Her backyard abuts the forest, the trees casting dark shadows across her old swing set. As a child she spent a lot of timing playing in the leaves, pretending she was a woodland fairy. She’s never seen glowing eyes or unidentifiable beasts, though sometimes she thinks she hears howling. It’s probably a trick of her brain though, and it only seems to happen on the edges of sleep, with bright moonlight shining through her window and the local horror stories echoing in her ears.

She knows running in the woods by herself is dangerous anyways. Not because of the beasts of course, but because there’s no cell phone signal and no one close enough to hear her scream. But she does it anyways, thriving off the adrenaline bursting through her at breaking the rules. She’s not quite sure how she ends up in front of the house, the siding peeling and roof caved in and wood around the broken windows blackened. It’s what happens to her sometimes, just ending up places without knowing how she got there. The sleepwalking and the nightmares started on her 12th birthday, the night before this very house burned to the ground. She can still remember the dream she had, children crying and people screaming in agony, flames flickering through windows. She’d woken up right here, alone in the woods in her pajamas. A woman had come out of the house and saw her there, had taken her hand and guided her back home.

The next day the woman and her family were dead.

Lydia tried not to think about it, tried to hide the fact that her mother had to lock her in her bedroom at night. It got less intense, the closer she got to graduation, but she still wakes up screaming every once in a while, and her freshman year roommate once found her wandering around Berkeley in her pajamas.

But standing here in front of this eerie house, she swears she can hear voices, singing and sighing, urging her to go inside. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees something flicker, and she spins about, pulling the headphones out of her ears. The woods is silent, almost too silent, no birds chirping or insects rejoicing in the summer heat. She glances back towards the house, frowning at the front door hanging on one hinge and the dark, wet stain on the front porch. Her pulse pounds in her ears, drowning out everything except the faint but familiar voice beckoning for her to come inside.

Going inside would be a terrible idea. The house is most likely unsafe, the supports weakened by flames and time. She takes a hesitant step forward anyways, drawn like a moth to a flame. That familiar voice gets louder, insistent, so she takes another step, and then another, wrapping the cord to her headphones around and around her fingers. As she’s about to take her fourth step, a twigs snaps off to her right. Her heart jumps in her throat as she flinches toward the sound, only to be slammed backwards, rough bark scraping against her back through her thin t-shirt.

She can’t breathe, her heart caught in her throat and her pulse pounding too fast, unable to focus on anything. Red eyes. Red eyes and coarse hair and claws pricking her bare arms. Rank, hot breath blowing across her face and teeth, so many teeth, sharp and glistening. Her feet aren’t even touching the ground, pinned up against the tree the way she is. Her phone and ear buds lay uselessly on the ground, stark white and out of place on the rotting leaves. She swallows hard and closes her eyes, counting slowly to ten and hoping maybe this is just another one of her nightmares.  

But the prick of claws against her skin doesn’t fade, and she doesn’t feel the warm comfort of her childhood bed beneath her. Steeling herself, she forces her eyes open, and looks.

The unnatural red eyes have been replaced with greenish ones, distinctly human but with a wild, animalistic edge to them. This… creature seems to be lacking normal eyebrows, though the brow bone is bumpy and more defined. Its cheeks are covered with coarse hair, flowing from the dark matted hair on its head all the way down its jaw. There’s too many teeth in its mouth, so many that its lips are forced to remain parted. The rest of its body resembles a human man, corded arms and muscles rippling across its shoulders and chest. It’s wearing tattered jeans but no shirt, skin grubby with dirt and what looks suspiciously like blood. The claws on its feet match the claws on its hands, long and yellowed and sharp.

Lydia can’t bring herself to fight back. She can see the power rippling beneath the surface, the claws and fangs that could tear her to shreds in an instant. Instead she stares into its eyes, at the fear and vulnerability hiding behind the animalistic anger. It’s almost like there’s a person in there, hiding beneath the dirt and the teeth and the blood.

She tilts her chin up in defiance, if only to make it so she’s looking down on the creature.

“Put. Me. Down.”

The creature growls low in its chest, the sound rumbling down Lydia’s spine like the bass in a club. She fears for a moment that she’s chosen the wrong path that this thing is going to tear her apart. But then it blinks, painfully slow, that strange red glow fading in and out of its eyes.

And just like that, it's gone.

Lydia slides down the tree, sinking down onto the leaves with her knees pulled up to her chest. She needs to get out of there, needs to run, needs to lock all the doors behind her. But she can’t bring herself to move. After a few shaky breaths she pushes herself to her feet, gathering up her phone and clutching it for dear life. She glances back at the house, the front door suspiciously closed.

She runs all the way home.

Lydia should leave it alone. She should probably tell the police, or animal control or her mom. Someone. She definitely shouldn’t be researching what she saw, and she most certainly shouldn’t be purposefully marching back out there in flip flops and yoga pants with a bag of clothes in one hand and groceries in the other.

But she’s bored and home on summer break and relatively friendless. Allison is visiting her relatives in France, and Jackson hasn’t returned from London since he left without saying goodbye after graduation. She doesn’t really have other real friends, though maybe she could consider McCall and Stilinski, if she is going to play six degree of Allison Argent. But two years of college have only made her more independent, so she’s not about to call up some boys for help. She can handle this.

