Stydia, Offering Comfort
“Holy – are you okay?”
Lydia looked up at Stiles through wet lashes. Stiles stood frozen, arms outstretched, five feet away from where she knelt on the forest floor. He gaped at her, every strawberry blonde hair out of place and blood dotting her pale face. Her blouse was torn and dirty, her legs scraped through torn leggings, and Stiles didn’t know what to worry about first.
“Stiles,” Lydia said weakly, voice trembling. It was enough to shake Stiles out of his trance and he moved to kneel beside her, carefully stepping over one of the many bodies littering the clearing. Stiles wrapped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder, smoothing her hair back with his free hand.
“Stiles,” Lydia said again, gradually coming back to alertness. “How did I get here?”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles whispered. “It’s okay. Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She moved to stand, and Stiles steadied her with a hand around her waist. He brushed a dead leaf from her skirt and pulled a twig from her hair.
“What happened here?” Lydia asked, horrified by the three mangled bodies visible at her feet, yet still scanning the forest floor for the other two she could sense.
“You called me, Lydia,” Stiles replied. “Don’t you remember?”
Lydia shook her head, vigorous and sharp, eyes glazing over in panic. “No,” she said, breath racing.
“Lydia,” Stiles cut in, trying to stop her panic short. “Lydia, it’s okay. Calm down. Deep breaths.”
“It’s not okay, Stiles,” Lydia snapped, voice shrill and high, quickly unraveling. “I just came to out to the woods to find five brutalized corpses and now you’re saying I called you and I don’t even remember and it’s not o– ”
Lydia’s words cut short as Stiles lips closed over hers, kissing her firm and insistent with a hand weaving into her hair. The other hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking in soothing swaths. When Stiles pulled back, Lydia blinked at him owlishly, stunned.
“You were about to hyperventilate,” Stiles explained when Lydia remained silent. “Kissing makes you hold your breath. A brave, strong, intelligent woman once taught me that.”
Lydia drew back and Stiles’ hand fell from her cheek. He cleared his throat awkwardly and turned to scan the treeline, running a hand through the hair at the back of his head.
“Well,” he said abruptly, taking a long step backward. “I guess I should call my dad. Report this.”
Stiles turned to walk toward his jeep, but stopped short as a hand wrapped around his wrist.
“Stiles, wait,” Lydia said.
Stiles turned to face the her and was caught off guard by warms lips and a manicured hand grasping tightly at the nape of his neck.
“Thank you,” Lydia whispered, lips still hovering over his. “For coming when I called. For always being there for me. For waiting.”
Stiles wrapped his arms around her waist and smiled.
“You don't need to thank me for that, Lydia. Not ever."