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Lydia Martin is a fey sylvan goddess, sent to earth to ensnare Stiles in her web of strawberry blonde seduction and make him her slave.
At least, that’s the only explanation Stiles can come up with to justify the current situation to himself. The only way he can understand how in the hell he is here, lying in the bed of aforementioned temptress, sandwiched in between the girl of his dreams and the boy - Jesus Christ, the boy - who, as far as he’s aware, couldn’t conceivably give less of a shit about him.
Considering the circumstances, it’s a relatively rational conclusion: Lydia Martin is a goddess. And Stiles is totally her bitch.
So, apparently, is Jackson.
It’s not that he doesn’t know how he got to this place. Not exactly. He can follow the path, starting with the hospital and finishing here, closely examining various moments along the timeline as they lead him inevitably, inexorably to this specific point. The pieces are all there; it’s the big picture that doesn’t add up.
***
Rewind to the starting line. It begins with the flowers.
He doesn’t think anything of it at first: the vase of bright red roses, all puffed up and fresh on Lydia’s bedside table, their cheerful color contrasting with the dull, metronomic beep of the heart monitor. They could have been placed there by anyone; a nurse, a friend, her parents. It’s just one of the many presents adorning the little white room.
No, the decor doesn’t strike a chord within him until a few days later when the source comes walking through the door.
He’s lounging in a chair by the hospital bed, struggling through the latest chapter of his assigned reading for literature class, one hand thumbing the pages open at the seam, the other lazing absently on the scratchy sheets at Lydia’s side. The door creaks open and Stiles looks up, book falling closed on his lap with his finger trapped inside as a makeshift bookmark.
Jackson is standing there with a bouquet of flowers - more roses, fresh - and Stiles puts the pieces together pretty quickly.
They don’t say anything to each other, just a brief nod of acknowledgment, but they sit there for a solid hour, just listening to the sound of the air machine pumping fresh life into Lydia’s lungs. Waiting for her to wake.
After that, their visits begin to synchronize, and they find themselves arriving and leaving at roughly the same time every day. Always with the head nods.
It isn’t something they plan. They don’t make a note on the calendar or call each other up when one of them is headed over. But it’s a connection, in it’s own weird way. It’s the closest the two of them have ever come to being almost-friends; bound together in their concern and love for the same girl.
And Jackson does love her, Stiles is surprised to learn. He knows about their breakup, obviously - everyone does - and it seemed for a short time to be further evidence of Jackson’s monstrous self-centeredness. And yet, the kid helped save her when the moment came around, and he’s here, and he cares.
And he brings her flowers ever day.
Which, at first, strikes Stiles as inexplicably hilarious because it’s so very Jackson; this picturesque image of the strong-jawed, all-American jock boyfriend sitting at his girlfriend’s (ex-girlfriend, Stiles’ mind firmly supplies) bedside with a bouquet of fresh flowers. It’s sort of nauseating and Stepford, and Stiles sort of wants to smack the damn roses out of his stupid hands.
But then, weirdly, it stops annoying him. When he thinks about it, he decides it’s actually a sweet gesture. Uncharacteristically nice. So he doesn’t say anything about it.
Flash forward, and Lydia’s waking up at last, a full fourteen days after Peter’s attack. Stiles isn’t there at the time, but he gets a text from Scott, who in turn got one from Allison, and he races over to the hospital as fast as he can.
Jackson is already there.
Lydia is up and alert, glaring at her visitors expectantly. “Anyone want to help me out of this thing?” she deadpans, raising her arm for assistance with the IV.
Back to herself already, it seems.
Stiles really assumes that will be the end of it. Lydia doesn’t ask any questions about the attack - gives no indication whether or not she even remembers it - and Stiles isn’t going to bring it up on his own.
Flash forward further still, and Lydia is back to school at the start of the next week, and Stiles sees her holding hands with Jackson as they walk down the hall to the cafeteria together. So the evidence seems to point to things returning to normal. Everything back where it belongs.
And then she corners him at his locker after the final bell and invites him to her house.
“W-what?” he stutters blankly, wide-eyed and confused.
She’s unperturbed. “My house. This Friday. Some friends wanted to throw me a welcome back party, and apparently they’re not taking no for an answer.” She rolls her eyes, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. Stiles follows the movement unconsciously, his stomach turning flips as he breathes in the scent of her perfume. “I really don’t feel like it, but...well, you know how friends are."
“Uh...” Stiles opens his mouth to say, No, not really, but she cuts him off without hesitation.
“Anyway, I figured it would be a little more bearable if you came along.” Her mouth twists up at the side, and Stiles’ heart flutters a little bit. “What do you say?”
His brain - his idiot brain - is saying plenty of things. Things like, So, does this mean we’re friends now? and Are we just going to agree to pretend that I never declared my love for you?
But instead of voicing those questions, he just shrugs and says, “Sure.” And tries to ignore the way his face heats up when Lydia beams in response.
“Great,” she says cheerily. “It’s at 9:00. My parents are going out of town to visit friends, so we’re going to have alcohol. Don’t be late.”
She leans in and presses a soft kiss against his cheek, lips grazing the skin with a quiet sort of intimacy. And then she’s pulling away, sparing a moment for a blasé wink before she’s flouncing off down the hall and out through the double doors, leaving Stiles alone with his heart pounding in his chest.
He’s confused, yes. Confused in spades. But he’s not quite ready to crush the little part of him that’s suddenly been given reason to hope.
Flash forward some more, and the party is in full swing. It’s not Stiles’ scene at all, and the questioning glances of people stratospherically more popular than him serve as constant reminders of how very out of place he is.
Allison is here, which is somewhat comforting, but Scott couldn’t make it, so Stiles is clearly the odd one out. He stands in the corner swirling a plastic cup of beer in his hand, surveying the room with an uncomfortable watchfulness. He’s on his third round now, silently hoping he can get drunk enough to make it through the night without embarrassing himself too much.
The music is overly loud and the lights are dim, and the additional kick of the booze makes Stiles want to go to sleep, but instead he stares across the throng of people, watching as Lydia and Jackson make small talk with some girls he vaguely recognizes from school.
He’s a lightweight, and the tight press of drunken people meandering about begins to swim in his vision. Allison, thankfully, is a responsible friend, and she is kind enough to separate him from the beer keg before he goes too far over the edge.
“I think you’ve had quite enough,” she says lightly, fondness evident beneath the surface exasperation.
