Disclaimer: I don't own this.

An: I know, I know. I should be working on Crave, but this idea popped into my head. And I can't stop it, Crave will continue but I hope you guys like this one too!

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They say crazy people, the true honest to God crazy people, they don't know that they're crazy.

Well she knew that she was crazy. She knew that something was deeply wrong with her. That something had broken her mind and spread the delicate pieces to the wind. She knew what did that too.

Peter Hale.

She knew it wasn't her fault, the insanity. And she knew she was only making it harder on herself, tonguing her medicine every morning. Fighting against that French-Canadian quack, making up people in her mind that led her to burned and abandoned houses in the middle of the woods.

Running around barefoot and ruining her perfect pedicure feet. She'd have to spend an hour in the salon to undo the damage her lapse in mind had caused. Twirling the little purple flower around in her fingers, Lydia Martin contemplated her next move. Because she needed a next move. Someone was keeping secrets here, no doubt about it. She may have been crazy, but she wasn't a fool. She needed to find out just what the hell was going on.

And she knew for a fact that it wasn't some online video game, battling monsters. She knew because she'd checked every single one. There was no 'kanima'. She couldn't even find the beast in old mythological texts. Not one history held the kanima. It didn't exist except in Allison's little tablet file marked bestiary. Which means they were lying. She was tired of being lied to. She was tired of being handled with the kid gloves. She was tired of no one having right now available!

Stiles Stilinski. Oh, she could break him. She could get him to talk. He'd tell her every single thing she wanted to know. She know he would.

I think you're beautiful.
I've had a crush on you since the third grade.
You have a soul.
When you're done acting like a nitwit.
Lydia, run!
Please...don't kill her.

A shiver shot through her spine at the thought. Oh yes, she could get him to talk. Easy. Shrugging of the cold bite at her stomach, possibly hunger for it couldn't be mild guilt, she rose to her feet. She didn't exactly know how to get home, but she knew she could pretty well figure it out. She could figure anything out.

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...

Showered, cleaned, and shoe'd, found her at the Stilinski door step. His blue Jeep was in the driveway, an empty spot where she assumed his father parked the police cruiser. Piles of red, gold, and brown leaves dotted the tidy yard. It was going to be windy tonight, a slight breeze already picking up, all that hard work was going to be for nothing when they scattered everywhere. Picking up her hand, she knocked again.

The boy looked shocked, wide eyed and leaning against the doorframe. His mouth worked mute and the strawberry blonde blinked, waiting. He got a hold of himself. "Lydia. Hey, yeah. I'm sure your here to yell at me about something but I'm grounded, so can you do it at school tomorrow?" He asked and she looked at him like he was the crazy one.

Crossing her arms, she narrowed her green eyes. "I drove all the way here to see you, and you're turning me away?" She shook her head, "Of all the people who want to talk to me, the people I want to talk to turn me away."

"I just can't. Not right now." Stiles pleaded, hoping she'd understand. His father would kill him. He was supposed to be grounded, not entertaining Lydia.

Lydia was stung by the familiarity. She turned her eyes to the side, watching one of the leaves catch the wind and float off. "No one ever has right now available." She told him, following the leaf as it exited the yard. She took a step back.

Sighing, Stiles reached out and grabbed her hand. He couldn't turn her away, not when she looked so sad. Something had to be wrong. He remembered her crying in her car, writting backwards on the board. Lying bloodied on the lacrosse field. Dancing with him. "For you? I always have right now." He half smiled, tugging her through the door and into the house. He didn't care if his Dad made him scrub the drunk tank, he wouldn't turn her away. Not for anything.

Lydia looked around her as she sat down, taking in his livingroom. He muted the television and turned a lamp on. Sitting down on one end of the couch, she took the other tucking her legs underneath her. She sat in the silence, suddenly nervous. Her stomach cramped. What was she doing? She should be able to do this. Bend another human being into doing what she wanted. She was good at this. This was her element.

"Is everything okay Lydia?" Stiles asked, watching her stare at the carpet. Her eyes were unfocused, her mind somewhere else. When he said her name she looked up, startled. Blinking rapidly.

"Of course. I'm perfect. Everything is perfect." Lydia flipped her hair, it was straight. A barrette holding one side back from her pretty face. "But the rest of you aren't. Something is going on, and I want to know what. And don't lie to me." She pointed a finger at him, daring him to mention online gaming. She was certain she'd scream.

