?"

She gives him her address, and he pulls off. "So," he says, halting at a stop sign and looking both ways, ever the upholder of the law. "Why were you in that warehouse?"

She doesn't answer for a moment, and when he glances over at her briefly, she says without meeting his gaze, "I don't know."

"Lydia," he says, gentle but firm. "You need to tell me if there's something going on. It's my job to help you."

"And you are helping me," she says thinly. "By driving me home. Thank you, by the way."

"You're welcome," he says. He decides to ease off a little bit - if the nervous way she's fidgeting with the hem of her skirt is any indication, she's more shaken up than she appears. He wonders, abruptly, if she really doesn't know why she'd been there. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing Parrish has heard recently.

"Do I need to talk to your parents?" he asks, after a moment of silence broken only by the chatter on the scanner. "Explain to them why you're coming home in a police car?"

"Don't worry about it," she says softly. "I'll come up with something."

Parrish can't help it; he's getting kind of worried. Her hands are visibly shaking, and her gaze is a little wild as she looks back and forth out the windshield. "Hey," he says, drawing her attention to him. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," she says, her green eyes too wide. "It's just - just because I didn't see any bodies doesn't really mean they weren't there." Her gaze flicks to the clock on the dashboard. "And I've been there for hours. The last thing I remember is leaving school. But something could be there - something I couldn't get to." Her breathing has quickened, and her fingers are now clutching the edge of her skirt instead of merely toying with it. She looks frightened, and it makes something protective swell in Parrish's chest.

"Don't worry," he says. "I'm gonna go back and check that place out once I take you home, okay? I'll make sure there are no bodies."

She nods jerkily, but her breathing doesn't slow. Parrish doesn't think - he checks the rear view and side mirrors, then pulls off onto the shoulder before putting the car in park. They're not too far from her neighborhood, but he doesn't want to give her the chance to get into a full-on panic attack right before he brings her home. "Breathe, okay, Lydia? It's alright."

It's strange to him - how did she go from the girl who stared calmly at a dead body in the Walcott house to this girl, on the verge of a breakdown in his squad car? But then again, nothing really seems strange to him anymore. This town is weird. The sheriff always acts like he's hiding something, and his kid and his ragtag group of friends are even worse. Parrish hasn't missed the growing tension over the past couple of weeks. Something's going on, and Lydia Martin knows about it.

"Lydia," he says, "if there's something wrong, please tell me. I'll do everything I can to -,"

She's quick, he'll give her that. He doesn't realize she's leaning across the space between their seats until her mouth catches his. Her lips are soft, and she tastes faintly of lipgloss. Parrish, reflexes and instincts aside, takes a second to snap out of it.

"Whoa," he says, lurching back from her slightly, heart skipping a beat. He doesn't mind being kissed by pretty girls, he really doesn't, but this is different. Lydia Martin is underage, a friend of his boss's son, and he's a cop (even if he's not technically on duty anymore.) He can't go around letting her kiss him, and he certainly can't entertain thoughts of kissing her back.

"I'm sorry," she says, leaning back in her seat. She purses her lips, and okay, he really needs to stop looking at her mouth right now. "I just - I read once that holding your breath during a panic attack can help stop it. Kissing is a good way to do that."

"Has that worked for you before?" Parrish asks, a little dumbly. He can't really think of anything else to say, even though he should probably start with don't try that again or what were you thinking.

"It worked for someone else," she says distantly. Something about her tone makes him think twice about asking who.

There's a blush coloring her cheeks now, he notes. He's sure he's as red as a tomato. "Are you okay now?" he finally asks. She nods, a bit stiffly, but she's not breathing hard or fidgeting anymore. Crisis averted.

He pulls back onto the road, and tries to avoid looking at her for the duration of the drive to her house. When Parrish pulls into her neighborhood, Lydia finally says, "I'm sorry. That was pretty stupid of me."

He hesitates, then says, "It's okay. Just - don't mention that to anybody, okay?"

When he glances over at her, she's arching an eyebrow at him. "What kind of girl do you think I am, Deputy Parrish?"

The kind of girl who could break my heart if I let you, he almost says, but instead - "The kind of girl who could get me in trouble if she tries something like that ever again."

She surprises him by smiling faintly. "And here I thought you liked to keep an open mind. No sense of adventure?"

"The 'open mind' thing referred to you possibly being a psychic," he says, pulling into her driveway. As soon as he stops the car, she opens the door and gets out.

"I'm not a psychic," she says primly, before closing the door and striding away.

As he watches her go, all traces of panic and fear hidden as soon as she steps out of the squad car, Deputy Parrish thinks she's gotta be something special.