Stiles raises an eyebrow in challenge, stumbling slightly as they move out of the way of a group of dancing girls. “I’m not drunk,” he slurs. “I’m a...I’m just a bit, uh, tipsy. Is all. Just a little.”
Allison’s mouth twitches, but she keeps her eyes wide, nodding with mock sincerity. “Of course.” She pats his arm with a sort of sympathetic attitude that would seem patronizing coming from anyone else. But since it’s Allison, it just comes across as sweet.
“I think I’m starting to understand why Scott’s so gaga over you,” Stiles mumbles, plopping down heavily in an armchair.
Allison looks surprised for a moment, then touched, and she sits down on the armrest beside him, keeping him company and watching as the throng slowly begins to dissipate. “She won’t talk about it, you know,” she says after a while. “I tried bringing it up earlier, but she just changed the subject.”
It takes Stiles a second or so to realize what she’s talking about. He blows a raspberry, rubbing at his forehead wearily. “I wouldn’t want to talk about it either. If I were in her position.”
“She doesn’t have amnesia,” Allison protests softly, keeping her voice quiet even though no one’s paying them any mind. “She remembers, Stiles. She’s going to have to be involved now. I’ve tried to persuade my dad to let me tell her, but he’s going to want to talk to her eventually. And even if he doesn’t, Derek’s probably going to try and make her a part of his pack.”
A low sound rumbles in Stiles’ chest, almost a growl. Although, judging by Allison’s expression and the haze of booze-induced deliriousness, it probably just sounds like he’s gurgling saliva or something. “I won’t let him,” Stiles says, and Allison hushes him hastily, startled by the loudness of his voice. “She doesn’t deserve that. It’s bad enough that Scott’s stuck with it.”
Allison tilts her head to the side, frowning quizzically. “Didn’t you used to think it was cool?”
Stiles huffs. “Yeah, but it’s not what he wants. Derek should have let him try for the cure.” He sucks on his lower lip, thinking. Across the room, Lydia is laughing at a joke and Jackson is standing close by, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “She shouldn’t have to be a part of this just because some psycho tried to turn her.”
“I agree, but you know that’s not going to change Derek’s mind. Or my parents’.” Allison sighs heavily, following the line of Stiles’ gaze across the room. “You know he’s one of them now, right?” she asks abruptly, nodding in Jackson’s direction. “He went to get the bite the night Derek’s uncle...you know.”
Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up, but he’s not really all that surprised. He nods drunkenly. “Of course he did.”
Allison chuckles. “My dad was pissed when he found out. He’s been trying to confront Derek ever since.”
Stiles looks up at that. “Still can’t find him?”
“Nope. No idea where he went.”
“Hmmm.” Stiles closes his eyes, drinking in the drowsiness that threatens to overtake him. A month ago - hell, a week ago - he would have been brimming with curiosity, eager to discover the secret of Derek’s whereabouts. Now, he just feels like sleeping. He doesn’t even want to think about all of this werewolf shit.
Skip ahead some more, and he’s waking up in the armchair less than an hour later, still feeling the effects of the alcohol in his system. Allison isn’t at his side anymore. The party seems to be over.
“Stilinski.”
The tone is sharp, but not unkind, and Stiles tilts his head to the side, blinking up at the spot where Jackson’s face looms above him, staring down with an eyebrow cocked expectantly.
“Hey,” Stiles murmurs, squinting blearily. He yawns. “What time is it?”
Jackson glances at his watch. “Just past midnight.”
“Great,” Stiles groans, screwing his eyes shut, pressing his face into the cushion of the chair’s backrest. “My dad is going to be so pissed.”
“No he’s not.” Stiles hears the sound of Jackson’s footsteps tapping away towards the kitchen. “I called him already. Told him you were spending the night at my place.”
Stiles lifts his head, surprised. He hears the sound of dishes clattering in the sink, plastic stretching and paper plates rustling together as Jackson empties trash into the garbage bag. “You did?” Then, as an afterthought, “I am?”
Jackson pokes his head back into the living room, wearing his trademark You’re an idiot expression. “Yes, I called him, and no, you’re not really staying with me. Lydia just figured he’d be more open to you sleeping at my house than hers. You know how parents are.”
“Ah.” That makes sense. Stiles sprawls out on the chair, hooking the curve of his legs over the armrest, arching his back and stretching his arms over his head. “How did you get his number?”
Jackson rolls his eyes, retreating to the kitchen once more. “I called your house.” Then, after a moment, “Phone book, genius.”
Stiles flushes. “Oh.” He gets to his feet groggily, surveying the disorganized array of crushed plastic cups and crinkled candy wrappers smattered across the carpet. “I’m drunk,” he says a little louder, defensively.
“Mmm.” Jackson just hums in acknowledgment.
The sound of feet on the staircase pounds a beat into Stiles’ eardrums and he winces, turning his head to face the source of the noise. Lydia leans over the banister, peering down into the living room in the dim lighting. She grins at him, and Stiles chest clenches. He feels a little nauseous.
“You’re awake,” she says cheerfully, stating the obvious. Her fingers curl in a beckoning motion. “Come upstairs.”
Stiles definitely feels sick. “I-” He cuts off, glancing nervously through the kitchen doorway where Jackson is washing out the beer keg, apparently indifferent to the situation. “O-okay.”
Lydia smiles encouragingly, holding out her hand to lead him up to her room. “Come on up when you’re finished,” she calls to Jackson as she tugs on Stiles’ wrist. Jackson doesn’t respond.
Flash forward a minute or so, and they’re lying side by side on Lydia’s bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling fan, watching it spin, listening to the motor whir. Lydia is relaxed, breathing soft and steady, arms laid out loosely at her sides. Her breath is fresh, sweet; it smells of peppermint gum and toothpaste, and it doesn’t seem to be masking any alcoholic odor. It makes Stiles’ self-conscious, and reflexively, he starts inhaling and exhaling through his nose. His hands are folded on his stomach, clasped together, fingers locked together in cold sweat. They rise and fall with every deep breath.
Stiles isn’t sure what this is. Nothing that’s happened tonight coincides with any of the constants in his worldview. He’s the lame, geeky sidekick who pines after the popular girl and serves little purpose other than to make wisecracks. That’s how it works. Not this; lying beside Lydia Martin in her bedroom after hours, basking in the afterglow of booze-laden stupor. And yet, here he is.
“So...” he starts, unsure of where to begin. He twists his neck to look a her. She just keeps staring at the ceiling, cool and collected. No tension whatsoever. “Alright, yeah. So about formal night...”
