it's all worth the fight when it's you dear

Notes: Hello all. Happy New Year.

I will never be able to contain all the stydia feels of my poor, poor shipper heart.

I apologize for being slow to catch up - this is my last semester of school, ever, which is more terrifying than anything and I literally spend a good 99 percent of my time panicking over it. To make up for it, have fic that spans all three episodes of the season so far.

RED STRING OF FATE NO ONE TOUCH MEEE.

It starts with a text.

I lied. I'm not okay.

Allison.

Lydia looks first at her phone and then down the hall, to where Stiles stares down at the lock in his hand that shakes, almost imperceptibly. As if he can feel her gaze, Stiles looks up. Their eyes meet, and even as Lydia mouths, okay? across the space, she knows the answer before Stiles shakes his head, once.

He shoulders his bag and heads to homeroom without any of his textbooks. Lydia purses her lips. Weeks have gone by without incident (besides that time which they have both silently elected never to talk about)—why did this have to start now? Out of the corner of her eye she can see Allison turn the corner to her own homeroom down the hall; Lydia watches Isaac watch Allison from his own locker with a faint crease between his eyes.

He looks at her now and Lydia can see the same worry in her chest reflected back—what are they going to do?

Sunlight streams into the school, but as Lydia turns on her heel to find her own way to class, all she can see are the faint shadows at every corner.

It had to be a metaphorical darkness, of course. What they all couldn't have just done with a few good flashlights.

—

"What? I read."

Reading seemed like all she could do, these days. Lydia feels helplessness pinching in her gut like it had during those awful sixteen hours in Deaton's office; she grits her teeth as she straightens her skirt and Allison adjusts her stance.

No dice.

The arrow sticking out from the earth seems to be laughing at them.

Lydia swallows, trying to muster up some optimism, but all she can pull out is a growing sense of panic. She strides over to the target and nervously straightens it against the tree.

"Maybe we should just try a closer—"

The rest of Lydia's words die in her throat as Allison whips around, an arrow pulled taut. Lydia cranes her neck, but there is nothing in Allison's line of vision—just trees and sunlight and the quiet breeze.

"Allison?"

Nothing. Lydia tries to call her again. Her spine goes cold as Allison turns with unseeing eyes and Lydia's gaze lands on the tip of the arrow pointed straight at her.

"Allison! Wait—!"

It's useless; death comes careening in the snap of a bowstring and a whistle of air—Lydia's mind can't decide between closing her eyes in fear or keeping them open in horror—

Isaac's fingers are wrapped around the arrow only inches from her face. Her breath pulls in an awful wheeze and Lydia doesn't know if her heart will ever restart.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, Lydia."

Allison drops her bow, horror in her eyes and the wide 'o' of her mouth. Lydia tries to inhale but can't quite manage it. Darkness creeps in the edges of her vision.

"Lydia—Lydia, hey!"

Isaac grabs at her arms as Lydia stumbles, guiding her to sit on a dry patch of leaves. "You're okay," he says softly, running a hand through her hair, pressing warm down her back. "You're okay. Just sit here a sec, alright?"

She just nods. Focusing on breathing is hard enough. Isaac cups her face in one hand, waiting until Lydia is brave enough to stop leaning into it and look him in the eye. He nods once, sharp, before breaking away to contain a wildly panicking Allison.

"I didn't—Kate, she was—"

Even from here, Lydia can see Allison shaking, raising trembling hands to point to where she'd just been standing. "I keep—she keeps—"

The hunter breaks off; Isaac slowly wraps her wrists in both hands, as if to hold her together. For a moment or two they just stand there, staring at eachother. Isaac whispers something too low for Lydia to hear and Allison's face just sort of crumples. She jerks away, turning back to look at Lydia.

"I am so sorry."

"Hey, it's okay," Lydia says, going for reassuring and not sure if she manages it. "I'm fine. It's–" She swallows. "It's going to be okay."

"I should go." That wide eyed panic is back as Allison gathers her bow and quiver in brusque movements. "I'll–talk later."

"Allison–" Isaac tries, but she's already gone, her back getting smaller and smaller as she heads for the clearing and their preferred parking point. Lydia looks at Isaac; stillness settles around them until he lopes forward, extending one hand to pull her to her feet.

"Should we be worried?" he asks.

Lydia just looks at him. Isaac's hand goes up to the back of his neck.