Stiles shook his head, leaning forward to place it in his hands. He rested his elbows on his knees, speaking into his palms. "I can't, Lydia." He told her, apology in his tone. She deserved to know. She really did. But he couldn't tell her. How could he? 'Scotts a werewolf and Jackson is a monster. Oh, and your best friend hunts these monsters. Derek Hale? He's one of them. They've all teamed up and may have to kill the boy you love. But don't worry, you're immune!' That would go over real well, he just knew it. "Not right now. I wouldn't even know how to."

Lydia watched him, watched as he rubbed the back of his neck. He was struggling not to tell her. "I thought you said you always had right now?" She asked and he looked up, guilt was in his eyes. He frowned, shaking his head again.

"This is different Lydia...if I told you, without any way to back it up, you'd think I was crazy." He wanted her to understand. He wanted her to so desperately. But he also wanted to protect her, from all of this. From anything that might hurt her and this could hurt her. It already had hurt her. It was his fault, somehow. Peter had used her against him. He could take it if she was hurt again because of him. "You wouldn't believe me. You'd never talk to me again."

Lydia went wide eyed, looking everywhere but him. There was that word. Crazy. "Would you still talk to me? If I was crazy?" She asked, her voice small. It wasn't tactics anymore. She didn't care. She had to know. Would he drop her if he knew? Run screaming? Would she loose everything along with her mind?

"Of course." Stiles told her, watching her eyes dart around nervously. She was fidgeting. Lydia Martin, nervous. It was a strange thing to behold. He didn't like it. "But you're not crazy." He told her, moving closer and grabbing her hand. "I promise." She gripped his back, a tight hold.

Lydia panicked, looking up at him. "I get scared sometimes, that I am crazy." She admitted quietly, "I've been seeing things."

And then she was telling him. She mentally kicked herself. What the hell was she doing? She was supposed to be manipulating this boy, not playing Dr Phil! He didn't need to know these things! Why was she still talking! Why couldn't she shut the fuck up? Why was she telling him this? About Peter and school, backwards messages and breaking her mirrors. Screaming at night and crying. So much crying. Sometimes she woke up sobbing, unable to cathch her breath. She had nightmares and visions. Crazy figments that couldn't be real. Monsters. She realized that she kept talking, trying to lengthen the time where he hasn't said anything about her. About her being crazy. About her loosing her mind. The moment where he hasn't given her the same look that everyone else had. The pitying, poor crazy girl look. She rationalized it, telling herself that this would only help her cause. She was telling him these things so he would tell her things. Not because he looked at her with those understanding eyes, full of sympathy and worry. Not pity like the rest of them. And there was something else there too, something she didn't recognize but it made her cry harder. Sobbing against his chest, heaving breaths. Broken. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Oh God, she couldn't breathe.

And that was when his father came in, it was how he found them.

Her hyperventilating and him trying to coax her through what he didn't tell her was a panic attack. Another insanity check mark. Panic attacks. God forbid. He was brushing her hair back, holding her face to maintain eye contact. Anything to get her to calm down. To breathe so she didn't pass out. God, his Dad would kill him if she passed out. "Just think calm Lydia. Please, just breathe." He brushed a hand down her face, smearing make up and tears away. "Breathe."

Didn't he realize that she couldn't? She was loosing her mind and he kept telling her to calm down! "I can't! I can't breathe!" She sobbed, shaking her head wildly. He caught it. Shushing her as the Sheriff fluttered around. She didn't know what he was doing, he was out of her line of sight and so she focused on Stiles.

He smiled at her, an everything-is-gonna-be-alright smile. It was nice. His eyes were so sweet when he looked at her like that. She didn't know why. Couldn't he see that she was crazy? "Yes you can. You're talking. I know you're smart enough to know that you need oxygen to speak." She had oxygen. Taking too fast breaths through her nose. It left her light headed. Dizzy.

But it was true and Lydia nodded, she didn't listen as he whispered little things, ran his fingers through her hair in a calming gesture. She counted the colors in his eyes. Five minutes ago she couldn't have told you the color if you put a gun to her head. But they were brown, light light brown. Like whiskey, dark and light pulling through. A fleck of green. A little gold. She was breathing, calm and steady, and he was smiling. She forgot what she was here for, leaning her tear soaked face against his chest. "I'm so tired." She rasped, her fingers clutching his tee shirt.