The intrigue of the whole thing is what’s pulling her in. She’s always been a curious person, and the scientist side of her wants to be able to identify just what this creature is, or man as she’s starting to think. (The scientist part of her is also shuddering at the unreliable sources she stayed up into the wee hours of the morning researching). But if lycanthropy, yes lycanthropy, is really a thing, she wants to be the first person to document it. Which is why there’s a notebook tucked in between some of her dad’s old t-shirts.

This is a chance for discovery.

There's no voices this time, no inexplicable pull guiding her. It's just Lydia, her flip flops and her curiosity, making what is probably too much noise as she stomps through the woods. She should probably be more afraid of this creature, but she isn't, not at all. She doesn't think he will hurt her, even if her research says otherwise. There was something in his eyes the other day, a chained awareness that makes her think there's still a man inside of the beast.

The front door of the house is hanging open again, the surrounding woods just as silent if not more so than last time. Lydia stumbles once, her body trying to fight her, trying to stop her from continuing. She marches on, the slap of her flip flops against her feet echoing between the trees.

She makes it all the way to the sagging front porch without being attacked, but she pauses anyway, unsure. When she'd planned this out in her head, she'd expected to be chased away or thrown up against another tree. Maybe he isn't here, maybe she'd imagined the whole thing. She squints at the dark stains she'd noticed previously on the porch. Up this close it looks an awful lot like dried blood. Hopefully it belongs to an animal or something, and she’s not willingly walking into a murderer's trap.

The first step creaks when she puts her weight on it, the second one ominously does the same. She still hasn't been attacked so she keeps moving, cautiously creeping across the porch towards the front door. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they do, she has to fight the urge to run.

He's watching her, crouched at the top of the staircase inside the front door. His eyes are glowing red again, lighting up the darkness as a low growl seems to reverberate about the husk of a house. Lydia swallows and averts her eyes, recalling something she'd read somewhere about direct eye contact presenting a challenge.

“I don't want to hurt you,” she says, keeping her tone as even as she can. The words still stick in her throat, voice unrecognizable in the silence. He cocks his head but his eyes don't dim, still watching, waiting. “I brought some uh, food?” She holds up the bag and waves it at him. One second he's sitting there, staring creepily at her and the next he's leaping, swiping the bag from her hand and running on all fours into what looks like used to be a kitchen.

Lydia follows him once she gets her heart beating again, stepping cautiously around rotten boards and piles of ash and leaves. He growls softly at her, but doesn’t make any move to stop her from coming closer. His claws shred through the grocery bag with ease, and then the paper sandwich wrapper. The actual eating part is a little gross, honestly, bits of food flying around as he chews and gnashes.

“So you're a werewolf huh?” She asks, leaning against the grimy countertop. The chewing stops for a moment, and when she glances over clear, bluish-grayish-greenish eyes are staring back. “Can you understand me?” The werewolf blinks a few times then turns his attention back to the sandwich, finishing the first one and starting right in on the second. “I'll take that as a no.” She sighs and drops the second bag on the counter, turning to rifle through it, searching through the clothes she brought for her notebook.

Her fingers have just closed around the edge when warm breath gusts against the back of neck. She freezes, heart pounding too loud in her ears as a long arm reaches around her, claws slicing through the second bag with terrifying ease. Her dad’s clothes flop out onto the counter along with her notebook. It seems to satisfy him, because he huffs and moves away as silently as he arrived.  

When she turns around he's sitting cross legged on the floor, pulling the sandwich apart slowly, almost savoring it. Slowly, she opens her notebook, and begins to write. She starts with the facts, around six feet tall, dark hair, green eyes that turn red sometimes. Then come the fangs, the claws, the weird facial hair and the missing eyebrows. The page fills up rapidly with her notes, and she flips to a clean one, this time sketching him, sitting on the floor, licking the remnants of the sandwiches he destroyed off his fingers.

He sits and watches her for a moment, head tilted and eyes focused on her pencil moving across the paper. He seems mesmerized by the movement or maybe the sound, eyes blinking slower and slower. Not for the first time Lydia wonders why he’s stuck like this. Most of the research she found suggested that werewolves only changed from human to wolf on the full moon. Some sources said they could change at will, so why is he still like this? Theoretically, he should be able to understand her as well. There’s something going on here that isn’t right.

The werewolf growls low in his throat, eyes burning that eerie red again. He shoots out the front door, fast enough he almost blurs around the edges, leaving Lydia alone in the house. She frowns at the empty spot he left behind, shredded paper and plastic and bits of lettuce littering the floor. Apparently observation hour is over for the day.

She returns the next day, this time armed with some library books, scans of old newspapers from the archives, and a camp chair to sit in. The werewolf is crouched out on the front porch, watching her approach with red eyes. His nostrils flare wildly and his nose lifts, like he’s scenting the air.

“I have perfume on today,” Lydia explains, tossing the bag of lunch meat and chips in his direction. It was cheaper to just by the meat instead of pre-made sandwiches, and she didn’t think he’d really care. By the time she gets her camp chair set up on the leaves and her research spread out across the porch as if it's a table, he’s already halfway through the first pound of sliced turkey. “Gross.”

He gives her what might constitute as an amused look, his eyes (thankfully returned to their greenish hue) crinkling in the corners. It’s so human, and she knows then that she needs to figure out what’s happening to him.

