A/N: Stydia had ruined me, guys. For real.
When two interacting subatomic particles become entangled, any change induced in one will be inflicted upon the other, no matter how distantly they're separated.
She finds the list crumpled in a pocket of her long sleeve floral print dress one morning when she's getting ready for school. Lydia slides to the floor, still not dressed, wearing only a cream-pink satin bra and matching thong, staring at the torn piece of scrap paper in her hand.
It's her handwriting but there's something wrong with the ink, it's too thick and smudged to be written in ballpoint pen, her usual writing utensil of choice. The words are clearly hastily scrawled, little dash points next to random phrases and words.
She reads:
-crush on you
-blue Jeep
-the first girl
-dance with me
-saved me
-figure it out
-can't forget
-Lydia, run!
-remember I love you
By the time she's finished she's crying. She finds her makeup bag on her vanity; takes out her kohl eyeliner pencil and draws a scribble down the side of the piece of paper.
It's a match.
/
Lydia catches Scott at his locker the next day at the beginning of their lunch period. "I need to show you something," she tells him, and pushes the list into his hands.
Scott's forehead furrows as he reads. "I don't understand, what is this?"
"I found it in the pocket of the dress I was wearing the night...the night..."
He looks concerned. "What night?"
She blinks, a cold rush of terror washing over her. "I don't know. I can't remember."
He frowns at the piece of paper in his hand. "Isn't this your handwriting?"
"Yes, but I don't remember writing any of it."
Scott sighs and slings one arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, you'll figure it."
Figure it out...
"Lydia?"
"Hmm?"
Scott's arm tightens around her. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," she murmurs, taking the list back from him and carefully folding it up. "Yeah, it's just deja vu or something."
/
She wakes up from the dream in the middle of the night, gasping for air, her hands pressed to her side, phantom pain cramping against her palm. In her dream she was running, running because someone was screaming, Lydia, run, Lydia run!
Lydia, run!
She gasps and tumbles out of bed, dumps the contents of her book bag on the floor and digs through her folders and notebooks until she finds the list, carefully tucked inside the front cover of her calc textbook.
There it is, written in her own hand: Lydia, run!
She gives up on going back to sleep. Lydia turns on the lamp on her nightstand and settles back in her bed, staring at the words. She closes her eyes and tries to remember the voice from her dream but she can't, when she tries all she hears is static. The other details of the dream are sharper though: she was outside, on a...field? The lacrosse field?
On a hunch Lydia gets out of bed, tiptoes in the dim light to her closet. She has to dig though racks of dresses and skirts until she finds it, wrapped in vacuum-sealed plastic. She sits on the floor of her closet, and pulls the dress out. It looks just how she remembered it: metallic satin, fitted waist, flared skirt. Her mother took it to the dry cleaners after Lydia came home from the hospital, you can hardly see the blood or the way the bodice had to be re-stitched.
She shivers. Why would she save this? Why was it so important?
Why was she in the field? What was she doing in the field?
Why can't she remember?
/
"Who'd I go to winter formal with sophomore year?" Lydia asks Scott at lunch.
Scott wrinkles his noise. "Uh, Jackson, right?"
Lydia frowns. "No, he went with Allison."
"Oh." Scott squints against the midday sun. "I guess I was remembering it wrong."
"If Jackson went with Allison than who did I go with?" she pushes.
Scott shrugs. "How should I know, I wasn't allowed to go."
Lydia spears a spinach leaf with her fork. "But you were still there, weren't you? Didn't you go anyway?"
Malia is watching them, eyes sliding back and forth between them like she's watching a tennis match.
"That was like two years ago, I don't really remember," Scott admits. "Why do you care?"
"I don't know," she grumbles. "It just feels like it matters."
Malia raises an eyebrow. "Why would it matter who you went to a dance with two years ago?"
"Don't you think it's strange though?" Lydia pushes. "That neither of us can remember?"
Scott groans. "Is this about the list you found?"
"What list?" Malia questions.
Lydia sighs and slides the list across the picnic table to the other girl. Malia skims it, frowning, flips the paper over. "Why's the Sheriff's name on this?"
"Give me that!" Lydia lunges across the table to snatch the paper back.
Scrawled in one corner on the backside of the paper, like an afterthought, is a name:
The first word is smudged to the point of being illegible, a disconcerting splotch that looks like a teardrop running through it. The second word though is clear:
Stilinski.
/
"Hey kids," the sheriff says when they walk in his office. He's at his desk, doing paperwork and eating french fries out of a paper bag. "What can I do you for?"
"This is going to sound strange," Lydia starts.
The sheriff snorts. "Wasn't expecting anything less."
