"Would you stop pacing already?" Lydia complains, dropping her hair from where she's been twirling it with her fingers. "You're giving me a headache."

To be fair, it's probably not Stiles' hyperactivity giving Lydia the headache, but the fact that it's been almost 48 hours since her last drink. Trust handy-dandy Dr. Deaton to chose a cheap motel with no minibar and no room service. It makes their money stretch further, sure, but Lydia can't keep her hands from shaking unless she clutches them tightly around her arms. And slipping out to find the nearest liquor store isn't an option when her companions are more paranoid than Lydia's Uncle Hank, the conspiracy theorist.

Derek has been ducking out to random food establishments and the grocery store to bring back nourishment, but when Lydia asks him to bring back a bottle of wine or some beer the first day, he refuses, saying, "We need to be clear headed."

She is too ashamed to admit that she won't be clear headed until that first glass of wine. Werewolves just don't understand when their bodies metabolize alcohol far too quickly to feel the effects. Not that Lydia feels much of an effect anymore, besides not going into withdrawal like this. Her brain is used to working under increased levels of dopamine and this sudden drop off just is not working for her.

Stiles turns to speak to Lydia, probably to tell her why he can't stop pacing like a hyperactive hamster, but then he goes still and cocks his head. Werewolves. Can't live with them, can't seem to get rid of them. "Derek needs me," he says, even though Lydia hasn't heard anything. "Something weird down the block. Stay here."

And then he' gone and Lydia is left to herself again – with no one to tell her exactly what "something weird" is supposed to mean and only three channels on the TV. Not that she can stomach the TV at the moment.

You know what? Lydia thinks to herself after ten minutes of trying to take a nap and failing. This is bullshit and I don't have to put up with it.

Lydia makes sure her protective amulet is secure around her neck, puts on the least conspicuous clothes that managed to make the trip to the motel (Deaton still won't agree to bring more), and jots down a note on the pad next to the telephone.

Out for supplies, back before 5, she writes, adding a little smiley face just for panache. Then Lydia leaves the motel room and sets off down the street toward the bar she'd seen on their way in. She has plenty of cash for a drinking trip (though most of it is in the motel room safe) and plans on getting herself the driest martini this side of the Mississippi as soon as she walks in the door.

She manages to make it the five blocks down a very busy highway of a street without werewolves stopping her or breaking a heel, so Lydia is in better spirits by the time she pushes her way into "Dale's Bar and Grill." To be honest, Lydia prefers cocktail lounges to anything grill-adjacent, but beggars cannot be choosers and she feels like the thirstiest woman in the world.

The bartender, a man with white balding hair that doesn't match the smooth friendliness of his face and a gut that hangs six inches too far over his belt, calls to Lydia as soon as she enters the bar, "Sit anywhere you like, sweetheart." He says "sweetheart" in the way a grandfather would, rather than a letch, and it puts Lydia at ease almost instantly.

She sits at the bar gracefully, flipping her bangs away from her face with one hand and says, "Martini, gin. Very dry. Please!" She finishes off her request with a bright, doe-eyed smile and sees the moment the bartender melts in her hand.

"You got it!" The bartender takes a shaker out from under the bar and pours in a generous measure of gin, which makes Lydia's mouth water. He shakes a bottle of vermouth in that general direction without actually adding any.

"Why do you do that?" Lydia asks. She's been curious before, but never enough to ask or look it up.

The bartender smiles as he adds an olive and slides the cocktail across the bar to Lydia. In a stage whisper he answers, "So the other ingredients don't get nervous." Lydia laughs and shakes her head as the bartender walks away toward another patron, who's holding up an empty pint glass.

Since one of the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal is nausea, Lydia hasn't eaten much that day. If this whole on-the-run with no alcohol thing is going to be her life now, Lydia thinks it's best to limit herself to this one martini, just to make the next few weeks bearable. Of course, she knows the rationalization well. She also knows the rationalizations for the next drink and the one after that better than the back of her hand. To stave off the probably-inevitable, Lydia makes it a game. She limits herself to one delicious, life-affirming sip every two minutes, by the clock high on the wall behind the bar. It's a nice rate that shouldn't get her buzzed, just ease the headache a little.