“My name’s Lydia, by the way,” she offers, flipping her notebook open to a clean page. One of the books she found seems promising, pages yellowing and old fashioned type. The name in the front looks an awful lot like Argent, but the script is so elaborate it’s hard to tell. She’s going to have a laugh about this with Allison later, probably. She can’t imagine her best friend being a descendent of a family of what appears to be monster hunters. Although… Allison is an Olympic archer, and she seems to know her way around a knife too. Lydia found Chinese ring daggers under her bed that one time too. So maybe…

She shakes the thought out of her head, carefully flipping to the section labeled lycanthropy. The information seems to be accurate, with the teeth and the claws and the hair. According to this information, the red eyes mean the werewolf in front of her is an alpha, though an alpha is supposed to have a pack. This one certainly doesn’t, unless he’s hiding from them or something.

 Feral

When a werewolf cannot shift back to human form, they have gone feral. Much like a rabid dog, a feral werewolf is dangerous and should be put down immediately. It has lost any part of its human nature, and has given itself over to the beast. The longer a werewolf remains in beta or alpha form, the less likely it will be able to return to human form. Do not engage. A feral wolf is extremely dangerous, show no mercy.

 “Hmmmm,” Lydia glances at her werewolf, eyes squinted as he picks a piece of meat out from between his teeth. “You don’t look very scary to me.” He lets out a low growl, eyes flaring red to match. “Can you understand me? Why can’t you talk?” He just stares at her for a minute before returning to his food, munching almost happily on the Doritos she brought, not seeming to care about the crumbs covering his bare chest. Lydia sighs and shakes her head, continuing to read through the section on feral werewolves. There’s plenty of information about identifying the signs, almost like the author was eager to find a reason to “put down” a werewolf. There’s nothing about the cause though, which is frustrating. She’s sure that the reason he’s stuck like this is the most important piece of the puzzle. Of course, this would be a whole lot easier if wolf man over here could talk.

Giving up on the book, she trades it for the old newspapers she made copies of. There had been a lot of coverage of the Hale Fire when it had happened, eight years ago. She doesn’t remember it too well, too young to fully understand the implications and too overwhelmed with the arrival of her own nightmares. But it’s all there, splashed across the front page of the Beacon Hills Tribune.

They articles start out heavy on sadness, eight lives lost, Talia Hale, three of her children Cora (12), Nathan (10) and Timothy (10), her mother Nora Hale, her sister in law, Kelly Hale, Kelly’s six year old daughter, Malia. Talia’s eldest children, Laura (18) and Derek (16) were out of the house at the time of the fire, attending a school play with their friends. Talia’s brother Peter had been severely burned while trying to rescue his family, and was placed in a medically induced coma. The article goes on, describing Talia’s contributions to the community and the tragedy of losing so many young lives in such a horrible accident. As time goes on, confusion rises. The Fire Marshall declares it an arson, gasoline trailed around the house and splashed through the windows. A strange black powder lines the doorways, and upon further testing is discovered to be derived from the harmless rowan tree.

Lydia frowns and reaches for one of her books, flipping hurriedly to the section detailing werewolves’ weaknesses. Mountain Ash (also referred to as rowan trees), tops the list, stating that werewolves are unable to cross it.

HALES = WEREWOLVES

Lydia scrawls the words in her notebook, pen shaking in her hand. The Hale’s were murdered, children were murdered, possibly because they were something other than human. She continues to read through the newspaper articles, frustration building inside of her as the time stamps grow farther and farther apart, and the information becomes more and more sparse. The articles stop all together until last year, and then they start up again. Peter Hale disappears from the long term care facility he was at. Laura Hale, now 26, is found dead in the very woods she’s currently sitting in. Derek Hale is reported missing by someone he works with out in New York City, and the Tribune picks it up, his mug plastered on the front page.

The captain under the picture says that it’s a few years old, taken on Derek’s graduation day. Lydia scoffs, glaring at the page. She’s smart enough to do the math, and Derek would have graduated high school six years ago. There’s no way 24 year old Derek Hale looks the same now as the baby faced kid in the picture. He looks like his mother, she realizes, heart squeezing when she remembers the soft, warm hand and gentle voice guiding her home that night, eight years ago. The same dark hair, the same soulful eyes, though Derek’s seem to be bluish while she remembers Talia’s as being a warm brown.

Her fingers still on the page, the pieces suddenly clicking together in her head. Swallowing hard, she glances up at the werewolf, only to finding him sitting much closer than she expected, his face only inches from hers. With trembling fingers she hold up the page with Derek Hale’s picture on it, eyes flicking between the stone faced teen and the frankly hot mess of a werewolf sitting in front of her. The hair looks like it could be a match, though her werewolf’s is matted with dirt and possibly blood. It’s the eyes that grab her, that unique mix of blue and green and gold and gray, a swirling color she’d never seen before. Which means…

“Derek.”

He flinches back from her, eyes wide but still green and guarded.

“Derek Hale, that’s you.”

He just continues to stare, but his reaction to the name alone is enough to convince her of her findings. Which now that she thinks about it, is pretty gruesome. “It’s no wonder you’re stuck like this Hale,” she grumbles, reaching for one of the other books she found at the library. “Living in the house where your entire family lost their lives is probably not healthy for anyone.” This book doesn’t yield any more answers, and the facts it does have don’t seem to match up with anything she’s actually observed.