Stiles looked down at the top of her head as she leaned against him. "Yeah, they'll do that to you." He told her, wondering if he should keep his arms at his side when her free arm was wrapped tightly around his waist. His Dad was watching, looking ready to have a panic attack of his own.

"Ill call her Mother." He offered, backing out of the room. He ignored the fact that his grounded son had company. That wasn't the main point here. He ignored the memories of his son's panic attacks. The hyperventilation. The crying. The sound of those quick little breaths. His own inability to deal with them. His phone calls to Melissa McCall, praying she knew what to do. Her own speaker phone as she calmed his son down. The way his son calmed Lydia down.

The girl bolted up, her eyes wide. She'd be committed. Her mom would die if this little lapse of mind got out. "I'm fine! Please, Sheriff Stilinski, don't call her." she begged, praying he wouldn't. Stiles looked up and shook his head, his son hoping the same. He remembered the multicolor doses that Ms. McCall would bring Lydia. All those pills. Her father had complained, her mother had sworn she needed them. News of a panic attack would mean one more pill in Lydia's cup. And he didn't know how many more it would take until she changed to unrecognizable.

His father caved under the duplicate pleading, shoving his phone back in his pocket. "Alright, but why don't you stay awhile? At least for dinner?" He had to do something though, he couldn't have her out and about until he was sure she was safe. Sane.

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...

Lydia fell asleep during the wait, her head in his son's lap. He had to look twice in shock. Stiles stared across the room at nothing, absently pulling a piece of the girl's hair between his fingers. She had her hand on his knee, a handful of his jeans even as she slept. When she shifted, his son looked back down. Worried for a moment, but then smiled. The Sheriff wondered if the girl even knew. He stepped forward into the livingroom, holding up the takeout bags the boy had just delivered. "Dinners here."

Lydia stirred, wiping her hands across her face and pulling away her smeared make up. She looked at the bags then back to Stiles, her head still in his lap. "How long have I been out?" She asked quietly. She'd hoped it had all just been a bad dream, obviously not.

"Just twenty minutes or so." He told her, leaning over to pull the straps of her high heels out. She toed them off before sitting up. He watched as she sunk back into the couch, looking at the clock. It was eight forty. Stiles stuck out a hand to help her up, "Come on, let's get you fed."

She took his hand, standing on wobbly legs and barefeet. Their carpet was soft. She had hardwood flooring and tile. It was warm beneath her feet. When he moved to the hall, she tugged him back. She shifted, looking up. "Look, I just wanted to say...thanks." She snapped, sounding harsh and mean. Lydia. Stiles understood.

"Move Lydia." He told her with a smile, watching as she flipped her hair and walked in front of him. She didn't let go of his hand though. He didn't want her to.

Dinner wasn't quiet. Stiles talked. A lot. But for some reason, it didn't bother her. His Dad spoke of work and made a comment about the leaves. Stiles swore he raked them all and Lydia stiffled a smile. The wind had scattered them. She could hear it picking up outside, preparation for a storm. The leaf piles were goners.

Stiles watched her as she mastered her chopsticks, pouring far too much soy sauce on her fried rice. His Father said something and she choked on her drink. She was laughing. He'd say every word he knew to get her to laugh. And then he realized what his father was saying.

"And then I heard over the police radio, underaged male streaking. I knew immediately. Sure enough, pulling up I saw my son's bare ass being handcuffed."

Lydia laughed. Hard. Stiles felt his face flame, "It was a dare! I couldn't turn it down! It was a dare!" He defended, pointing his fork wildly. Lydia raised a brow, smirking. "When the polar bear run is dared, you do it." He was shocked his father still remembered that bad decision. What had even started this topic?

Sheriff Stilinski looked across the table at the red head, nodding towards his son. "And when your blood alcohol limit is above the legal limit, you get to spend the night in the drunk tank in nothing but your boxers." He told her, watching his son turned even redder.

Stiles tried to brush it off, crossing his arms. "Hey. I made some really good friends that night. Joined a gang." He told them, shaking his head. "The pen changes you. I'm a hardened criminal. You should be careful Lydia." He said it like a warning and Lydia raised her brow. He was having dinner with Lydia. She was at his table, sure his dad was there, telling embarrassing stories, but it was worth it. As long as she was happy. And he didn't tell the story about the time he and Scott had pulled a Lady and the Tramp spaghetti faux pas. And the pictures did not need to be shown.