She holds out her list to him. "Can you make any sense of this?"
He reads it over carefully, both sides. "My name is on this," he says frowning. "But other than that this looks like mad libs to me. Am I supposed to understand what this is?"
"Are you sure there isn't anything on there that sounds familiar?" she wheedles.
He cocks an eyebrow. "It would help if you could give me a little context."
Scott nudges her and she swats back at him. "I don't know what it is, I just know it's important."
"She wrote it," Scott adds.
"It's my handwriting, I don't actually know that I wrote it," she corrects.
The sheriff rubs his temples. "My wife had a blue Jeep."
Scott's jaw drops in surprise. "For real?"
"I hated that thing," the sheriff says fondly. "Piece of crap, always needed a new part."
"So you have it?" Lydia asks. "You have a blue Jeep?"
"I put it in storage after Claudia died," the sheriff says. "Haven't thought about that thing in years."
"So it's still in storage then?" Lydia needles.
"Huh," the sheriff says lightly. "You know, I can't remember."
/
Lydia dreams that she's hiding, cowering inside a room while something stomps around behind a door. She's hiding, but she's not alone. Someone is standing right behind her, pressed up against the wall.
She can't see him but she knows it's a boy, feels a strong chest against her back, warm breath in her ear, long arms holding her securely against him.
She's hiding but she's not afraid because someone is holding her and he feels safe, and right, and then something stings-
She jolts awake in the middle of AP bio, Scott looking at her in horror. "You're sleeping through lecture!" he whispers frantically, pulling his hand back into his lap.
She looks down at the red mark on her arm. "You pinched me," she hisses.
"You were asleep," he retorts.
"Mr. McCall, Ms. Martin, is there something you'd like to share with the class?"
Lydia flushes and Scott vigorously shakes his head. They both stare down at their desks until lecture continues. When class is over she slides out of her chair and rushes out, she doesn't need to look back to know that Scott's following her.
"Lydia, wait, come on." He catches her loosely by the wrist. "Sleeping in class, that's not like you."
She looks around the halls nervously. "I can't sleep at night. I'm having these dreams."
Scott's forehead wrinkles. "What kind of dreams?"
"I don't know, but they don't feel like regular dreams."
Scott's thumb runs across her wrist. "What do they feel like?"
She breathes, focuses on the feel on Scott's hand on hers. It feels...not wrong, exactly. But like something is missing. She looks up at Scott, and gets the strangest feeling. Like they're standing here together but she doesn't know how they got here. "They feel like memories."
/
She wakes up in the middle of the night sobbing in her mother's arms, throat raw like she's been screaming.
"It's okay baby," her mother is whispering. "I'm here, it's okay."
"He saved me," Lydia cries. "He saved me, Mom."
Her mother smooths her hair back from her wet cheeks. "Who are you talking about, sweetheart?"
She clutches her mother's arms. "I don't know," she breathes, tears running down the sides of her face. "I don't know."
/
They watch a movie in AP history about Japanese internment camps. Scott isn't in this class with her, but Lydia can think of his face, the look of shameful horror they all felt last year when they studied it under Mr. Yukimora, her and Scott and Kira and -
And who?
A fly buzzes.
Lydia jumps out of her seat like she's been shocked, hitches her bag over her shoulder and walks right out of class. Something about the sound makes her feel suddenly sick, cold sweat breaking over her skin. She stops in an empty hallway, ears buzzing, but there's nothing there.
She presses her forehead against the cool metal of someone's locker and covers her mouth with her hands, shaking with silent cries. After awhile she hears the squeak of Timberlands against the linoleum tile down the hallway and Scott comes up behind her, hands cupping her shoulders. It's like her dream, the one with the boy's arms around her, but the height is slightly off, Scott's chest is just a bit too broad.
"I heard you crying from English comp," he murmurs. "What's wrong?"
She swallows back a sob and squeezes her eyes shut. "I don't know."
"Lydia." He coaxes her to turn around. She has to look away; she hates it when people see her cry.
I think you look really beautiful when you cry...
She pulls back from him, tears spilling over. "What did you say?"
Scott frowns. "I said you're starting to scare me."
"Scott, if I ask you to do something for me, will you?"
Scott gives her an earnest nod and kisses the top of her head. "Anything."
/
"All clear," Malia says, pulling the blinds down over the window in the empty classroom and locking the door.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Scott asks.
Lydia sinks down in a chair next to him. "Yes, I told you. I need to do this."
"Do you know what memory you want to find?"
She looks down at the floor. "The night Peter attacked me."
"No," Scott says immediately. "No way."
"Scott, you said you would help me!"
"Lydia, we know what happened, why do you want to go back to that?"