"Right."

It takes her two tries to get the key into the ignition.

Isaac, bless him, says nothing.

—

Stiles won't look at her as the pack divides and heads for the forest to find Malia. Lydia tried—she really did—not to think too much on the way Scott had hovered over Stiles as they'd left the school, but now they're in the jeep and the frighteningly familiar drained-by-panic expression Stiles had been carrying is branded in her mind's eye.

"I'm fine," he says, eyes on the road.

"Of course you are."

Stiles' lips thin. "Can we talk about this later?"

If we survive.

Lydia bites the words back.

"Fine."

—

Lydia has been in-her-bones afraid before. But she's always understood death as an all-or-nothing kind of deal, like the final snap of a lightswitch or one last conscious breath before falling asleep. In death at least, there is a kind of peace, after everything.

The terror of almost losing one's leg to a coyote trap, on the other hand, is the precise opposite of peaceful.

"Stiles–!"

"Lydia, don't move."

All those hours of practicing perfect balance in three inch heels is paying off. A cold sweat sweeps everywhere, lingering oddly enough at the back of her knees.

Focus, Lydia.

"Look for a warning label."

"A warning label?"

Did he have to be slow now of all times? "Instructions of how to disarm it."

"Lydia, why the hell would they put instructions on the bottom of a trap?"

"Because animals can't read."

She would smack him if it wouldn't mean her leg being clawed in half. Lydia watches Stiles catch up and she wants to laugh at the expression of good point on his face, but the fear is choking.

He shakes as he bends to inspect the trap and everything in her trembles harder.

"We have a problem."

She thinks she tries to ask what? but all that comes out is kind of wheeze. Stiles looks up at her then and that hopeful fluttering thing in Lydia's chest goes still and silent.

"I can't read either."

—

StilesStilinskiyoulyinglittle–

"You don't need the instructions."

It is hard to look at Stiles suddenly, harder than it has ever been, but Lydia forces her gaze into his. The words come tumbling out of her mouth– "You don't need them because you are too smart to waste your time with them, okay? You can figure it out." –and the abashed, hopeful expression in Stiles' face flares something strangely sharp (indignation? anger?) in her because, doesn't he realize how important he is?

"Stiles," youcandothispleasehelpmeIknowyoucan, "You're the one who always figures it out. So you can do it." One more breath and Lydia is somehow able to muster up the girl who brokers no room for argument. "Figure. It. Out."

She breathes; he breathes. And then Stiles brushes at the leaves at her feet and she can practically see the dawning in the line of his eyebrows.

Knew you had it in you.

"Okay...here we go. Ready?"

Lydia can't speak so she just looks at him instead. There is determination in his face now as Stiles wrap his fingers around..a knob? Lydia has just enough time to inhale before Stiles moves with a jerk and the trap gives an awful click-click-click thunk.

Her mind leaps–Lydia's not sure of her legs, she might have lost all feeling–but Stiles is there. Stiles is there as she lets out an undignified yelp and he doesn't just catch her; he wraps her waist in one strong arm and pulls. They slam together as the trap snaps shut and Lydia's brain is oddly muddled, as though only a few synapses are left for her to feel her heart thundering, the clutch of Stiles' sweater in her fingers and the softness of the back of his neck.

He breathes; she breathes. Lydia somehow manages to pull back far enough to look at him. Stiles looks how she feels, as though someone should say something, but neither of them have the breath. So instead she leans back into the steady, solid warmth of him and Stiles run a hand down her back. One of his fingers catches on the just higher hem of her shirt, brushing bare skin and Lydia barely surpresses a shiver.

"Okay?" he asks somewhat roughly. Lydia nods against his skin but clutches at him a little harder.

"You?" She can feel him breathing into her hair.

A beat. "Yeah."

It's a minute or two longer before they untangle themselves and step apart.

—

"What now?"

Stiles presses his lips together, runs a hand through his hair, takes a breath. Lydia feels calmer just watching him come back to himself.

"Maybe we should just head back. Scott'll call with any updates. Plus, I really do not want to repeat that."

No sense arguing with that, Lydia thinks, as Stiles grabs her hand. His eyes flick periodically to the ground as they walk and a rush of affection swells inside her.

When they finally hear the roar, she feels it all the way down to her toes.

