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  True Irish Ghost Stories - Banshees

The Banshee’s method of foretelling death in olden times differed from that adopted by her at the present day: now she wails and wrings her hands, as a general rule, but in the old Irish tales she is to be found washing human heads and limbs, or bloodstained clothes, till the water is all dyed with human blood—this would take place before a battle. So it would seem that in the course of centuries her attributes and characteristics have changed somewhat.

Stiles looked at her, locked gazes with her, making sure she knew he meant what he was about to say.   “Then you gravely underestimate the way I feel about you,” he assured her quietly.  ”Because Lydia?  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.  And my greatest failure, clearly, is not assuring that you knew that.”  

And god, he really had failed her, hadn’t he?  His expression softened, his gaze fell to the ground in shame.

Viridian hues shifted to lock upon the amber flecked ones that were now staring back at her. As the words slipped through the brief period of silence that had befallen them the nogitsune realized just how easy it would be to manipulate Stilinski in this body. Why hadn't this thought came to mind all those years ago? It didn't matter. What did was that the detective was all too willing to shed a little blood with his beloved out of guilt and that would certainly play right into the plan laid out a few months before. 

Stiles listened to her, and it killed him to hear her talk like this.  She’d been a beacon of hope before, a Banshee who was a herald of death but a source of comfort.  She’d been so bright, so alive, and now…  

He took a step back away from her, nodding a bit as he listened, thinking it all over.  And then he reached for his badge, moving towards her kitchen counter where he set the metal down.  Then he reached for his gun, turning aside to make sure it wasn’t loaded—making sure she saw him clear the round, Stiles catching the bullet as it hopped from the chamber.  He sat the firearm down beside his badge and turned to look at her again.  

He made sure he held her gaze as he reached up to loosen his tie, taking it off and setting it beside the weapon too.  

Arms out casually in surrender and to show her that he was still himself, he told her quietly, “Here I am, Lyds.  Just me.  We’re talking like we used to, like when we were kids.  The Banshee and the broken boy the demons liked to wear, and you fucking listen to me when I tell you right here and now that I’m not here to fix you.  You’ve never needed me to fix you.  It’s one of the first things that made me fall for you, Lydia.  Don’t you get that?  I’m here because I do still love you, despite what you’re doing.  And honestly?  Brace yourself, because I’ve never told anyone this, not even Scott, but all those times I was manipulated and used by monsters to hurt and kill others?  I enjoyed it.  So don’t think for a second that I don’t know exactly what it feels like for you.  I focused so much on the badge to ignore my own desire to explore it.  I was afraid I was going to hurt you.”

A brow lofted with curiosity as he pulled away, stepping back to cross the room. Long strides took Stiles towards the kitchen counter and she watched him closely, taking note of each and every step he made. With his back now towards her she could easily smirk with pride, her previous words having gotten to him just as she had planned and now he was all but relinquishing his morality...for her. 

His love for this particular redhead would be his undoing. Of course he just didn't know that yet. 

The smirk that had held plush lips quickly faded as the man turned on his heel and the banshee's visage shifted back to the facade that he's witnessed only minutes ago. He was making a mistake, and his admittance only cemented that fact. The nogitsune bristled beneath the comely surface of the woman he was wearing and a ripple of pride flowed through him. The truth had been revealed and for all the times that the Stilinski boy had protested his misdeeds now he was admitting to actually relishing in the sensations of having blood on his hands. Perhaps this plan was going to work out better than expected. 

"I know it was more than that, I don’t…I know I’m not that important to you, okay?  But there’s always a final nail hammered into that coffin, and I can’t help feeling like my assholeness was what pushed you over the edge.  We both know I was a dick about…well, everything," Stiles offered, sighing quietly.  

"Lydia, listen to me," he told her, brushing his thumb against the corner of her mouth gently as his other hand reached for one of hers.  "It’s never too late, okay?  We can find a way to fix this.  We can find a way to help you."  

It’s all he’d ever wanted to do for her, of course, but deciding he wasn’t the best for her had been the beginning of the end.  Putting his attention more in his job than her would always be his biggest regret.  ”I still…I love you.  You have to know that.  I love you, and I always will.  And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”  

He couldn't have been that naive about things. Even after several years a part he still thought he meant nothing to her when in actually from the moment she had first got to know him Stiles had been one of the most important people in her life but he'd never believe that no matter how many times she told him. "You know that's not true, and if you honestly believe that you meant nothing to be then there's no reason for you to be here now."

Lydia exhaled in frustration, she was still upset but the gentle touch of his hand was somehow calming and it almost made her forget why she was angry. "You were a dick—I never understood why you fought so hard to have me then you just tossed me aside in the end because you found something you cared about more. I guess that's still true and now you have a fancy gold shield to prove that."