“Maybe I just need to get you in touch with your human side,” she muses, pushing her fingers through her hair with a sigh. She glances up to see if Derek has reacted, but she finds the porch empty save for the remnants of his lunch. “I hate when you do that!” Huffing, she starts to pack up her things, surprised to find that almost two hours have gone by since she headed out here.

Figuring out who Derek is wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she hoped it would be. Usually solving a problem settles her, puts her in a good mood. But maybe the problem is that this isn’t necessarily solved. She’s going to have to figure out how to get him to change back.    

It's almost too easy to fall asleep that night, her brain exhausted from trying to figure things out. She slips into a dream, suddenly twelve years old again, bare feet slipping across damp leaves. Her nightgown flutters around her calves and her teddy hangs from her arm, worn and tattered from years of cuddles. There's no reason for her trek, but she follows her instincts, follows the whispers curling between the dark trees. She can just hear them now, soft murmurs calling to her. Moonlight filters down through the leaves, lighting her path. There's a flickering orange light ahead and she's drawn to it, stepping closer and closer. She stops when she can feel the heat, eyes wide without seeing.

The Hale house is burning in front of her, flames surging out of the grated basement Windows and smoke curling out from beneath the front door. Screams echo in the night air, full of agony and heartbreak. The voices get louder, urging her to do something, anything, everything.

So she does the only thing she can think to do. She screams.

It feels like she’s swimming in the blackest of waters, drifting, trying to find her way to air. A deep roar ripples around her and she blinks her eyes, vision blurring before focusing in on the burning red lights in front of her. It takes a moment to orient herself, to recognize the glowing eyes and the fangs and the leaves beneath her knees. Thick fingers wrap carefully around her forearms as the red eyes fade to a shimmery gray lit by the almost full moon above.

“Derek.” Lydia says his name just to say something, take deep breaths of the warm summer air. She can see the house behind Derek, almost glowing in the moonlight. She realizes with a start this is the exact same spot that Derek’s mother had found her, the exact same spot where she had first screamed, the exact spot where she had last seen the Hale House intact and full of life.

She pushes herself to her feet, ignoring Derek’s steady gaze. He releases her right arm when she tugs on it, swiping hastily at the leaves and dirt sticking to her knees. Her legs are trembling, her hands too, mind and body shaken by the dream (or vision, maybe?) that she just experience.

Derek tugs gently on the arm still in his grasp, claws held carefully away from her skin. He jerks his head towards the path that leads back to her house, tugging on her arm again. Lydia frowns but takes a hesitant step forward. Derek moves with her, guiding her almost, his nose lifted as he scents the air. He leads her all the way back to her house, stopping where the trees meet the green grass of her lawn. Lydia’s painfully reminded of making the same trek with his mother, only with less claws and a lot more kind words. Interestingly she feels just as comforted, walking through the woods with a man who’s been taken over by a beast.

“Thank you,” she whispers, looking up into his face. He nods, and once again she finds herself wondering if he can understand speech to a certain extent. And then he’s gone, releasing her arm and disappearing back into the trees without a sound.

Lydia forces back the lump in her throat, feet slipping across dew damp grass as she makes her way to the back door. She swears she can feel Derek’s eyes on her, watching her let herself into the house. It should probably, no definitely, freak her out a bit, but it doesn’t, not really. Of course she knows that he could kill her in seconds, that he could scale the side of her house and break into her window, that each time she steps foot into those woods she’s risking her life. But she remembers Derek Hale, remembers hearing his laugh echo through the trees during the spring and riding the bus together in elementary school. She remembers the way he used to hold his little sister’s hand, the way he’d thank the bus driver every afternoon. It’s hard to reconcile that cute little boy with the feral werewolf currently living out in the preserve, but she can’t imagine he would hurt her, especially after tonight.

She falls into a fitful sleep, twisting and turning and waking every half hour. When morning finally comes, she’s exhausted. There’s a part of her that wants to go back out to the Hale House, wants to see Derek and try and figure out how to get him back. But she’s beginning to think that she’s in over her head. She’s got five missed text messages, a voicemail from her dad, and she hasn’t spoken to her mom in days. It’s like this whole thing has become an obsession, and it’s obvious that she needs to take a break.

So she leaves her books and research at home and heads to the town pool. In theory, the screaming children and incessant splashing and the smell of sunscreen should distract her. But it doesn’t not really. She needs to solve this problem, and soon. In two weeks she’ll be moving back to school, and Derek will be on his own. Usually she doesn’t care all that much about other people’s problems, but she can’t leave Derek in Beacon Hills like this and have an easy mind. It’s just not right.

So instead of relaxing at the pool, or responding to the texts from her friends, she makes a game plan. If Derek needs to remember his human side, she’s going to have to help him. She’s not sure exactly how to make this work, so she plans to try everything she can think of. Books and memories and music and movies. There has to be something, somewhere that will trigger him.

The next morning she hikes back out there, camp chair in one hand and backpack full of supplies over her shoulder. Sunlight filters down through the leaves, dappling the path ahead of her. She’s beginning to love just being out here, a calmness settling over her that only comes from nature.

Derek seems to be waiting for her, pacing anxiously across the porch. He doesn’t really show his excitement, regarding her with the usual cautious skepticism, his teeth bared. But his eyes don’t turn red and he doesn’t growl, so she takes that as a good sign.