“You meant it?” she interrupts, and Stiles has a quiet moment of panic, completely oblivious as to what she’s talking about. “What you said to me?” Her voice is quiet, almost eerie in its calmness. She turns to look at him, and Stiles’ breath hitches in his chest. Their faces are way too close.
“I don’t...I just. What?” he stammers, eyes wide.
She shifts to her side, leaning on her elbow, looking at him closely. “About me being smart,” she says, a hint of amusement in her tone. “You meant that?”
His tenseness drains away at that, and he’s sure that he has a stupid look of hopeless adoration on his face, but he can’t really bring himself to care. “Yeah, I did.” He would elaborate, but he’s sober enough to know that he’s too drunk to wax poetic.
Lydia doesn’t seem to require more, anyway. She just smiles and flops back on her back, satisfied. “Good.”
Flash forward once more, and Stiles is startled out of relaxation by the sound of the door closing with a sharp snap. He cranes his neck, blinking in the darkness as Jackson looms over the bed.
“Do we want to talk, or what?” Jackson asks, addressing Lydia. Stiles can’t see his face, but his voice sounds strained, torn between frustration and nervousness.
Lydia shakes her head slowly, not even bothering to open her eyes. “No. I’m tired.” She arches her back, pulling the sheets out from under her and yanking them up to her chin. “Get in bed,” she yawns. “We can talk later.”
Stiles opens his mouth. Shuts it after a moment. Eyes adjusted to the darkness now, he exchanges a brief, confused look with Jackson, then turns back to Lydia. He clears his throat. “Okay, I’ll just...” He shuffles away, moving to get up. “The couch,” he explains lamely, gesturing towards the door, even though she’s not looking at him. “I’ll-”
“Shut up, Stiles,” she interrupts, and he stills at her tone. Because although the situation is undeniably off-kilter, she at leasts sounds like herself now, instead of the easy breezy, serene twaddle she’s been spewing all night. Reaching out blindly, she grabs hold of his wrist and tugs him back down, releasing him and patting the pillow beside her. “Stay.”
Stiles’ eyes narrow, half-certain that this is some sort of trap. He twists his neck to frown helplessly at Jackson, who looks about as confused as he feels.
But the other boy surprises him by shrugging, kicking off his shoes and plopping down on the bed roughly. He nudges Stiles with his knuckles. “Scoot.”
Wearily, nervously, Stiles decides to accept that he’s been dropped into bizarro world and shifts under the bedsheets, swallowing thickly as his body presses in close to Lydia’s. He lets out a quiet breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding in when it seems that she doesn’t mind.
Jackson grabs one of the decorative pillows from off the floor and fluffs it up, placing it under his head and settling down quickly. He rolls over on his side, facing Stiles and Lydia, and he’s half-asleep within seconds.
So here they are, lying together in bed. And this, apparently, is what Stiles’ life has become.
***
When he wakes up the next morning, Lydia’s face is inches from his own, eyes still closed, a lock of hair tangled down the bridge of her nose.
Stiles feels a sudden impulse to brush it out of the way, but he finds he can’t lift his hand. Blinking himself into a more alert state, he registers that Jackson’s arm curled across his stomach, holding him in place. His back is pressed up against Jackson’s chest, and he can feel the rise and fall as the sleeping boy breathes, heat emanating between the twin layers of fabric.
It really ought to bother him. Because this isn’t normal, this isn’t the sort of thing he does.
Then again, he still doesn’t have a clue in hell what “this” is to begin with. So he’s not going to complain.
He jolts, startled, when Lydia grunts. Her eyes flutter open and she smiles sleepily at him. “How precious,” she remarks drily, observing the boys’ awkwardly intimate position.
Stiles hears a rustling from behind, a soft “Hmm?” as Jackson wakes up. He feels Jackson tense for a moment, and then his arm is pulling away, releasing Stiles from his grip as he gets out of bed. And Stiles delicately decides not to analyze the feeling of displeasure at the loss of contact. Because that’s just fucked up.
He thinks he hears Jackson mutter “Sorry,” but maybe that’s just his imagination.
“Great party, guys,” Lydia says, and Stiles and Jackson both start at her loudness. She glances at the bedside clock and rolls out from beneath the covers, trudging over to her closet. “My parents should be home in about an hours, so you should probably get going.” Clutching a fresh pair of clothes under her arm, she walks up to Jackson and steps up on her tip-toes to kiss his forehead. Then she moves over to the bed and, before he can say anything, kisses Stiles on the cheek. “I’ll see you at school on Monday, okay?” she says, glancing between the two of them.
And then she’s walking out the door and down the hall. The sound of the shower turning on is cut off abruptly by the bathroom door clicking shut.
***
Jackson doesn’t look at him as they make their way outside to their cars, and Stiles is mostly okay with that. Even if a small part of him wishes that they could commiserate in their mutual confusion.
Not to be, it seems, as Jackson pointedly ignores him, snapping the driver’s side door of his Porsche shut and speeding off down the road without pause.
Stiles mentally prepares himself for a lecture as he drives home, rapping his thumbs against the steering wheel as he thinks through all the potential questions his father might ask.
An exercise that, as it turns out, is completely pointless.
“Have a good time?” his dad asks absently, thumbing through the morning paper, already decked out in his sheriff’s uniform.
“Yep,” Stiles answers shortly, waiting for the barrage.
It doesn’t come. “Good. There’s some lunch meat in the fridge if you want to make yourself a sandwich later. We’re out of milk, but there’s a unopened bottle of grape juice, if you want that.”
Stiles squints suspiciously, hand frozen in place on the banister knob, one foot halfway in motion up the stairs. “Okay.” He waits for a moment, head cocked expectantly.
There’s a pause, and his father looks up from the paper, realizing Stiles is still standing there. “Something up, kiddo?”
“I guess not,” Stiles mumbles.
The sheriff frowns, setting the paper down, full attention on his son. “No. What’s wrong?”
Stiles forces a smile. “Nothing. I’m just feeling a little loopy, that’s all.”
“Hmmm.” His father strokes his chin, expression thoughtful. He takes a sip from his glass. “Alright. So how did the party go?”
Stiles leans back against the wall. “It was okay. Sorry I didn’t tell you I was going to stay.”
His dad waves a hand dismissively. “Jackson called. He said you’d fallen asleep. I was kind of surprised to hear from him, though. I didn’t think you two were friends.” He pauses, eyebrows knitting together. “Wait. You’re sorry you didn’t tell me you were going to stay? As in stay at that girl’s house?”
