#anabthchse

Of course! Thank you for sending this in; I really liked writing this one! 

(this takes place immediately following 5x16, aka one of the greatest episodes of Teen Wolf we’ll ever get)

#13: things you said at the kitchen table

Send me a prompt!

Stiles is reasonably convinced that the world doesn’t start turning again until Lydia opens her eyes.

At least, it feels that way to him. For those terrifying thirty seconds that her eyes are closed and her breath is nonexistent, Stiles doesn’t think he breathes. And when he meets Scott’s eyes across the clinic table Lydia lays on, his own eyes full of anguish and despair and hopelessness, he can tell from Scott’s expression that he can’t hear her heartbeat anymore.

And then, Lydia’s sharp intake of breath echoes through the silent room, her eyes fluttering open, and Stiles, too, can breathe again.

He can’t even fully describe the relief he feels when she nods that yes, she’s okay, clinging onto his hand like it’s her personal lifeline. Gently, Stiles helps her sit up, Scott stepping in to help as well, and he can feel her, warm and real and alive, as he runs his palm up and down her back.

He doesn’t let go of her hand until her mom walks in and seizes her daughter in a hug, cradling her head to her chest. His heart swells when Lydia tells Natalie that he saved her, that small smile creeping across her lips, her eyes shining. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been more in love with her than he is in that moment, when she looks at him like that, her green eyes filled with soft emotion.

“Let’s get you home, sweetie,” Natalie finally says, breaking the silence, and Lydia doesn’t respond— instead, her eyes find Stiles again, locking onto his. Stiles moves forward as Natalie moves back, releasing her daughter from the hug, and Stiles immediately latches onto her hand again.

“I’m coming with you,” Stiles tells her, and she smiles gratefully, nodding her head slightly.

He leaves the jeep keys with Scott— he’s not exactly positive how he’s going to get home afterwards, but all he knows right now is that he’s not leaving Lydia’s side, not even for the five minute car ride to her house from the animal clinic. They sit together in the backseat, hands still linked together, and Stiles’s arm is around her again, his other hand smoothing over her back, running back and forth over her shoulder. This time, he’s not trying to keep her from screaming, not begging her to hold on for just a little bit longer; now, he’s just running his hand over her to remind himself that she’s really here. That they really did it, and that she’s alive.

Natalie is flustered when they do finally reach the house, hovering as Stiles helps Lydia walk inside. He sits next to her at the kitchen table as her mom rummages through cabinets, looking for something, he figures. The guilt over locking her daughter up in that hellhole is evident on Natalie’s face; Stiles can see it every time she looks at her daughter.

“Are you hungry?” Natalie asks, clasping and unclasping her hands. “Do you want anything? Anything at all?”

“I’d like some tea,” Lydia offers, voice quiet, and her mom nods, immediately fetching a mug and putting it under the Keurig.

Natalie slides a steaming mug of tea across the table a moment later, before staring at her daughter again, her expression a mix of concern and guilt. “I’m going to call Melissa,” she finally says, fetching her cell phone from her pocket. “I know Deaton said you should be fine, but I want to see if she’ll come by, just to look.”

“Okay,” Lydia responds, clutching her mug in the hand not intertwined with Stiles’s, watching as her mother slips out of the room. Stiles looks at her again— her hair is dirty, laced with blood and now mistletoe, her robe bloodstained, her skin still too pale— but again, the only thing he can feel is an overwhelming sense of  gratitude that they found her before it was too late.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stiles asks her, voice quiet, and she turns to face him fully. Even with that gaunt, haunted look on her face, her eyes are filled with gratitude and warmth and— reverence, he almost thinks. It’s hard for him to identify, because it’s not a look Lydia often bestows on him. It’s that same look she gave him when he told her he’d search the school all night for Barrow, the look she gave him when she kissed him and he told her she was really smart. She presses her lips together before they curl into a smile ever so slightly, and her eyes get all light, golden flecks appearing in the green. It takes Stiles’s breath away every time she looks at him like that.

“I’m okay,” she insists, breaking eye contact and gazing down at herself. Her smile fades at the sight of bloodstains on her robe— a constant reminder of what they’d done to her in that place. Before he can even think, even process, Stiles is pulling off his flannel, offering it to Lydia. She meets his eyes gratefully, shrugging off the filthy robe, and Stiles stands, taking the offending piece of clothing and putting it right in the trash.

When he returns to the table, she has shrugged into his flannel, her small frame swimming in his too-big shirt. Her hands are almost hidden below the cuffs of the sleeves, the shoulder seams hanging somewhere around her biceps.

“The voices are gone now,” she tells him, meeting his eyes again, both hands grasping her mug, and Stiles almost wants to cry at the quiet relief in her voice. He can’t believe what that monster Valack did to her, subjecting her to the voices echoing in her head, amplifying them until she had no choice but to scream.

“Good,” Stiles breathes, no sure what else to say. She’s got a haunted look in her eyes as she stares at the other end of the table; Stiles can tell she’s not really looking at anything, that instead, she’s trapped in her own thoughts.

“I killed him, didn’t I?” she asks, voice rough and low, and Stiles freezes. “I screamed, and he—” she squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head slightly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, Lydia,” he interjects, because he knows what she feels right now. Guilt over Donovan still gnaws at him, even now, after he’s come to terms with what has happened and accepted that he really had no say in it. He couldn’t have foreseen what would happen, and he knows, really, it wasn’t completely his fault. Admitting that to himself still hadn’t helped completely assuage the guilt that still lingers.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Stiles assures her. “You tried not to scream, but he made you. Okay? You couldn’t control it.”

“I should have been able to,” she tells him, finally meeting his eyes. He takes her hand, squeezing it, and he wants nothing more than to banish the guilt from her eyes. He doesn’t know what else to say— he knows, truly, it’s not her fault at all, but nothing he says will make her stop blaming herself.

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Stiles tells her, running his thumb over the back of her hand. Her expression softens, and she finally meets his eyes again.

“Thank you,” she whispers, giving him that look again that just stops his heart right in its tracks. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

“I— of course,” he tells her, like she needs to thank him for rescuing her. As if he wouldn’t have broken into Eichen ten times over, fought off every orderly there singlehandedly, just to get her out and to safety.

“Always, okay?” he tells her, scooting his chair closer, smoothing her hair out of her face. “I’m never gonna leave you behind.”

Sticks with balls of baked batter at the end of them, dipped in frosting. 

y’all I never reveal my age on here but just this...

Honestly at that age, it’s a pretty big age difference, and, even more important, a big gap in experience. I’m 19 myself and the idea of hitting on someone who’s not even 17 makes me very uncomfortable. And of course that’s me, and you’re you, but *you* are uncomfortable, then maybe it’s not worth it.

This is me 90% of the time sorry I can’t help, just relate ��

And Catherine continues to save every day ever.