To anyone. Ever.

"Its not a gang if you're the only member, son." The Sheriff said, tossing the boy out two fortune cookies. Stiles caught them with a fumble, handing one to Lydia. "I've got the dishes." He told him, gesturing for the two to go with a wave. Sure, his some was on dish duty for the next two months, but he could have a night off.

The livingroom was suddenly stuffy and Stiles let Lydia lead the way to the back porch. She sat down on the steps, staring out into the darkness that the porch light didn't touch. "What's your fortune say?" He asked and she looked down at the cookie. Tugging the wrapper open, she broke apart the cookie.

Lydia read the fortune, frowning at the text. Shrugging, she bit into the stale cookie for want of something to do. "You first." She mumbled.

Stiles held up the slip, waving it in the wind. The rain was coming down hard, Lydia moved back on the porch under its shelter. "Don't eat cold spring roll for breakfast, we open at eight am. And then there's the number for the take out place."

"Wise." Lydia snarked, watching as the boy shoved the whole cookie in his mouth. He turned and his face was encased in the darkness as the electricity halted. She heard his father swear as the lights went out, his voice coming through the partly opened kitchen window.

Lightening crackled, lighting up the boy behind her on the porch. But it wasn't Stiles, it was him.

His face burned and Lydia couldn't scream. She scrambled away, trying to run backwards down the steps. She fell, her ass hitting the mud that had once been a flower bed. Hard. She let out a yelp, a sob. A horrible choked noise of weakness. He was coming closer. Stepping down off the porch, untouched by the rain that was soaking her to the core. Matching the cold that grew in her stomach. His mouth was moving, saying something. Just movement. He was reaching for her, about to grab her. She threw her arms up, falling further into the mud. The porch light came on and she saw him. Stiles. Not Peter, Stiles.

He brushed the hair from her face, tears and rain tracking her face as she looked up at him with fear in her eyes. "I thought...I thought you were him." She cried, gripping his arms. "You were him...I swear you were." He was getting drenched by the rain and so was she, she was shivering. From fear or the cold he didn't know. He didn't want her shivering from either. She just kept shivering.

He gently pried her freezing hands off his arms knowing he'd be bruised tomorrow. Her nails had bit into his skin. An arm behind her and one under her knees, he lifted her. Her arms went tight around his neck. She mumbled, something.

He couldn't make it out. She felt so light in his arms. Too light. "I'm not Peter, Lydia." He promised, pushing open the door and turning to walk in. "He isn't here. He can't hurt you." He wanted to tell her that Peter Hale was dead, but he couldn't. How could he? What would he say? What could he say?

Lydia held on for dear life as she felt them going up the stairs. She couldn't see anything, her face pressed tight. She kept hearing him though, in the back of her mind. Peter Hale whispered. He lived there. She shivered, holding on tighter. A part of her, the part she knew was the last bit if her sanity, wondered what the hell she was doing. Clutching at this boy she hardly even knew. She'd came here for answers but all she got was Chinese food and more confusion.

And probably pneumonia.

This wasn't helping her. She was a child. Scared and pitiful. Weak. The boy set her down in her feet and she looked around. A bathroom.

Stiles watched as she looked around, confused. He was so glad his Dad had forced him to scrub the house yesterday, floor boards to ceiling. You just never knew when someone would experience a nervous break down in your home and fly about in the mud. "You're a mess." He pulled the wrapper from her fortune cookie out of her hair. The rain water had loosened the straight locks, curling them back to normal. Her back was covered in black garden mud. A smear of the mix on her face. "I hear mud baths are good for you though." He joked.

She gave him a flat look. Lydia Martin did not take mud baths. She did not get dirty. She did not loose her mind. She looked over her shoulder at the shower, remembering her first mental snap. There were no windows in this bathroom though. She doubted she could escape to the woods.

Stiles was moving around, leaning half out the door. He pulled back with clothes. Comic book pajamas pants and a teeshirt. It would be too big, but they were drawstring. He was sure with her hourglass figure she could make it work. He folded them and pulled out two towels. "If you stay in that, you'll catch a cold." He told her, pointing to the shower. "Go. Toss your clothes out when you take them off and I'll put them in the wash."