“Uh...” Stiles mentally kicks himself, feeling his face flush scarlet.
That’s answer enough for his father. “And you had Jackson lie and say you were staying with him?” He looks angry now.
“No, no!” Stiles says quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “He didn’t lie! I didn’t have him lie. I really was asleep. So technically he lied to you, not me. But it wasn’t really a lie, because I did sleep with him.”
His father opens his mouth to retort, then has a double take. “What?”
Stiles flushes harder than ever. “Oh my God, no. Not like that. I just mean we slept together in, like, the same bed.” He stops, burying his face in his hands. “Slept,” he emphasizes, voice coming out muffled and croaky between his fingers. “Slept in the same bed. Just slept. And Lydia was there, too! So it’s not-”
“You slept in the same bed with Lydia?” his father interrupts, crossing his arms, expression torn between exasperation and bewilderment.
“Uh...yes. I guess I did. But Jackson was there, remember! So it’s not, like...you know. It was all totally innocent. No touching. Well, maybe a little touching, but-” He cuts off, flailing a little bit, mouth working uselessly. He clamps it shut. “I’m just going to shut up now.”
“Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.” His father suddenly looks really tired. “Do you have something you want to tell me, son?
Stiles shakes his head vehemently. “No. No, definitely not. Never, ever.”
His father rolls his eyes, draining the remainder of his glass and standing up, brushing toast crumbs off his uniform. He shoots Stiles an inquisitive look. “We’re going to talk about this later,” he says firmly, holding up a hand to silence Stiles’ groaning. “I’ve got work now, but...later.” A pause. “Have a good day.”
Stiles waits with bated breath until he feels the front door close, then bangs his head against the wall several times in quick succession. “Damn it...”
Dragging himself up to his bedroom, he flops down on the bed and tries to get some rest.
Scott calls two minutes later.
“Yeah?” Stiles answers grumpily, pressing the phone up against his ear.
“Hey, dude. How was the party?”
Stiles chews on his lower lip, opens his eyes. Watches the ceiling fan spin above him. “Eventful.”
***
Sunday evening, Derek stops by.
Meaning, he sneaks in through the window at a quarter till 11 like the creeper he is, nearly scaring Stiles half to death with his glowing red eyes and razor sharp teeth.
“Son of a-” Stiles grits his teeth, raking a hand through his hair, clutching his chest with the other as he leans back against the wall. “Don’t do that, asshole.”
Derek glares, mouth curled either in amusement or in anger. Stiles hasn’t learned to differentiate yet. “What have you told her?”
Stiles sags against the wall, exasperated. “What?” he says tonelessly. “What are you talking about?”
He flinches when Derek moves in closer, pushing into his personal space. “That girl you have the hots for,” the werewolf clarifies. “What. Have. You. Told Her?”
Stiles juts his chin out defiantly. “Nothing,” he retorts. “I haven’t said a word. I figured you would take care of that for me, seeing as you’re so fond of barging into people’s bedrooms.” He shrugs. “Or I figured maybe Jackson would tell her. But, since you’re here, apparently not.”
Derek studies him for a moment, face impassive, then he huffs and steps away, folding his arms and just staring. “You smell of her.”
Stiles blinks. “I. You. I smell of- You know, forget it.” Changing the subject, “Where have you been? No one’s seen you since Peter-”
“I’ve been around,” Derek interrupts. Then adds, “You smell of Jackson, too.” And this time, the curl of his mouth is definitely amused. Sneering.
Stiles flushes, but he keeps his expression as defiant as possible. “Yeah, well. I suppose that’s to be expected, now that you can pick up his scent more easily. Thanks for that, by the way. Just what I need to deal with right now: another teenage werewolf running amok without guidance. Brilliant."
“He asked for it,” Derek dismisses, and Stiles stares at him disbelievingly.
“He asked for it? Are you kidding me? Just because he’s an asshole, that doesn’t mean-”
“Literally,” Derek cuts in, shifting his weight to one side. He looks bored now. “He literally asked me to give him the bite.”
Stiles pauses. “Oh.” He folds his arms, matching Derek’s stance. “Well, still. You should have known better.”
Derek snorts, turning to climb back out the window. “I need to build a pack. He wanted in.” He pauses halfway through, one foot on the sill. He tilts his head to give Stiles a perusing glance. “You’re annoying,” he says thoughtfully.
Stiles scowls. “Well, geez. Thanks a ton.”
“But you’ll be useful,” Derek says, ignoring him. “I suppose having you around won’t be the worst thing.” And then he’s gone, leaving Stiles to stare at the empty window.
“What does that mean?” He pokes his head out through the open space, looking left and right, squinting in the dark. “What does that mean?” he calls.
There’s no answer.
***
First school day of the week, and Lydia corners him in the hallway after Chemistry and kisses him full on the mouth. Right in the open, in front of everyone. And it’s awesome.
Well, okay, it’s not, in that it’s by no means the best kiss Stiles imagines he’s capable of giving, and he’s sure a girl like Lydia has probably gotten better tongue than this in, like, middle school. But as awkward and slanted and sloppy and unexpected as it is, it’s still kissing. Making out kissing. With Lydia Martin. And he’s certainly not going to turn that down.
Some guy Stiles doesn’t know wolf-whistles at them as he passes by. Lydia pulls away abruptly, teeth nipping playfully at his lower lip as she retreats. “That was fun,” she deadpans. Laughing quietly at his dumbfounded expression, she reaches up and pats his cheek before turning and walking away without another word.
Stiles slumps against the row of lockers and wonders absently whether or not it’s possible to be simultaneously elated and pissed off beyond belief.
***
Jackson is waiting for him by his Jeep after school, and judging by his glowering scowl, Stiles is almost certain that he’s about to get beat up.
“For the record,” he says preemptively, raising his arm to ward off any potential attack, “you two are technically broken up, and she was the one who kissed me. So think about that.”
Jackson just folds his arms and rolls his eyes. Which seems to be the standard reaction to everything Stiles says these days. “Lydia wants to have a study session on Wednesday,” he says. “She asked me to invite you.”
“Oh.” Stiles lowers his arm. Okay. Not what he was expecting. “Study session?” he asks, sarcasm kicking in like a reflex. “Sort of like our study session last Friday?”
And then he takes a step back because Jackson really does look like he’s going to beat him up now. Instead, Jackson just grits his teeth, the tips of his ears turning bright pink. “You’d have to ask her,” he says stiffly.