Eight sips and sixteen minutes in, a young man sits down next to Lydia. He's wearing dirty jeans and boots, but his shirt is a nice short-sleeved polo. She pegs him as a construction worker just off a shift that started early in the morning. His smile is nice and even though he's holding a long neck, his breath doesn't smell like alcohol when he says, "Hi."

Lydia contemplates brushing him off, telling him she wants to be left alone or that she's meeting someone, but he looks nice and she can read the writing on the wall that is Stiles and Derek. She knows it's foolish to think that she'll be able to return to her former life, to return to any sort of stable life. Lydia will be part of their three-person pack, but she won't be a werewolf and she won't be with either of them. Maybe once things settle down again and Derek stops making stupid decisions, Lydia will be free to leave and pursue her own life. She might as well take comfort where she can, while she can.

"Well, hello," she says, with a carefully measured smile – just enough to keep Mr. Contractor muscles on the hook.

"Hey," he says, returning her smile. "You're awfully pretty to be in a place like this."

"I'm not," she says, reminded of the fact that all of the beauty supplies she'd scrounged the first day got left in the van at the outlet mall and she's been making do with the motel amenities. "But it's sweet of you to say so."

"I'm Andy," he says, holding out his hand. Lydia gives it a firm shake.

"Lydia."

Andy smiles. "I don't know any other Lydias. It mean something?"

"Just that my mother has read Pride and Prejudice far too many times," Lydia tells him, pushing away the thought that she hasn't seen her mother in almost two years. She might not see her ever again. Of course, it's been almost five years since she's seen her father, so he's not even worth thinking about. Obviously.

"At least you weren't named after your aunt," Andy says with a laugh and Lydia can't help but let out a chuckle of her own.

She takes her ninth sip and leans a little toward him. "So, is your legal name Andrea or something?"

He laughs and takes the first swallow of beer Lydia has seen from him. "No. Just ... Andy."

"Well, Andy, tell me about your day so far. Good day? Bad day? Room for improvement?"

They chat about Andy's job (pouring concrete) and the weather and eventually start discussing the pros and cons of watching old Nickelodeon cartoons before bed. It strikes Lydia as all very normal and she keeps taking one sip every two minutes until Andy distracts her with a story about being the best man at his brother's wedding and how he lost the ring.

Suddenly it's been almost five minutes since sip seventeen. Lydia's martini glass is almost empty, so she puts her hand up to get the bartender's attention (for another martini or a soda, she hasn't decided yet). Before the bartender sees her, Stiles bursts into the bar, bearing his new fangs. Without so much as a warning, he grabs Andy off his stool and growls into his face, "Mine!"

Andy gasps in surprise and fairly obvious terror, but he doesn't squeak or whine, which earns him points in Lydia's book. Of course, her book is a little full at the moment with an out-of-control werewolf who apparently won't even let her have a drink with another man. Freaking fantastic.

"Stiles!" she cries in the voice that always used to work on Jackson. It's a bit like talking to an attack dog, which is dehumanizing but it works. Stiles turns to look at her. "Let him go right now! And what have I told you about wearing that mask in public?"

Stiles tilts his head and it takes a moment of Lydia staring him down, but then his eyes widen in understanding and he lets go of Andy. Of course Derek picks that moment to burst in. All five patrons of the bar are staring, so Lydia yells at Derek, "I thought you were keeping an eye on him! You know how much that mask of his unnerves people!" She gestures to the witnesses. Andy's eyes are so wide that Lydia's fairly certain he doesn't believe a word she says.