Cold mud was soaking into her knit thigh highs and she had to agree. She felt disgusting. The dirt was gritty and the rain was cold. She could see the black stain she'd left on his white shirt. It was damp and she scrubbed a finger over it. His chest was surprisingly hard beneath her finger, not the bird bones she expected. "Are you sure you aren't just trying to get me naked?" She asked quietly, looking up with her hand on his chest.

Stiles went still, sputtering and waving his hand. "I uh, well, it, uhm. You, and rain. Cold." He coughed clearning his throat as his mind stopped dead at the thought. He couldn't say he'd forgotten about seeing her in the woods. He was sure he'd never forget that. Ever.

Lydia smirked, pressing hard on his chest. Hard enough to push him out the open door. She kicked the door shut and quickly tore off her soaked clothing before the stain set in. She stuffed it all together and held it out.

Stiles grabbed the bundle, watching as something fell out. Underwear. Lydia Martin's underwear. He was sure he was going to faint. Picking them up, he shoved them into the dress. He couldn't think of Lydia's panties. He had to think of the fact that she was loosing her mind. She was delicate. And naked, in his shower. Lydia, the girl he'd loved since the third grade. In his shower. No panties. Because he had them. He had Lydia Martin's panties.

Something else hit him. A long grey sock, dead across the face. "Ruin my dress and I'll make you wear it." Her voice called from the crack in the door before she shut it all the way.

He shook his head, clearing it. "Cold water. Delicate cycle. Air dry." Stiles read the little tag on the dress, switching the knobs to match the instructions it gave. Detergent went in, then the mudded dress. And her panties. Lydia's. A barely there scrap of lace. A little slip of paper fell out and into the water. Her fortune.

"Your uncertainty is your worst enemy." He read, pocketing the wet strip and shutting the lid.

"We've got to talk, son." His dad leaned against the hall, watching his son do the girl's laundry. "She in the shower?" Stiles nodded, following his dad to the now cleaned kitchen. He probably wanted to talk about Lydia's un-Lydia behavior.

Leaning against the counter Sheriff Stilinski eyed his son. The boy was still in his wet and dirty clothes, too caught up in taking care of the girl to take care of himself. He rubbed a hand hard against his brow. "What's going on here Stiles?" He asked, watching his son collapse into a table chair like his bones were made of lead.

Stiles shrugged, his shoulders heavy. He felt like his bones were made of Adamantium. Only he wasn't Wolverine, he felt more like Jubilee. Unhelpful and usually messing things up. "I don't know, Dad." He answered, half honest. He threw a hand up, "She's kinda, I don't know. She showed up calm."

The Sheriff watched carefully, studying his son's face. He looked tired, worn out. He felt bad for his son for a second. "Why would she come to you?"

"Maybe because I was her date that night. I was the one how found her. I got Jackson to take her."

"Does she know? That you love her?"

It was three in one. How convenient. She didn't even check the ingredients, knowing she'd probably faint if she did. Harsh Sulfates and oils there to eat her hair. How could one soap even begin to wash everything? It was impossible. She shook her head washing her face with, and she shivered, bar soap. It was green. Thankfully on purpose. Its smelled good. It would smell better on a guy, but she used what she had. She scrubbed her hair and then everything else. No conditioner. Not a dab. The gel matched the soap. How nice.

Wrapping a towel around her, she stepped out of the shower. She knew it was far too much to ask for moisturizer. The soap had claimed to have that too. But still she wiped the steam from the mirror and pulled open his medicine cabinet. A razor, shave cream, tooth paste, an inhaler with a prescription to Scott McCall. Cute. Along the bottom row was a line of old orange bottles. Nerve pills and anti-depressants, she recognized the same meds she spit out when no one was looking. His were expired, the last script was for a year ago.

They were various degrees of empty.

Shuffling in the next room had her pulling on the comic book pants. She rolled them twice and tightened the strings. The teeshirt dwarfed her. It could have been a dress. And not a mini dress either. She hadn't noticed their heights were so drastic. She knew her heels were the cause. A thought hit her and she smirked at the thought of him doing her laundry. Washing her panties. Stepping out of the bathroom, she watched her host pull his own shirt over his head.

His back arched and his stomach rippled, his arms taunt above his head. He was a fine specimen, she noted as she leaned against the door. They were in his bedroom.