Stiles sidles around to the driver’s side to unlock the door, keeping careful watch as Jackson follows him slowly. “Why didn’t she just ask me herself? When we-” He cuts off, swallows. “Uh. When I saw her earlier?”
“Again, you’d have to ask her.” Stiles looks - really looks - at Jackson, realizing how uncomfortable he seems. It gives him pause.
“You don’t think...” he starts, trailing off, half-hoping Jackson is secretly psychic and can fill in the rest of the sentence for him. No such luck.
“What?” Jackson asks. His nose crinkles in annoyance. The afternoon sun beams down on his face, throwing the oh-so-light dusting of freckles on his cheeks into sharp focus. Stiles thinks he could probably count them all if he had the time.
And, okay. Woah. Stopping that train of thought right there. He clears his throat. “It just...I dunno. The other day, I mean. It seemed like...” He swallows, shuffling his feet. “Seemed almost like she wanted the three of us to, uh...”
He trails off again, but Jackson’s caught on now, his face paling at the implication. “We are so not talking about this,” Jackson mutters, shaking his head. He won’t meet Stiles’ eye. “No way.”
Stiles bites back a snarky retort, opting instead for the empathetic route. “Well, if I’m right, then we’re going to have to talk about it on Wednesday, don’t you think?”
Jackson doesn’t answer for a while, long enough for Stiles to wonder if he’s even going to bother answering. Then, “Not necessarily.”
Stiles stares. “What does that mean?”
Jackson shrugs, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. Just standing there with his stupid hair and his perfect face and all the other things that bring out the sort of feelings that Stiles has been able to keep a lid on - successfully, more or less - since his preteen years. “Just what it means,” Jackson supplies unhelpfully, turning to walk away towards his own car. “We don’t necessarily have to talk about it.”
“But-” Stiles flails a little bit, and he kind of wants to throw something at someone. Probably at Jackson. “But what does that mean?”
The only response he gets is the sound of Jackson’s engine kicking into gear and the revving of the tires against the blacktop as the Porsche speeds past him down the row.
***
The sheriff has a late shift that night, so Stiles is left alone for dinner. Which apparently Chris Argent knows, because when Stiles arrives home after spending the afternoon at Scott’s, he’s startled to see the hunter standing at the stove in his kitchen, cutting up a steak with a thick knife.
“Stiles,” he greets without looking up. He slices off a hunk of meat and deposits it on a plastic plate. “We need to talk.”
Stiles drops his backpack at the bottom of the stairs, trudging grumpily into the kitchen and sitting down at the table. “Seriously? Does no one bother to knock anymore?”
Mr. Argent pauses, the continues with the cutting, ripping off a piece for himself. “Derek’s already come to see you, I take it?”
“What do you want?” Stiles snaps, ignoring the question. Mr. Argent looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow, and Stiles adds, “Sir.” The man still creeps him out.
Mr. Argent gives him a piercing look, like he knows what he’s thinking, the ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He joins Stiles at the table, keeping his eyes on his plate as he cuts off small bites. “Eat,” he says, gesturing at the other plate.
Impatiently, Stiles pulls it towards him, taking a bite or two to appease his unwelcome guest. “Sir. What do you want?”
“Lydia Martin,” Mr. Argent answers easily, still focusing on the meat in front of him. “You two are friends, yes?”
Stiles opens and closes his mouth, tilts his head to the side. “Umm...yeah. Something like that.”
“Have you...enlightened her in regards to the situation?”
“No.” Stiles leans back in his chair, rubbing an itch in his eye. “She hasn’t really given me a chance yet.”
Mr. Argent looks up sharply. “You will tell her nothing,” he says stonily, and his voice is so comic book super-villain serious, Stiles almost laughs. Almost. “My wife and I will handle her education."
Stiles snorts, folds his arms. “You want to train her to be a hunter?” he asks skeptically. “Have you met Lydia? She’s not exactly the type to take orders.”
“Don’t be a child,” the man retorts, his tone withering and laced with contempt. He puts down his fork. “This isn’t about that.” His face softens and he scratches his cheek thoughtfully, a heavy sigh lifting out of him. “She’s going to be involved,” he explains simply. “She saw the Alpha. Derek’s uncle. She already know enough to put her in danger, she might as well know everything. And like it or not, there are going to be sides. I would like for her to be on the right one.”
Stiles frowns. “Sides?” A thought occurs a second later, and his eyes widen. “Oh, come on. I thought you guys didn’t kill werewolves unless they kill humans first. Okay, so Derek’s a little scary. Maybe a lot scary. But he’s not a bad guy. There’s no reason to start a bunch of shit.”
Mr. Argent huffs in amusement, rising to his feet with a quiet grunt. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he says, tone infuriatingly patronizing. “You’re very young.”
Stiles wants to punch him in the face. “What don’t I understand?” he asks angrily.
“That’s really all I wanted to say,” Mr. Argent replies, flat-out ignoring him. “You don’t have to worry about us prying into your life any more than necessary. But just keep quiet on the werewolf front until we get a chance to sit down with the girl and explain things to her.” He waves goodbye at the front door. “Enjoy the steak. My treat.”
The door slams shut and Stiles glares daggers at it. “What don’t I understand?” he shouts.
***
He follows Lydia home the next day after school. She leans against the side of her car, standing in the driveway and observing impassively as he parks his Jeep on the opposite side of the street.
“Study session isn’t until tomorrow,” she says lightly when he crosses the road.
“Don’t,” he warns, shaking his head. “Just don’t.” Lydia raises an eyebrow. Stiles thinks for a minute, running his palms down his face. “Look, I just...are you okay?”
Her mouth curls up at the side, and Stiles isn’t sure whether to be happy that he made her smile or infuriated that she might be mocking him. “Well,” she says slowly, drawing out the vowel, “my side is healing up nicely. Might leave a bit of a scar, but-”
“Not what I meant, and you know it,” Stiles interrupts. He sighs. “I’m worried about you.”
“Worried about me,” she repeats, betraying no indication of her mood. Her face is a blank slate.
Stiles nods emphatically. “Yes. I am. You haven’t been acting like yourself since you got out of the hospital.”
“Is that so?” Her expression is still inscrutable, but Stiles thinks he can detect a teasing tone in her voice.
“Yes, damn it, Lydia. Will you please just talk to me?”
Any traces of humor slip out of her expression. She crosses her legs, glancing at the house distractedly. “I saw, Stiles,” she murmurs, voice quiet but clear.