Stiles takes a step back from Andy and Derek grabs him by the shoulders, hauling him back even further. Frowning at Lydia, Derek growls, "When you weren't in the room when we got back, he freaked out. Let's go." Without further ado, Derek grabs Stiles at the back of his neck and physically pulls him out of the bar. Lydia sighs in relief when Stiles makes it out the door without losing his wolf face. If he had, his appearance would have been much more difficult to explain.

Lydia pulls a twenty from the small roll in her pocket and slips it onto the bar as she tells Andy, "I'm so sorry. My brother was in an accident and has severe brain damage. Unfortunately it's not so severe that he doesn't remember how to do monster make-up. Sorry."

As Lydia flees, she hears Andy say softly, "It's okay," like it's not at all okay.

When she gets outside, Lydia sees their current car, a red Kia, parked haphazardly in front of the building. Stiles sits in the back, head sheepishly bowed, while Derek approaches the driver's side door. He frowns at Lydia over the roof of the car and growls, "Get in."

Lydia entertains for just a moment the thought of refusing and running off, but sighs and gets in the car anyway.

"We're going to have to pack up everything quickly and move," Derek says, his body language betraying how furious he must be. He pulls out of the bar parking lot with a squeal of the tires and asks, "Why couldn't you just stay put?"

"I had a headache," Lydia says, her tone clipped and sharp. "I was going to head back in a few minutes."

"You disappeared!"

"I left a note!" Lydia notices that Stiles has been unusually quiet. Well, he should be. His lack of control ruined a perfectly nice conversation for her. Turning in her seat to look at Stiles, Lydia asks, "What was with all that 'mine' bullshit back there? I don't belong to you!"

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, actually sounding much more repentant than Lydia expects. "This is all really new, okay? I didn't see a note and I panicked and I just ... instinct, man. I saw you with that guy and I couldn't stop myself from flipping out."

Lydia turns to Derek as he pulls up outside their motel room and asks, "Can't you control him? Or are we going to have to find a leash?"

Lydia doesn't wait for an answer before flinging her car door open and stalking toward the room. She doesn't want to belong to these werewolves, but the fact is that she does. She's pack. And the saddest part is, if she really wanted to leave, she could. It would be easy. No, Lydia belongs with them because she loved Jackson and she loved Allison and she grew to love the whole pack before she left them in a pique of pride or independent spirit or whatever the fuck she'd called it in the two years she'd spent either justifying her decision or drinking it away.

A tear hangs from the tip of her nose and Lydia's hands are shaking by the time she gets to the motel room door. She can't steady them well enough to get the key card in the fucking lock and when a hand lands lightly on her shoulder, Lydia whirls around and cries, "I hate this!" She pounds a fist against Stiles' chest and he takes it without flinching. Like they always do. "God, I hate this so much! I'm twenty-three years old! My biggest worry should be waking up in time to make rounds and whether my hair looks cute when I go out with my friends! I shouldn't be running for my life and coming down from a two-year-long bender my liver will never forgive me for!"

One of Stiles' arms slides around Lydia's shoulder, pulling her close, and he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

Her forehead against Stiles' chest, Lydia nods. She hears Derek's careful footsteps approach, like he's giving them a moment they don't have to spare. Which they don't. Lydia knows this. She knows Derek started a war between his pack and the largest hunter organization west of Texas. She knows word of Stiles' outburst will spread and the hunters will find them. She knows she'll be dead before Stiles, and maybe Derek if he fights hard enough that they have to put him down instead of showing him fresh corpses and letting him loose again to mourn anew. The morbid part of Lydia's brain wonders if it's possible for a werewolf to kill himself. Probably, she decides, if he's creative enough.

There's no time to waste on this weakness, so Lydia pulls herself together and holds her key out toward Derek, stepping away from the door so he can unlock it. It's only after they've packed and Lydia's sitting in the back seat of the Kia, alone, that she whispers, "Thank you for trying to rescue me, even if there was no need."

Stiles nods back at her, his eyebrows repentant and his retinas flashing reflected light from the headlights of the car behind them. Derek grunts, "Of course."