"I dreamed about it," she explains. "Someone was there, okay? Someone I don't remember."
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's what this is about? This thing you're convinced you forgot?"
"What if it's not a thing?" Lydia questions softly. "What if it's a person?"
"A person?" Malia parrots. "How could you forget a person?"
"I don't know, that's why I need Scott to help me," Lydia says tartly.
"Fine," Scott caves. "But for the record I think this a terrible idea."
"Noted," she says sweetly. "Now lets get on with it."
Scott sighs, his hand coming around to her neck. "You ready?"
"Do it," she commands, and then-
Balloons. Falling all around her.
Lydia spins in a circle, the skirt of her winter formal dress flaring out around her. She's in the hallway at school, walking through balloons and streamers.
What is she doing in the hallway?
She was looking for something, she wandered off and she's looking for something but she can't remember, she has to remember!
She reaches the end of the hallway, pushes the doors open and walks out of the back entrance, holding one arm over her face to block out the light. The air is cold, so cold she can see her breath.
She's outside, she's outside looking for...
"Jackson!" she calls out.
Yes, that's right, she was at the dance but she wasn't dancing
Dance with me...
She was dancing but she can't remember with whom, she was dancing but she had leave to find Jackson, but now she's in the field and Jackson isn't here.
What is she doing on the lacrosse field?
And then she can hear it, loud and crystal clear:
Lydia, run!
She whirls in a circle. At one end of the field is a boy, too far away to make out his features, but he's waving at her and he's screaming:
Lydia, run!
She turns, but there's someone else on the other end of the field, wearing a long black coat, a monster with flashing teeth and red eyes, and she's running, she's running and the boy is screaming -
"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay." Scott's holding her on the floor of the classroom, Malia sitting cross-legged in front of the door, chin in her hands.
"Did you see him?" she gasps, clutching at Scott's collar. "Tell me you saw him."
"Not his face," Scott says, one of his hands stroking her hair. "But you're right. Someone was there."
/
"I'm telling you, there weren't any witnesses," the sheriff says, breaking off a piece of a double fudge brownie and popping it in his mouth.
"I'm telling you, someone was there!" Lydia argues. "I'm dreaming about it, I see him."
The sheriff leans across the desk and pats her hand. "It's normal to have nightmares after a trauma like that. Frankly I'm surprised you didn't get them sooner."
She curls back in her chair in defeat. "You don't believe me."
He sighs. "It was two years ago, sweetheart. It's a closed case, I don't understand why you're suddenly so interested in it."
Lydia looks around his office. There's a framed picture of him and his wife on a beach somewhere, looking tan and happy and impossibly young. Lydia has that feeling again. There's something off about this, something she isn't getting.
"Do you ever feel like something's missing?" she asks him.
The sheriff's eyes flick to the photo of his dead wife. "All the time."
/
She's in a tunnel, somewhere dark and dank, and no matter where she turns she can't find a way out. She's trapped in a labyrinth, hands curling about rusting bars of metal, and there's a monster boxing her in, long white fingers curling over hers, the suggestion of teeth against her neck.
"Banshee," he murmurs, voice low and tender as a lover's. "You should hear the way he screams for you. I can still hear him. Screaming, mm, it's delicious."
"He's mine," she growls, ferocious and proud as a lioness. "You can't have him, he's mine."
"Darling," he whispers. "I already have. You can't stop me, little banshee."
"Watch me," she hisses.
"Oh, but I do," he croons. "He's always, always watching you. Always thinking, staring, wanting."
"You don't know anything about it," Lydia snarls. "He loves me, what you could possibly understand about that?"
"Love is chaos," he whispers, in a gravely voice that makes her want to scream. "And when it comes to chaos, I reign supreme."
Lydia wakes on the sidewalk outside her house, curled up in the fetal position. It's raining, she's only wearing a thin tee shirt and boxer shorts, her hair is stuck to her back and her skin is slick with rainwater. Her feet are bare.
She starts to walk, lost in the dream, that feeling of walking around in circles, teeth at her neck, a scream trapped in the back of her throat. She walks all the way to Scott's house without even meaning to, drags herself up the front steps and knocks on the door.
Scott opens it a few minutes later in a pair of old lacrosse shorts, shirtless, hair sticking up. "Lydia, what the hell?" he moans sleepily. "What happened? Did you walk here?"
She's shivering; arms crossed tightly over her chest. "I think - I think something really bad happened," she says, and then she starts to cry.
Scott steps forward and wraps his arms protectively around her, drops his cheek to the top of her head. "Yeah," he says thickly. "I think you're right."
/
"Are you sure about this?" Deaton asks.