He pauses. “Saw what?”
She gives him a look. “On the field that night. I saw. I remember.”
Stiles swallows. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Lydia snorts. “Oh is right.” Stiles looks down at his feet, unsure of what to say, only looking up again when he feels the soft touch of Lydia’s hand cupping his cheek. “Hey,” she says softly, and he sees that she’s smiling again. That small, private smile she allowed him to see at formal when he demanded a dance - a genuine display of affection. It makes his heart stutter.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks lamely, even though he can already guess the answer.
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t. Not yet.” She takes a deep breath, letting her thumb rub a pattern against his skin before dropping her hand down to her side. “I don’t believe things easily,” she says slowly, unsteadily. Like she’s out of her element, opening up in this way. “I’m a natural skeptic. But I believe what my eyes tell me. I hear a rumor, and I can dismiss it without a second thought. I see empirical evidence, and then I have to deal with it.” She bites her lip. “If what I saw...is what I think I saw...” She trails off.
Acting on impulse, Stiles reaches out and takes her hand in his, interlocking their fingers. “Yeah?” he prompts encouragingly.
Lydia looks at him, gratitude evident in her eyes before she drops her gaze back to her feet. “I’m not prepared to deal with what that means,” she finishes. “Or what it might mean.” She squeezes his hand, smiles ruefully. “I know you know,” she adds. “Jackson, too. He’s been having a hard time not spilling the beans. I can tell.” Her smile fades. “And I know that if he’s bothering to try to keep it a secret, then it’s definitely something worth worrying about.”
Stiles sucks on the inside of his cheek, opens his mouth to respond. “Look-”
“Shush.” She cuts him off gently, pressing a finger up against his lips. “Don’t say anything. Just let me enjoy being in control of my life for as long as I can. Please.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as her finger drops away, and he nods in agreement, eyes glued to hers, his hand still holding on to hers. “Okay.” He nods again. “Yeah, alright.”
She smiles, leans up to kiss him. It’s chaste this time, not like the hallway, but it somehow feels more intimate, less like a show or a power trip. Maybe it’s the privacy or the setting or the mood. Regardless, it’s better. It almost makes Stiles feel like they’re a real couple.
Lydia pulls away after a few seconds, the curve of her mouth red and flushed. I did that, Stiles thinks dazedly. “So...” he starts, but stops when she shakes her head.
“You really can’t live in the moment can you?” she asks, sounding more fond than annoyed.
“You don’t know what I was going to ask,” Stiles protests, voice coming out far more whiny than he intended.
She gives him a look that’s impossible to misinterpret. It’s the Oh, please expression. He’s used to getting those. “You were going to ask what this is.” She gestures between the two of them, finally letting go of his hand.
Stiles huffs. “Among other things,” he admits. “Yeah. Is that such a stupid question?”
Lydia shrugs. “Stupid, no. But being with me, you’re going to drive yourself insane trying to analyze every little detail.”
“This isn’t a little detail,” Stiles fires back. “This is the whole thing.” He pauses. “And...that’s what this is? Being with you?” He bites his lip, uncertain. “I’m with you?”
“We’re with each other,” she answers, purposefully cryptic. She shrugs again. “Does it really matter what we call it? You’re finally getting what you want.”
He takes a breath, chewing on his tongue. “Mmm.”
Lydia studies his expression for a minute or so. Her mouth quirks upward in a sly smirk. “Everything you want,” she says meaningfully.
Stiles flushes, looking down at his sneakers. “I want you,” he says pointedly. “Just you. I don’t want...anything else.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Her tone is definitely condescending now. But there’s good nature behind it, and with the taste of Lydia’s chapstick still fresh on his tongue, Stiles isn’t going to object. “I may have not wanted to date you before, but that doesn’t mean you were invisible. I take pride in being able to read people, and trust me, you’re much more open than you realize.”
“Are you sure you’re not confusing my wants with your own?” Stiles mumbles, still not looking at her.
Lydia’s expression softens, somehow sympathetic without being pitying. “I like Jackson. That’s true,” she says, chucking any remaining ambiguity out the window. “I’d even go so far as to say that I love him. And he loves me, too.”
Stiles knows she’s right, knows that’s true. And yet, his stupid mouth still can’t help but spew out, “Even though he dropped you like a bag of rocks?” He winces as he says it, embarrassed at the outburst already. Lydia doesn’t flinch, though.
“I didn’t say he was perfect. He’s not. Far from, as I’m sure you’ve figured out.” She takes a step backwards, leaning against the car, studying Stiles’ face thoughtfully. “I’m not perfect either, you know. I’m just as damaged in my own way as he is.” She hesitates. “And we’re both just as damaged as you are.”
A small part of Stiles wants to retort, wants to insult and defend and retreat into his shell. But that would be proving her point. And besides, she’s not wrong. “He shouldn’t have dumped you with a text,” he says feebly. “That was a dick move.”
Lydia’s mouth twitches, amused. “Yes it was. And he and I are probably going to have a conversation about that eventually. But not now. And I’m not going to let it be the thing that ruins what he and I have. It’s too stupid.” She raps her fingernails against the driver’s side window, a quiet, repetitive sound. “I know what you must think,” she says softly. “How self-destructive it must look. But the fact of the matter is that I know him better than anyone else in the world. And vice versa. And that means something. You know?”
Stiles swallows. Nods. “Yeah. I know.”
“He’s a different person in private,” she continues. “Sure, sometimes he’s just an asshole and I’m just a cold-hearted bitch. I won’t deny that. But when we’re alone, he’s not afraid to let his guard down with me. We’ve been through a lot together.” Her lips twist into a mischievous smirk. “He’s even comfortable enough to share the nature of his more...noteworthy fantasies with me.”
Stiles cocks his head to the side. Coupled with his confused expression, he imagines he probably looks like a lost dog. “Noteworthy fantasies?”
Lydia’s smile widens. “I thought I’d have to choose between you. But maybe not.”
And just like that, the fog begins to clear. The light bulb clicks on. Stiles stares. “Jackson?” he asks disbelievingly. “He doesn’t- There’s no...” He trails off. Clears his throat. “He doesn’t even like me. Like, as a friend.” Then, as an afterthought, “And what makes you think that I-”
“The way I see it,” Lydia interrupts, “is that if you’re comfortable enough to ask Danny what you asked him, you probably wouldn’t turn down an experience like this if it came along.”
