#keysmashblog

But when she made her way to Stiles', her feet decided to carry her to Beacon Hills hospital instead. It wasn't a fugue state, or anything, even if the initial thought made her stomach twist unpleasantly, but rather she was lost in her thoughts, until she'd stopped in front of Scott's mother and asked to see the room with Hale, please. 

She looked at her like it was some sort of werewolf thing, a mix of worry and maybe a tiny bit of pity, and Lydia flicked a piece of her hair over her shoulder and said it was just a visit, and kept any anxiety off her face until her heels clicked slowly down the hall and she stopped at the door.  Lydia was never the type of person to visit people in the hospital; at least not before, when she just came along to be sure that Jackson could walk afterwards. But there was something about Cora, something Lydia felt--guilty for, maybe, something that made her heart twist like it used to with Jackson, not so dead and cold like she tried to make it sound. Cora had gotten hurt because of her, even if she was stupid enough to try and attack Aiden head on, and even if her words--all of them--still stung like something fierce, Lydia made her way across the room and sits in the chair. Cora looked strange in that bed, too small, too fragile for someone who'd just gotten up from every blow she'd had before, and it made Lydia's mouth curve into a frown, recalling their argument and the way she'd just made Lydia bristle, and she shook her head, reaching across the bed and covering the small, fragile hand with her own. 

There’s nothing she could really say—she wasn’t like Stiles, couldn’t just talk to nothing, so Lydia settled for letting her gaze sweep over Cora, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and pressed her lips together. “Are you really going to let a blow to the head be what takes you out? You made me think you were better than that. You can't just show up andinsult us, and then decide to up and die." Lydia snapped her mouth shut when Cora stirred; she made a noise, and Lydia's eyebrows knitted together, and the hesitant hand on hers finds a grip instead, calloused hands against soft ones--just as Cora's hand came up at the same time, turned over so that Lydia's fit into hers, smaller, softer than Jackson's, than Allison's even, and then the sound of footsteps broke the spell.

It's early on a Saturday morning when Derek gets a visitor at the loft. It's not like he's asleep--kept awake by old memories, if not by the way Peter looked at him like he was a thing of pity when he came back from the distillery. The story had to have come out to someone, and Derek can't even bring himself to be angry; not even when it's Stiles who comes to his door before the sun's fully up. He's wearing track pants and a t-shirt and is drenched in sweat, like he'd run all the way here--absently, Derek recalls an overheard conversation about going for runs in the morning, and can't imagine how much energy this kid must have without that--and he's just staring at Derek with those huge brown eyes, determination in them, like he'd been considering coming over here to ask that the whole time. 

It twists something old and familiar in his chest, and he lets out a deep sigh, turning out of the way to let Stiles come in. He does immediately, stumbling into the room with the grace of a newborn gazelle, as usual, and folds his arms as he leans across the table where the maps of the vault still are. Derek's tired, down to his bones; even just looking at Stiles is making him want to sleep, but he steps across the loft now, where the floorboards are warped from the day with Boyd, washing away the blood from when Kali stabbed him in his own apartment. He's somehow become the world's punching bag, and if anyone can handle it, it's Derek Hale, but it's just another stack to add to the weight on his shoulders, and he's fighting it all falling on him all at once. 

And maybe it's going to help him to say something--Derek doesn't open to anyone, doesn't trust anyone, hasn't since he had his heart burned out of his chest one too many times, but he looks at Stiles, the little shit tagalong he got stuck with when he'd tried to take Scott under his wing, and opens his mouth to talk. "Yes."

It's hours later when they've finished talking--when he's laid the story of Paige and Kate out on the table, vaguely thought about Jennifer (she's different, he wants to say, he's sure, but there's something deep in his gut that's saying something's not right), that Stiles cracks some sort of a joke and Derek gives him a push, light, but enough to send him windmilling across the apartment anyway. Stiles' mouth turns up in a grin, and it's not "I can't believe you'd do that to an innocent" or, "how could you be so stupid". Instead, he laughs, bright and warm and effusive as always, brushes himself off from where he'd fallen on the floor, and says, tone joking, "I hate you."