"That's what I'm talking about." There is a fierce pride in Stiles' voice, for his friend, for his brother, for the Alpha of their raggedy little pack, and Lydia feels it too–that certainty. If Scott can do this, if Scott can survive, they will all somehow manage with him.

—

Lydia hears 'glowing eyes' and the crawl of dread up her spine is nearly paralyzing.

And this thing with the flies–did it have to be flies? Flies that always hover so close to your ears and give you the shudders, who are incessant and aggravating and Lydia just wants one day of peace, is that too much to ask?

The buzzing, as if in kind, just gets louder.

They split up to cover more ground; Lydia catches sight of the Sheriff waving suited men through an exit and her dread spikes into a panic as she rounds the corner to find Stiles and Scott.

"The police are leaving." Does it sound like she's panicking? "Why are they leaving?"

"They must have cleared the school and the grounds, which means he's not here."

"He has to be here."

Okay, definitely panicking.

Stiles' gaze has gone to that piercing and thoughtful place that always makes Lydia want to throw something between them to shield herself from his perceptiveness.

"That sound? The buzzing I've been hearing? It's getting louder."

Stiles exhales a sigh that if they didn't know each other so well, would have hurt her. "How loud?"

It takes a second for Lydia to pull herself out, but the deafening noise must register on her face because Stiles' mouth goes thin. "Okay."

Lydia feels suddenly like she's choking, a sharp stab of something in her chest. Stiles must still be paying attention because he grabs at her shoulder, ducks his head to catch her eye. "I'll stop them okay?" And then he takes off.

Scott is looking at her too with a kind of dawning in his eyes. "I'll call my mom," he says with a sharp nod. "We'll find him." As Lydia spins on her heel to go after Stiles, Scott grabs at her arm.

"It's gonna be okay."

It's all she can to do nod before he too, disappears into the crowd.

—

"Lydia wasn't on the chessboard!"

In a small, removed moment of laughter, Lydia files chessboard? away for a later date. She remembers with stunning clarity the conversation she and Stiles had about telling his father, and everything that changed once he had.

Including that time they don't talk about (though, to be honest, Lydia isn't even sure it counts, since she's never been certain that Stiles in turn completely remembers everything–small blessings), which is why it is hard to see the faint undercurrent of worry in the Sheriff's eyes when he looks over at her and waves a hand in greeting.

Lydia waves back and tries her best to project calm and collected. That of course fails the moment she realizes that despite Stiles' promise, his father is leavig them alone. There is apology in Stiles' eyes as he turns to look at her, but underneath, a steady determination.

"Come on," he says. "I have a plan."

—

There is a familiar comfort in a pack plan in motion.

As Allison ducks out the window Stiles urges her up the stairs and throws open the door to Lydia's empty Art classroom.

"Scott and Isaac are in the basement right?"

"Yeah, with Ethan and Aiden." He ducks under a table. "The plan is: meet in the middle, in the uh, boiler room."

There are freshman assignments tacked to a board. Lydia's eyes land on a photo of a nuclear cloud and her stomach drops.

"All the wolves–all of the ones with glowing eyes, are in the basement at the boiler room."

Stiles goes very still.

"An engineer could uses the boiler room to blow up the whole school."

That pinching spike of panic rises again in her throat. "We have to get them out."

"We have to get everyone out."

"How do we do that?" What's more pressing than potential danger? Immediate danger. "The fire alarm. Evacuation would supercede the lockdown."

Stiles nods but Lydia is already halfway out of the room, taking the stairs at a near run and reaching with one hand for the closest alarm—until Stiles' hand clamps down hard over hers.

"Stiles, what—"

"You are Beacon Hills' prized student." Very rarely does Stiles use his height to his advantage, but now he towers over her and tries to impose his will. "I'm not letting you tarnish your perfect record—"

"We don't have time to argue," Lydia snaps, and there is a challenge in the air now; Stiles keeps his eyes on hers as he reaches over and yanks the alarm. The bell pierces even the sound of the buzzing, but even as Stiles gloats, Lydia can still feel an unrest twisting in her stomach.

Coach well, that is just unfortunate.

But there is more work to be done. Spotting the boys, Lydia slides her hand down Stiles' wrist; his fingers close over hers and she tugs him forward, trying to close the door on the impression of how easy that just was, like breathing.

"Does that mean everyone's safe?"