And Stiles’ flush is back. “I was just curious,” he defends weakly, even though he can tell by the look on Lydia’s face that she’s not having any of that. “It wasn’t a serious-”
“Why do you have to make things twice as difficult?” she asks, fond and exasperated at the same time. She reaches up to pat his cheek, and then she’s walking away towards her front door, waving goodbye over her shoulder. “Stop over-thinking it!” she calls. “Just let something good happen."
Stiles mouth works open and closed like a fish, and he stares as the screen door snaps shut behind her.
There are about fifty million questions on the tip of his tongue, but somehow he manages to reign them in, swallow them down. He turns on his heel and walks back to the Jeep.
***
He gets through school on Wednesday. Somehow.
Classes drag to the point where he thinks he might be going delirious. He doesn’t get any visitors. No Derek, no Chris Argent. The world doesn’t come crashing down around his head. It pretty much seems like an average day at Beacon Hills High, and Stiles would almost believe it were so, if not for the impending weight of what’s coming hanging over his head.
He still can’t believe this is his life.
Scott keeps sending worried little looks in his direction, but Stiles isn’t going to indulge him if he isn’t going to ask. There’s no reason he should have to do all of the legwork in this friendship.
Ultimately, Scott just ends up texting him after final bell:
You seem off. Everything okay?
Stiles sits in his Jeep, parked out in the lot, watching kids go by and drive off to do whatever it is normal people do when they hang out. He props his feet up on the dashboard, reclining the seat back. His fingers tap thoughtfully against the keys of his cell. Eventually, he just sends:
I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
***
He waits in his room until about twenty minutes before meeting time. He decides to go early.
“Dad!” he calls, coming down the stairs. “I’m going to Lydia’s for a study group.”
His father looks up from his book, sitting in the kitchen with his empty dinner plate. Stiles doesn’t miss the way his eyes observe the total lack of any study materials whatsoever. “Study group.”
Stiles nods. “Yep.”
His father pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stiles...”
“Yes, Dad?” he says, voice faux-curious.
There’s a long pause, and then the sheriff just shakes his head, returning to his book. “Nothing.”
Stiles waits for a moment or two. Nods slowly. “Okay. I might spend the night. Maybe. Just so you know.”
His father nods. “Yeah.” He glances up briefly, expression inscrutable. “We’ll have that talk later.”
Stiles sighs, head hung low in defeat as he walks to the front door. “Of course we will...”
***
It’s Jackson who opens the door.
And now that Stiles knows, now that he can see more clearly, it’s abundantly obvious how unsure, how seriously insecure the other boy is. It’s amazing he couldn’t see it before.
“I didn’t think you were going to show,” Jackson mutters gruffly, holding the door open for him.
Stiles slides past, hands stuffed in his pockets, foot tapping with nervous energy. “I’m early.”
Jackson shrugs, not meeting his eye as they ascend the stairs together. “Still didn’t think you would show.”
“Fair enough.”
Lydia is sitting on the edge of the mattress when they enter the bedroom, her legs crossed lazily, hand splayed out on either side of her in a relaxed pose. Her hair is slightly damp, as if freshly showered, and the whole thing just seems like such a 70s porn scenario, Stiles honestly can’t help himself.
“We’re here to fix the cable,” he says flatly, placing his hands on his hips, arching an eyebrow.
Lydia just smiles, but Jackson barks out a startled laugh, loud and genuine. He brings a fist up to his mouth, trying to pass it off as a cough. Lydia raises her hand, beckoning. “Come here,” she says, voice quiet and rough.
So, okay. They’re skipping the talking stage entirely. Stiles can deal.
***
And then they’re here. And it’s the last thing Stiles expected for himself, so very different from what he thought he wanted for his life, but it is what it is.
And it’s not bad. Not at all.
He’s lying on his side on the comforter, silken sheets of the pillowcase cool against his cheek as he trades lazy kisses with Lydia, her hands coming up to run painted fingernails along his scalp. It tickles.
It’s different than their kiss in the hallway. Different than their kiss by the car. It’s slow and deep, and it’s wet - which, intellectually, Stiles should have known, but wasn’t really expecting - and there’s a sort of heedless passion to it that makes the hairs on the nape of Stiles’ neck stand up.
“You can have what you want,” Lydia whispers against his mouth, still running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “It doesn’t have to be hard.”
And Stiles wants to argue - because this is hard, it is difficult; how can it not be? - but her hips roll up against his, and they’re pressed together, and in her fucking bedroom, and he feels like his brain is melting. So he doesn’t retort.
Eyes blinking open, he remembers that they’re not alone, and he pulls away, gaze lingering on Lydia’s swollen lips, certain his own look the same. He twists his neck to look at Jackson, breathing shallow.
Jackson looks almost scared, unsure in a way Stiles has never really seen him before. And he knows that this is the boundary he’s going to have to cross himself if they’re ever going to make any progress with this thing.
His mind kicks back into high gear as he reaches out and grabs hold of Jackson’s wrist, pulling him in to slide between himself and Lydia. There’s still a large part of him screaming that they all need to talk about this first, that there needs to be discussion and analysis and angst and drama, and that shit like this doesn’t just happen without some sort of emotional preamble. That part of him really, desperately wants to go through the motions of gay panic, and his chest clenches tight when Jackson settles down on the sheets beside him, his face - his stupid, pretty face - turned directly towards Stiles, their eyes locked together. That part of him wants to stop this right here and now, and jump up and run screaming from the room.
But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he just swallows back all the doubt and insecurity and the voice of logic telling him that this is all going to end with jealousy and betrayal and stupidity. And he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he presses in, lips capturing Jackson’s in a kiss surprisingly deeper than he intended.
Jackson freezes beneath him, body going rigid, and for one horrible moment, Stiles is sure that he’s about to get punched in the face. But then he finds himself pushed down on his back, Jackson straddling his waist and pressing him into the mattress, practically tongue-fucking his mouth.
And, wow. Okay. So that’s something Stiles did not know about himself: that the experience of being manhandled by another guy while his sort-of girlfriend watches would turn out to be a serious kink. But, oh God. It definitely is.
Jackson kisses differently than Lydia, and not just because he’s a boy. His mouth is searingly hot, his technique insistent and desperate, like he’s afraid that if he pulls away, even for a moment, he’ll never get another chance. His hands grip Stiles shoulders like a vice, and Stiles flails a little bit, reaching up to grab hold of Jackson’s biceps. And again, okay. Muscles. Yet another serious turn-on Stiles was totally unaware he had.
