Stiles & Lydia
Tagging â Lydia Martin ( a-walking-cataclysm ) âVerse â Weâll Fall Apart Timeline â September, 2015 Location â Airport Near Beacon Hills Triggers â Pregnancy, Morning Sickness, Medical, Severe Angst, Rape, Murder, Blood, Nogtisune Notes â
Lydia:
Stiles is waiting for her at the airport. She could blame it on the air conditioner; but thatâs not the reason Lydiaâs insides go numb. She exhales, her throat feels like itâs closing and her eyes lose focus and for the life of her she can only stand there like a deer in headlights, her entire face paling as she just stares at him.
âStiles.â she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.
Murderer. Rapist.
Nothing was the same after Allison died. She was haunted everywhere she went- voices, whispers- and not just from the living; soft, unintelligible words followed her from class to class, in the car as she drove home, when she was with the pack, at night as she lay in bed. The voices never stopped. Her own pain never stopped. MIT couldnât have come sooner. Sheâd left early- graduated as soon as her acceptance letter came in the mail and never looked back.
And it was wonderful.
She hadnât missed Beacon Hills and now she was back.
She pretended not to see him and walked past him, quickly, making her way towards the bathroom.
Stiles:
Theyâd gone, all of them. It happened for a reason, the disintegration of relationships, the friends heâd thought heâd carry with him for a life time. Worse, he hadnât made new ones, not at college, or in law school, or now back in Beacon Hills. Stiles lived with his father, missing the days when things had been simple.
To call those days âsimpleâ made Stiles smirk, the laughter in his belly never quite making it to the surface. It died in his throat, a snake of fear, regret, and resentment coiling through his gut, sliding through his intestines, and then gone again. He couldnât live in that regret, couldnât take back the things heâd done while possessed by the Nogitsune, or change the darkness that lived in his soul.
Scott had been his anchor the way that Allison had been Scottâs, and now they were both lost at sea.
She walked past, a moment that took him back to his sophomore year of high school. âSame old Lydia.â
Stiles rolled his eyes and turned to follow after her. He didnât have to, didnât know that he wanted to. If she had nothing to say to him, he had little to say to her in response. His friends couldnât forgive him for the things that heâd done. He couldnât forgive himself for the things that heâd done.
âLet me get your bags, at least.â