“Alright.” She drops the backpack onto the porch, pulling out the food she brought him. This time she included some vegetables along with the lunch meat, and Derek doesn’t seem to be showing any discretion with what he puts in his mouth. “We’re going to listen to music today.” Derek doesn’t respond, but he does still when Taylor Swift starts playing from the speakers on her phone. It’s not much, but it’s something, and Lydia clings to it.

She keeps up her experiments for days, reading him fairy tales and news articles, listening to music of all kinds, from classical to classic rock to pop. Sometimes she tries to get him to look at photographs, and sometimes she reads the news articles about his family’s deaths. A couple of times she thinks she gets a reaction, his eyes burning red or his nostrils flaring or his eyes crinkling in the corners. But he never speaks.

 By day five, she’s had enough.

“Listen, if I’m going to spend any more time here, you’re going to have to take a bath.” She had come prepared, bringing shampoo and soap and a bath puff. Armed with her supplies and the clothes she had brought for him over a week ago, she marches off towards the river that runs behind the house. She’s operating on the hope that Derek will follow her, especially since she can’t exactly make him do anything.

He just watches her at first, but she refuses to turn around. After a moment he races past her, the sound of his splashing reaching her ears long before she can see the water.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” she sighs, dropping her bag on a rock and slipping off her shoes. “Take off your pants.” As can be expected, Derek ignores her, his jeans turning steadily darker as they soak up water. He’s staring intently into the depths, eyes flickering back and forth. Shaking her head, Lydia pulls on a pair of rubber gloves, and steels her spine. She can do this. She can take this werewolf’s pants off and help him clean up a bit. It’s fine.

“Derek.” He freezes when she says his name, eyes wide. “If you scratch me, I will murder you, understand?” Derek doesn’t say anything, but he stays still, watching as she reaches for the button on his jeans. It’s strange, taking a guy’s pants off without the specific goal of getting to his dick. She pauses with her fingers on his waistband, swallowing hard and praying to anyone who’s listening that he’s wearing boxers and this doesn’t have to be any more awkward. She did not sign up for that level of intimate. No way, that is not part of the contract.

But there’s a small part of her that hopes that maybe being cleaned up with be the thing that brings Derek back.

So she takes a deep breath and goes for it.

Derek doesn’t flinch when she flicks open the button, doesn’t move when she slides down the zipper. Thankfully he’s wearing boxer briefs, Calvin Klein even. He lets her ease his jeans down his legs, carefully lifting his feet so she can pull the off, his claws snagging and tearing just a little.

Lydia folds them carefully and places them next to her bag, before grabbing the soap and puff and wading back out into the water. It’s only knee deep, but the current is strong, which she figures is good, since she won’t have to stand in the filth that comes off of Derek. She reaches for his bare shoulder and pushes, surprised when he sinks easily into the water.

The way he’s blinking up at her is a little unnerving, his eyes crystal clear and remarkably human. The animalistic fear she saw there the first day is gone, and she can’t help but wonder if they’re getting close. Sighing, she wets the puff and pours soap on it, tucking the bottle under one arm as she works up the suds.

Derek tenses when she bends over him, every muscle in his body visibly bunching. Lydia grits her teeth and powers through it, starting to scrub at his shoulders. The tension washes away with the grime, his body loosening as she moves to his chest. She even thinks he laughs when she loses her balance and screeches, landing on her ass with water soaking through her shorts. It’s just a chuffing sound, but his eyes are crinkling and there’s a possibility he’s showing even more teeth than usual.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, righting herself on her knees. His hair is the next thing she needs to tackle, and rather than going back to get the shampoo, she decides to just use the soap. She scoops up a handful of water, frowning when most of it runs through her fingers before she can get it on his head. She tries it again, this time pressing her fingers tighter together. It works a little better, but it’s still ineffective. A cup would have been a good idea, but she’s been trying not to treat Derek like a baby or a dog or something. He’s still a man, and treating him like anything less isn’t likely to help him bring back his humanity.

Without any warning, Derek flops back into the water, dunking his head and letting the brown suds float away from his chest. He sits up and blinks at her, almost like he did it on purpose.

“Well thanks…” Lydia shakes her head, squirting soap into her hands. “I’m beginning to wonder if you have been able to understand me this whole time, and are just pretending you can’t.” She slides her glove covered hands into his hair, nose wrinkling at the caked mud and dirt and snarls she finds. “How are you even living like this?”

Derek chuffs again, tilting his head back as she digs her fingers into his scalp. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, Lydia can almost imagine what he’d be like as a human. She sighs and slides her fingers down to his ears, scrubbing through the coarse hair on his cheeks and carefully avoiding his neck. The last thing she needs is to make him feel threatened, and have him turn on her, and she’s sure touching the most vulnerable part of him would be the fastest route to death.

When she sits back on her heels, he dunks himself again, coming up for air looking clean and refreshed. He looks better, she thinks, even though objectively he’s still terrifying. But she’s gotten used to all of the other stuff, and to her he’s just Derek.

“Well Der,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “That went better than I expected.” She wades back to shore, pulling off her gloves and tossing them on top of Derek’s jeans. “When you dry off I’ll-”

“LYDIA!”