He lets out a sort of half-whimper, half-moan as the length of Jackson’s body presses down into his, their hips sliding together, friction burning through layers of fabric. It occurs to Stiles that they really, really ought to be losing clothes by now.
Lydia makes a quiet, strangled noise, and Jackson pulls away with a wet pop, his teeth dragging against Stiles’ lower gum. Breathing hard, chest heaving, Stiles turns his head to look at Lydia, afraid to see the jealousy he’s sure is there.
It’s not.
Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Her expression is hungry, needy in a way Stiles never in a million years thought he would get to see. “Shit,” she murmurs, licking her lips. “That is so hot...”
Stiles’ response is to giggle nervously, face burning redder than ever. Jackson’s is to cup Lydia’s cheek with his palm, leaning over to kiss her.
He’s still straddling Stiles’ waist, so Stiles can’t get up, forced to just lie there and watch. And it should be irritating. It should make him seethe with jealousy - for whom, he’s not sure anymore - but instead he just feels himself getting hard.
And how fucked up is that?
“Shit,” he croaks, watching with wide eyes as Jackson helps Lydia unbutton the top of her blouse. “Shit.”
He’s imagined this before. Jackson and Lydia. Some nights in the past, lying awake in bed, he’s been unable to think of anything else. How they might look together, how they would be. It made him furious, frustrated. It took his already fragile self-esteem and smashed it to pieces against the wall.
But now, here, watching them in reality, together, all of them...
Fuck.
Maybe it’s the thrill of voyeurism, or just the basic pleasure of watching two attractive people engage in sexual activity. Or maybe it’s the strangeness of being able to peer through the looking glass; to really see them at their most vulnerable, at their most infinite. Regardless, it’s a kick in the head. No doubt about that.
“This is so much better than porn,” he blurts out. Because, really, he cannot keep his mouth under control for the life of him.
Lydia laughs against Jackson’s mouth, her shoulders shaking with mirth, and Jackson pulls away to shoot Stiles an annoyed glare. But Stiles isn’t buying it anymore because Jackson is totally his bitch now, and he has the proof. Or maybe he’s Jackson bitch, but whatever. No need to get caught up on semantics.
Especially since they both know that Lydia is the real mastermind here. If anyone’s in control, it’s her.
Dropping her hands from Jackson’s shoulders, Lydia slinks over Stiles stomach, crawling to the other side of the bed to reach inside the drawer of the side table. Stiles’ stomach does a weird flip-flop when she comes back with a small bottle of lubricant. “Here,” she says, cool and collected as ever, tossing it to Jackson. “Enough with the foreplay, yeah?”
Stiles swallows, unable to avert his eyes as she peels her top off, tossing it to the floor. He is in her bed, lying beside her, and she’s basically half-naked, expect for the bra.
How is this his life?
She buries her face in the crook of his neck, tongue working a trail of kisses up his jawline as Jackson reaches around and pulls a packet of condoms out of his back pants pocket. Stiles throat feels tight. He is seriously going to die.
Jackson pulls his own shirt off, and Stiles can’t help but stare, transfixed. He feels a little silly, getting flustered. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before; they’ve been undressed in front of each other countless times in the locker room. But now he’s allowed to look.
“Jesus,” Stiles groans as Jackson comes down for another kiss, his hand snaking under Stiles' shirt, fabric rucking up as their stomachs rub together, friction and heat electrifying their skin, goosebumps breaking out everywhere.
“So I’ve been told,” Jackson murmurs, and Stiles would seriously knee the smug bastard right in the balls, but the feel of Jackson’s chest under his fingertips makes any and all thoughts of violence evaporate.
Lydia scoots in closer, wrapping her arm around the back of Jackson’s neck, thumb rubbing a pattern there. She touches her forehead against Stiles’, her breathing stuttered. “Ready?” she asks, voice uncharacteristically nervous.
Stiles and Jackson exchange a brief, silent communication with their eyes, then nod simultaneously, arriving at the decision together.
And so they take the plunge.
All of them together.
***
It’s a bad idea, Stiles knows. He knows it all too clearly, lying curled up under the covers between them, their naked skin still clinging with sweat, the smell of sex still permeating the air of the room. Something like this can never work out. There’s going to be fighting and misunderstandings and hurt feelings. And someone is going to end up feeling like the third wheel. More likely than not.
They’re all too damaged for something this good to last. But drifting sleepily in the afterglow, Stiles can’t help but hope that, just maybe, they’re all the right kind of damaged for it to last long enough to be worthwhile.
“My ass hurts,” he complains, but there’s not heat behind it.
Jackson curls up closer behind him, chest pressed tight into the curve of Stiles’ back. He grunts tiredly, mouth tickling Stiles’ neck. “Shut up,” he mumbles, kissing the space where he’s already bruised a dark, blatantly obvious love bite.
“You really can’t stop talking, can you?” Lydia yawns in the same tone, a small, contended smile playing at the edges of her mouth.
“I’m going to have to talk to my dad,” Stiles groans, burying his face into the pillow, his hand ghosting against Lydia’s leg underneath the sheets. “That’s going to be mortifying.”
“You don’t have to tell him the truth,” Jackson says, scooting in closer, intertwining his legs with Stiles’, face nuzzling his cheek. Stiles would make a crack about Jackson being a cuddler, but he has a sneaking suspicion that the other boy is not-so-subtly scent marking him. Fucking werewolves.
“He already knows something’s up. It’s just a matter of time before he figures it out.” He yawns. “The truth is better.”
“The truth is elusive,” Lydia murmurs airily, stretching.
Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Ooh. Profound. Not.”
“Mmm...” Jackson hums meaninglessly. Without opening his eyes, he reaches over Stiles and pokes Lydia in the shoulder. “Derek is going to want to talk to you soon.”
Her eyes flicker open for a moment, expression blanking out, then she relaxes. “Uh huh.” Brushing her hair away from her face, she tucks her head into the space underneath Stiles’ chin, cheek tickling his chest. “So is Allison’s dad.”
Stiles bites his tongue, stopping himself from saying all of the things he wants to say, asking all of the questions he wants to ask. Instead, he just says, “Yep.”
There’s a soft clicking sound downstairs, muted but not imagined, and Stiles cocks his head to the side, listening.
Feeling him tense up, Lydia looks up at him. Frowns. “Something wrong?”
“Shh,” he mutters, straining his ears. A pause. He looks down at her, eyebrow raised in question. “When did you say your parents were getting home?”