They all look to her. Lydia is dully aware of a pressure building, the uncertainty of it pulling like a dead weight in her heart. "I don't know." She looks helplessly at Stiles. "I just...don't know."

Scott looks at Stiles then and some kind of silent bro communication passes between them. "Well there's nothing we can do now," Scott says, ever the reasonable one. "Just...keep an eye out everyone, alright?"

The boys all nod and disperse save Stiles, leaving Lydia alone to jump when Coach barks, "Stilinski!" from across the courtyard. Stiles winces and gives her a shrug.

"Come over?" he asks. There is something else beneath the otherwise innocent question. Lydia nods and chooses not to acknowledge it as Stiles hands over his keys and lopes over to his teacher.

It's better this way, she tells herself as she heads for the parking lot. This way neither of them will have to face the night alone.

—

Stiles' walls look like something out of...well, a Sheriff's department. Lydia watches him pick up the spool of red yarn and string it all over as she drops onto his bed and considers all the yarn sitting there.

"What do the different colour strings mean?"

"Uh, just different stages of the investigation. So like, green is solved, yellow is to be determined, blue's just–" He looks back at her with a shrug."–pretty."

She smiles a little though he can't see her. "What does red mean?"

"Uh, unsolved."

"There's only red on the board."

"Yes I'm aware of that, thank you."

A laugh sticks somewhere in her throat. Fitting, Lydia thinks as she wraps some of the red yarn mindlessly around her fingers. She's unsolved, too.

"Did you get detention for pulling the alarm?"

Stiles' sigh is resigned. "Yup, every day this week. S'ok though," he says. "We were onto something."

Here where the room is quiet, Lydia can feel herself being pulled down by that sinking feeling. "Even though we couldn't find any proof of Barrow being there?"

Stiles turns fully to face her then, and the green sharpie he's been fiddling with drops from around his mouth. Something in her feels like it's breaking. "Lydia. Hey." He crosses to crouch in front of her, his face suddenly very close to hers. "You've been right every time something like this has happened. So don't go doubting yourself now."

"No scent," she counters, losing the fight to drop further and further into this horrible confusion. "No bomb." Shame rises in her throat; Lydia drops her gaze. "I got you in trouble."

"Okay." Stiles put his hands over hers, where she's pulled the yarn tight to nearly painful. "Kay, look. Barrow was there, alright?"

He knocks gently at her other hand and goes to work on the mess of red she's made. "You knew it, you felt it, okay?" Stiles unravels the knot with such tenderness it nearly makes her throat close altogether. If she looks at his face and not at their hands, Lydia can't think about that ancient Japanese legend and hear words like, fate and destiny.

"And look if you wanted to," Stiles continues, freeing her finger at last and tossing the yarn aside, "I'd go back to that school right now and I'd search all night just to prove it."

Now if she looks at her hands and not his face, Lydia can't cry.

Or kiss him.

—

Later, after 'I only have one bat' means 'I won't jeapordize your safety,' after the lights go out and Lydia is torn so fiercely between jumping out to find them and staying put for fear of getting lost, after all three find their way back and Lydia can breathe again, after they drop a shaking Kira off at home to her grateful parents, it's Stiles and Lydia in the jeep.

There is a familiar comfort here, too.

"Your mom back from her business trip?" Stiles asks, as they reach the stop sign that signals their normal divide. Right, towards Lydia's. Left, towards the Stilinskis'.

If he can be carefully casual, so can she. "Nope."

A beat. Stiles flicks his tuning signal down. "My dad'll be at the station all night. Want to stay over?"

She can't decide if she should call him out or not.

"Sure." Lydia swallows. "Thanks."

And even later still, when she wins the fight that puts Stiles in the bed not a foot away from her, Lydia stares at the faint shadow of the red yarn criss crossing Stiles' wall.

The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.

The thought gives her honest-to-God butterflies. She shouldn't even be having this thought right now. Scott and Kira nearly died tonight. And yet, as Stiles turns over in his sleep, his fingers slipping on the edge of the t shirt he'd given her to wear, Lydia can't quite bring herself to mind.

More Notes: This took stupidly long and I am so sorry. Wrote most of this tonight so apologies for any awful errors I didn't catch, but woo for finally caught up to canon!

I could honestly cry at how perfect these two are for each other no one talk to me.

I'm kidding everyone talk to me.

Thoughts are always loved,

Annie