She freezes at the sound of her name, ringing through the trees. Derek tenses in the water, his eyes glowing red and a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“LYDIA!”

Lydia shakes her head at him, heart pounding frantically in her chest. It’s not fear for herself, but fear for Derek that’s coursing through her, afraid of what might happen if he’s discovered like this.

“Stay here,” she whispers, fingers starting to shake. “Just stay.” She takes off up the bank before she can give it a second thought, her bare feet sliding across the leaves. Running isn’t usually her thing, but she does it now, anything to put as much space between her and Derek before she’s discovered.

“Lydia!”

She skids to a stop, eyes wide as she takes in the three people standing in front of Derek’s house. She recognizes them, of course she does, three of the only people she considers friends. Except… Allison has a quiver of arrows strapped to her back and a bow in her hands, armed and ready. Stiles has his hands wrapped around a baseball bat, stance tense, while Scott is unarmed, but she doesn’t miss the way he tilts his head back like he’s scenting the air.

“What are you guys doing?” She asks, walking hesitantly forward. “Why are you-” Her jaw clicks shut, suddenly remembering the name scrawled in the front of that book about killing werewolves. “What’s happening?”

“Are you okay?” Allison asks after an awkward silence, finally lowering her bow. Her brows push down into a frown, eyes sweeping up and down Lydia’s frame. Lydia looks down at herself, at her bare feet and soaked jean shorts and tank top. It’s not her usual look, sure, but it’s not like she’s running around naked or something.

“Is he keeping you here?” Stiles bites out before she can respond, his jaw hard as his eyes flit from tree to tree.

“No!” She says it too fast, too soon, and hope of denial going out the window. Scott tilts his head, his eyes glowing yellow (beta, her mind supplies) as his body tense.

“Lydia,” Allison sighs, taking a step closer. “You can’t-”

“I’m here on my own free will,” she cuts her off, lifting her chin. “Derek is my friend.”

“Derek?” All three of them turn to stare at her with matching confused expressions. “How did you-”

A twig snaps, and everyone falls silent. Allison raises her bow again, her eyes steely with determination. Lydia’s heart is pounding too hard and too fast, and she can’t seem to slow it down. She watches as Scott shifts into beta form, hair and fangs and claws sprouting. His eyes are trained over her shoulder, and Lydia knows this is the end.

“Hey Lydia?” A voice comes from behind her, soft but scratchy, like it hasn’t been used in a while. “You forgot your stuff…”

Surprise is written all across her friends faces, but Lydia refuses to turn around. There’s only one person this could be, only one person who could be walking up behind her and wrapping their arm around her waist. She glances at the hand resting just above her hip. It’s big and warm and definitely clawless and her heart swells in her chest. He did it.

“Thanks Derek.” She leans into him slightly, surprised to feel cotton against her shoulder.

“This is private property,” he growls, “Is there going to be a prob-”

“You’re Derek Hale.” Stiles cuts him off, bat dangling uselessly from one hand. “Oh my god. We thought you were dead dude! We thought there was some deranged alpha running around out here!”

“Stiles.” Allison hisses, an arrow still trained carefully on Derek. “Shut up.”

“Oh come on Ally, it’s a whole different story if it’s a Hale out here and you know it!”

“Wait.” Lydia narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “You guys know all about this? I’ve spent two weeks trying to… research this stuff and you knew all along? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

All three duck their heads, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Scott just got turned last year,” Allison explains softly. “And I’m not supposed to… share stuff about my family.”

“You’re an Argent,” Derek growls out, words slurred in a way that suggest his fangs are bared. Lydia doesn’t dare look up at him, focused entirely on Allison.

“I am,” Allison lifts her chin, proud. “I know what my aunt did to you and your family. It is unforgivable. She has been dealt with. I’m the new head of the family, and we follow the code.”

“The code? Kate didn’t follow the code, why would I believe you?” Derek sneers, his fingers tightening on Lydia’s hip.

“Scott’s the love of my life,” Allison shrugs, like its simple. “He’s the best person I know, and I’ve learned a few things from him. We protect those who cannot protect themselves. That’s our new code, and I don’t plan on breaking it.”

Silence follows her proclamation. Lydia feels almost heavy with it, her brain working too fast to try and connect the dots. She feel dismayed, betrayed by her friends, left out of the most important parts of their lives. Even more so she’s disappointed in herself for not figuring it all out sooner.

“I need to go.” She says, finally turning to look at Derek. A gasps almost escapes her lips, but she bites it back, schooling her face into a neutral expression. Derek Hale is probably the most attractive person she’s ever seen. He’s beyond handsome, even with an untamed beard and hair flopping across his forehead, the hair might even increase it. Her brain struggles to recognize the werewolf she’s spent so much time with and the man towering over her. It’s the eyes that settle it for her, those same beautiful eyes staring out from beneath impressive eyebrows that definitely weren’t there before.  

“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly, his hand slipping from her waist. “For everything.”

Lydia nods once, her smile turning brittle as her throat gets tight. This feels like goodbye, and she thinks it probably is. She’s solved the problem, completed her task. Derek’s returned to human form, he doesn’t need her anymore.

So she turns purposefully away, clenching her jaw to keep her emotions at bay.