Lydia watches him pour ice into the giant metal tub with Scott. "You said this works."
"I said it can work," he clarifies. "But memories are a tricky thing."
"I have to try," she says stubbornly.
"Alright then," Deaton sighs. "Whenever you're ready."
Lydia looks at Scott, who grits his jaw and nods, holding out his hands to her. She looks down at the tub, flooded with deja vu, imagines holding someone down under the water -
No, that can't be right.
She steps into the water, gasping as she drops down in the tub, clutching at Scott's hands.
"Easy," he murmurs, coaxing her to let go of him so he can slide his hands under her neck to keep her head out of the water.
"Close your eyes," Deaton instructs. "Listen to my voice."
Lydia obeys, her teeth clacking together, feeling the water roll over her as she shivers, fighting it, pushing against Scott's hold.
"Relax," Deaton commands.
She sinks back against Scott, eyes shut, and listens.
"Now I want you to go back, Lydia. Go back to what you forgot...find what you forgot..."
She breathes in the dark, she's floating; she can't feel anything. Deaton's voice melts away, Scott's hands dissolve; everything is dark and still...
She's sitting in the passenger seat of the Jeep, wearing her floral print dress, watching the boy's fingers shake around an ignition key.
"Oh forget it," he sighs, and sits back in the driver's seat, and looks at her-
Honey-brown eyes, upturned nose, scattered moles on pale skin, thick dark hair-
"Hey, Lydia, don't look at me like that," he says kindly.
Her voice is gone, there's an echo of a scream in her ears, it's him it's him-
"It's okay," he says comfortingly. "I'm still here, Lydia. I see you. I'm right here."
"I forgot you." Her voice is high and shaking. "You told me to remember and I, I-"
"I know," he murmurs. "You tried. It's okay."
"I don't know what to do," she says, eyes filling with tears. "Tell me what to do."
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just need to you to remember."
"I can't." Her voice cracks, tears spilling over.
"Hey, no, don't cry. You know this. You're so smart, you can figure it out; I know you can figure it out."
"Where are you?" She's crying but she doesn't feel ashamed, not in front of him. "Are you okay? Tell me how to find you!"
"Lydia!"
"Tell me!" she shrieks.
It's okay Lydia, you're okay. Calm down.
The boy smiles. "Scott's taking care of you. You're okay."
"But you're not," she cries. "You're gone."
"I'm not gone," he says cryptically. "I'm just not here."
"I have to find you." She sniffs and wipes under her eyes. "Tell me how to find you and I will, I promise."
"It's easy," he says. "You just have to remember."
She tries to memorize his face, the curve of his smile, the exact length of his eyelashes. She knows him. She doesn't remember but she knows him.
It's impossible to dream of a face you haven't seen before.
"Damn," he says. "I should have really just kissed you."
She smiles through a veil of tears. "I should have let you."
He takes her hand and folds it over her heart. "One more time, okay? Remember I love you."
"I will," she vows, "I promise."
"Even if you forget-"
"I won't-"
"Look here." He taps the hand against her chest. "This is real. Even if you forget me again, it doesn't matter because this is real. This will always lead you back to me, okay?"
"I'm going to find you," she promises. "I won't forget this time."
Because I love you too.
/
She wakes up wrapped in blankets, curled up with Scott on the sofa in Deaton's office.
"Hey," Scott says softly. "Do you feel okay? You were out for awhile."
Lydia blinks up at home. "Scott, I saw him."
"I know. You were talking out loud."
Lydia presses her cheek against the warm hollow of his throat. "He knows us, Scott. He knew you."
Scott's eyes are a little red. "Yeah, that's what it sounded like."
"We have to find him," she whispers. "I promised that we'd find him."
"We'll find him," Scott reassures her. "I don't know how but-"
"We'll figure it out." She turns her head and kisses Scott's cheek. "Thanks for doing this with me."
Scott ruffles her hair and smiles kindly. "Of course."
Lydia changes into dry clothes and pulls on her coat, thanks Deaton and follows Scott out to the parking lot. It's cold out tonight, she slides her hands in her pocket and her right index finger catches on something in the lining. She withdraws her hand; there's a red string caught between her fingertips. She stops on the sidewalk, staring down at it.
She winds the thread around her index finger. She's done this before; she knows it. It means something, she just has to figure it out.
"Lydia?" Scott cups her elbow. "You okay?"
She holds her fingers out to Scott. "Do you know what this is?"
He raises an eyebrow. "It's a string."
"I found it in my pocket."
He gives her a helpless look. "And you care about finding a random piece of thread in your jacket because..."
"I don't know." She looks back down at the string, mesmerized. "I can't remember."