Stiles pulled the new shirt over his head to see Lydia against the doorframe, her smirk showing that she was all there. Perfectly Lydia with a towel wrapped around her head. "You look like a shaman." He joked, motioning to the towel around her head. "Read my palm?"

"I might need a comb to get past the hair." She replied with a raised brow as she walked over to his bed. She sat with her feet under her, pulling the towel down and scrubbing her hair with it. "Your soap is three in one." She spat like a curse, looking up at him like he was the worst.

He had to laugh. "Its convenient." He defended. "I spend less time showering." Lydia looked at him accusingly, pursing her lips. Any shower that took less than thirty minutes didn't get you clean. It couldn't. Unless it was a pressure wash. With harsh chemicals. And a brillo pad. Two brillo pads.

Three brillo pads.

Stiles leaned against his dresser, watching her dry her hair. It smelled like his shampoo it was kind of funny. He smiled. "Are you at your Dad's house this week? Or your Mom's?" He asked. He didn't know if she was safe to drive. He needed to know where he was going to bring her.

Lydia shook her head to neither. "I told my mom I was staying the night with Allison." She shrugged her shoulders under his shirt, throwing the towel at his hamper. "I figured I'd head to her house after the stop at yours." She found the remote for his television. "Movie while we wait for my dress to dry?"

Stiles frowned, watching as she easily tossed him the remote and picked up the Xbox controller. Netflix. "Lydia...your dress is hang dry..." that'd take hours...he didn't know how his Dad would take a co-ed sleepover. Especially if it was Lydia. In his bed. With no panties, cause they were in his dryer with her socks as her dress hung over it on a towel. She'd taken a nap though, she'd be up late. It was fine, as long as she

Didn't go to sleep.

Lydia looked up innocently, blinking her wide eyes. "Star Wars or nature documentary?" She asked before he could protest. Part of her didn't want to go. Part of her knew she should. But the part that controlled her body selected the movie before the boy could deny her. She felt safe here, for whatever reason. As long as he stayed in that desk chair and she was in his line of sight, she knew Peter Hale couldn't get her. She believed him. Believed that nothing could get her. She didn't know why. It wasn't like Stiles was some big man. She doubted he could take Prada on. But the way he looked at her? It made her feel, safe. She remembered the first time she'd lost it, after the movie rental parking lot. He'd came to see her, no one else did. She even heard he'd waited for her the whole time she'd been in the hospital. She blinked at the text on the screen, her bottom lip wobbling. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. She focused. She actually liked this movie.

Stiles watched as she stretched back on his bed. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad he thought. Lydia Martin was in his bed, wanting to watch the original Star Wars. Hell, he'd watch the prequel if she wanted. Okay...probably not. But still it was quite the thought. He looked over his shoulder at her.

She was asleep before R2D2 even rolled on the screen. Grumbling, he stood. Of course. He pulled his blanket over her, once again thanking the cleaning gods that his sheets were done. "I know where my future lies, oh shaman." He muttered, watching as she turned onto her side and put her fist under her chin. She looked peaceful. "It lies downstairs, on the small couch, while the girl of my dreams sleeps in my bed." He turned back to the television. "And I don't even get to finish Star Wars."

He found his Dad in his bed du jour, arms crossed and feet on the coffee table. He looked at him with a raised brow, taking in the pillow and quilt combo that Scott usually took when he slept on the couch. "Lydia passed out?"

"Yup." Stiles nodded, ignoring his Dad's hissing laugh as he threw the pillow down on the couch. Hard.

"Kick you out of your bed?" The Sheriff asked, smiling harder at his pouting son.

Stiles glared, "Yup." He popped.

The Sheriff laughed all the way to his room. He even laughed at four that morning as he walked out the door to work, his son laying half off the couch. He'd checked to see Lydia curled up like a Princess in his son's bed.

When Stiles woke up for school, Lydia was gone. But in her place was a basket with a big bow on his doorstep. High maintenance Lydia. He shook his head as he read the card.

'Stiles, this is soap. Shampoo. Conditioner. Facial wash. Moisturizer. SOAP. I've taken your 3 in 1 lie. That unhygienic bar too. You'll thank me.'

The bow had bubbles on it. How she'd done it, he'd never know.

.

...

An: whew! That was a long one. I liked writing this though...but now I'm off to work on Crave! I WILL be returning to this though! If its wanted that is...