“I expect to see all three of you for dinner tonight,” she orders, meeting each of her friends’ eyes, one by one. “And you will explain everything to me. But right now, you need to figure this out.” She takes a few steps, before pausing again. “Oh, and if any of you end up hurt after I’m gone, all of you are going to have to answer to me.”

And with that, she leaves.

Allison, Scott and Stiles explain everything to her that night, how Scott was bitten by Derek’s uncle, how Allison has been trained to be a hunter from the time she was a child. She spends a couple of days with Allison after that, reconnecting and relearning each other. It’s nice, to be able to talk to someone again and actually get something back.

But she misses Derek.

Lydia treks back out to his house the morning before she goes back to school, just to say goodbye. The birds are singing loudly in the trees, and the preserve seems alive like it hasn’t been in weeks. She knows before she even gets there that he’s gone, she can sense it or something. She searches the house just in case, heart aching when she finds no trace of him.

So she goes back to college and tries not to think about him. For the most part she succeeds, junior year isn’t exactly a joke. But sometimes late at night she wonders if he’s okay, wonders if he still lives in Beacon Hills or if he’s moved on. She thinks about what might have triggered him to change back, thinks about the colors in his eyes and the warm weight of his hand on her waist. Feral Derek was her friend, but she’s not so sure about human Derek. She wants him to be, wants to get to know him, wants to hear his laugh and learn the way his face moves.

 She’s home for winter break, Christmas only days away when she sees him. The grocery store is crowded, filled with people stocking up on ingredients for holiday celebrations. Lydia slips easily between them, the list her mother had made her clenched in one hand and the handles of a basket in the other. She’s on a mission, and the less time she spends in this god forsaken hellhole the better. Her eyes are scanning the dairy section, searching for the eggnog, when there’s a tap on her shoulder.

“What?” She snaps, spinning around, fully prepared to give whoever this asshole is a piece of her mind. Just give her a fucking minute and she’ll be right out of the way.

“Hi.”

She blinks at the leather jacket covered chest in front of her, chin tilting back as her eyes travel up, over a sharp jaw and thick stubble and full lips. Then there’s the eyes, swirling between blue and green and gray.

“Derek.” His name falls from her lips without permission, giving away too many emotions.

“Lydia,” his lips lift in the corners, almost a smile, and her heart skips. All the feelings she's been trying to squash well up inside her, the curiosity and the caring and other things she's afraid to even put a name for. “How are you?” She realizes too late that she's staring at his mouth, pulling her own bottom lip between her teeth. Embarrassed, she steps back slightly, smoothing her skirt down for something to do with her hands.

“I'm well,” she smiles up at him, inexplicably happy. “How are you? You're still in Beacon Hills then?” It sounds like she's fishing and she totally is, and judging by the smirk pulling at Derek’s lips he knows it too.

“Yeah I am,” Derek smiles at the floor, oblivious to the people pushing past them, trying to get to the butter and the eggs. “I um,” he looks up at her through his lashes and her heart trips again, a rare flush rising on her cheeks. “Do you have any plans tonight? I um, have an actual apartment now and uh, we could catch up or whatever.”

“Sure,” she agrees readily, biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling too wide. “I just have to finish up shopping for my mom and then I can come over.”

Lydia feels an awkward silence settle over them but she doesn’t care, can’t bring herself to stop smiling at him. She’s usually coy and almost cold when it comes to people she finds attractive, but whatever this is with Derek feels bigger than that.

“I’ll um… I can text you my address, if you want?” Derek says finally, holding out his phone. Lydia nods and takes it from him, electricity traveling up her arm when their fingers brush. Nerves twist in her stomach and she feels jittery and excited and it’s kind of the worst. She usually is so in control, and in this moment, as she hands the phone back to Derek she can feel it slipping away from her. Derek smiles softly, his eyes crinkling in the corners, reminding her of that day in the river. “I’ll see you later then.” He bites his lip and backs up half a step before turning around and walking away.

Lydia only stares at his ass a little bit.

She rushes through the rest of her mom’s shopping list and speeds home, probably forgetting to grab at least a third of it. But all she can focus on is getting to see Derek again. She feels ridiculous, like a thirteen year old with a crush, but this is a Big Deal. Two weeks of her life were spent just existing with Derek, and she put more energy into finding out his story than she put into her last research paper. He’s undeniably important to her.

Derek’s apartment isn’t in the best part of town, and the building itself is a little bit sketchy. But anything is better than living in the ruins of the house his entire family died in, so she’s not about to mention it. The elevator is old fashioned with grates for doors, and it moves slower than anything, but it gets her up there with having to climb the stairs. She hesitates at his door, heart tripping with nerves or excitement or anxiety. Her hand is poised to knock when it slides open anyways, revealing Derek.

“I could hear your heartbeat,” he says, ears turning pink as he motions for her to come in. The apartment is big, with an open floor plan and arching windows that look over the city. His bed is shoved beneath one of them, dark gray sheets and comforter perfectly made. The kitchen is on the smaller side but new, with stainless appliances and a bowl of fruit on the counter.

“I like your place,” Lydia offers, feeling uncharacteristically awkward as she slips off her coat. Derek is there, helping her out of it before she can finish, one big hand sweeping down her spine before he moves away to hang it up. The contact is brief but she feels it all the way down to her toes, nerves practically singing with electricity.

“Well it’s better than my last one,” Derek smirks over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I have beer, wine, um… apple juice, water?”

“Water’s fine,” Lydia replies, deciding not to mention that she isn’t twenty one yet. She follows him into the kitchen, her eyes catching on the photos and notes stuck to the fridge with magnets. She recognizes Allison’s handwriting on a piece of notebook paper, Scott, Stiles and Allison’s own phone numbers written carefully in blue ink. There’s a picture of Scott and Derek asleep on a couch, Derek’s arm around Scott’s shoulders and Scott’s face buried in Derek’s chest. Next to it is a picture of Derek wearing a deputy’s uniform, Sheriff Stilinski pinning a badge to his chest. “So you and Scott…” She trails off, not exactly sure what she wants to ask. The old Derek didn’t seem to understand her, and never got offended about things she would say to him, but now… now anything is possible.

“I needed a pack and he needed an alpha,” Derek shrugs, handing her a glass of water. “We clashed at first, but it worked out.”

Lydia follows him into the living room, sitting hesitantly at the opposite end of the couch. It’s awkward, everything is awkward, and she doesn’t really know how to fix it. In an attempt to make herself more comfortable she toes out of her heels and pulls her legs up beneath her, shifting so she’s more or less facing him.

“Scott’s a good guy though,” Derek continues. “He’s like a brother. Stiles is a pain in the ass but…” He trails off again, taking a long sip of water. Lydia stares at the bob of his throat, the long line of his neck and the exposed V of his chest. Her mouth goes dry, and she wants to touch so badly. He’s impossibly handsome, but she knows she can’t have something casual with him. They have too much history while she simultaneously doesn’t know much of anything about him. Something with Derek would have to be Serious and Big and probably Scary. But she thinks it might be worth it. “I always thought you’d talk more.” Derek says after a moment, his lips curling slightly in the corners.

Lydia hates that her own lips lift in response, hates that she doesn’t seem to be able to control her expressions or emotions around him the way she usually can.

“Well it’s easier to talk to someone when they don’t understand you,” she shrugs, surprised when Derek continues to smile almost softly.

“Thank you,” he whispers, big eyes blinking rapidly. “I uh, I remember everything you know? And you were so… brave, and you never treated me like anything less than human, and I owe everything to you.”

“Derek,” Lydia scoots closer, reaching out and covering one of his hands with her own.

“You must have spent a fortune on food.” He’s purposefully trying to lighten the mood, but Lydia’s not sure if she wants that. So she leaves her hand where it is, sweeping her thumb back and forth across his knuckles.

“I was trying to get on your good side,” she smirks at him. “And also convince you not to eat me.” Derek mouth ticks up in the corner like he thought of something funny, but before he can say anything his cheeks burn abruptly red. Lydia has an idea of what he could be thinking, but she’s trying her hardest not to get her hopes up. “What finally got you to change back anyways?”

“You.” Derek answers immediately, his cheeks flushing darker. “I mean, I could tell you were scared, but I sensed you were trying to protect me. And honestly, I was going to just take the three of them out, you know, fully shifted, but I heard you say that I was your friend, and your voice was so strong and your heart didn’t skip and I just…”

She loves him.

It wasn’t always romantic love, but she’s cared deeply for Derek from the time she decided she was going to go back out into the woods. It wasn’t her intention, and caring about anyone isn’t exactly her forte, but for him…

“Of course I’m your friend Derek,” she squeezes his hand, forcing herself to look up at him. He’s staring down at her, lips parted just slightly and eyes soft and warm. “I want to keep being your friend, I like hearing your voice and I want to get to know you, this you.”

“You like the sound of my voice?” He teases. Up this close she can see the dimples in his cheeks and the shadows his eyelashes cast when he blinks.

“Mmmm, it’s better than the growling and the giant teeth thing you had going on,” she’s leaning closer and she can’t help it, pulled in by the heat radiating from his body and the smell of old spice and laundry detergent.

“Hey Lydia,” his thumb pulls at her chin, warm and soft. “I like the sound of your voice too.” He leans closer, hesitant, like he’s checking for permission. Lydia surges up to meet him, sighing when their lips finally meet in an almost chaste kiss. “Is this-” She grabs a handful of his shirt and drags him back down, this time tracing her tongue across his bottom lip until he moans quietly.

“This is definitely okay,” she huffs against his mouth, pushing at his chest until he falls back against the couch. She crawls into his lap, feeling victorious when one of his big hands slides up her bare thigh, the other curling at her waist. Derek drags her closer, chest to chest, his lips dragging across her collarbone, nipping and licking at her throat. Lydia tilts her chin and lets him, for once not concerned about the love bites he might leave behind. In fact she might even want them, wants him to mark her up and claim her for everyone to see.

“I want to do this, for real,” she states when he comes up for air, curling her hands around his biceps. Derek’s face lights up in the most beautiful smile she’s ever seen, and she knows he has to hear the way her heart trips over itself.

“Good,” he huffs, sliding one hand up her back to slip into her hair. He pulls her down into an open mouthed kiss, his tongue slick and hot as it slides against hers. Lydia moans and lets herself melt, pushing her hands up beneath his soft shirt, tracing the muscles she finds beneath.

There’s something poetic about feeling utterly safe in the arms of a man some consider to be a beast. But she trusts Derek with her life, and she wants nothing more than to know him, every nook and cranny of his mind and body.