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rsadelleI started writing this somewhere after season 2, I think, and I never finished it (just like I never really went back to the show). I would read a long form version of this story, though.
Lydia doesn't get out unscathed, but she gets out. Gets in everywhere she applies and chooses Harvard because she gets out. Because no one else from Beacon Hills is going there. Because her parents won't even make the trip to move her into the dorm.
Harvard isn't hard. Everything is as easy as it was in high school, except that she doesn't have to dumb herself down as much for public conversation. Lydia soaks up information, smiles and tests her way into as many graduate level classes as she can fit into her schedule, and has still never met anyone close to worthy of her full attention.
Then, in the law school library, satisfying nothing more than her own curiosity, she meets Emily.
"You're not a law student."
Lydia pretends to think about that for a moment. "I could be."
"But you're not."
Four hours and two arguments about precedent - one of which involves Emily countering Lydia's translation of [SOMETHING] with her own - later, Lydia's splayed out on Emily's bed, skirt rucked up over her hips and panties dangling off one ankle with Emily's mouth between her legs. It's the first time she's come with someone else since she left Beacon Hills.
She gives Emily nothing more than her first name and phone number, and isn't disappointed when Emily texts her two days later: Your Facebook is like a model home, and, Come see me win my mock trial.
She does win, of course, and they go back to Emily's again, Lydia on her knees this time, face buried in the wet heat of Emily's cunt.
Emily doesn't get her naked until the third time, after an expensive evening out on Lydia's credit card. Emily's fingers linger over the scars that even really good plastic surgery couldn't erase completely, the marks Peter Hale left on her.
"I'm sure there's a story here."
Lydia doesn't brush her off or lie, knows she's in trouble when she says only, "I'm not going to tell you," knows she's in even more trouble when Emily says, "Okay," and presses her lips to the edge of the scars, just once.
Eighteen hours later, Lydia calls the only person who might understand.
"How did you know you could trust them?" she asks as soon as Jackson picks up the phone. Jackson, who went to Davis and goes home, not to his parents, but to Derek's pack, some weekends.
"I don't know," Jackson says after a moment of wary silence.
"But you do trust them."
"Yes," Jackson says without hesitation. "They're pack."
Lydia sighs, because she expected him to be more help.
"It's worth it," Jackson says slowly. "Whoever it is, if you can, it's worth trusting them." Then, because genuine emotion has never been easy for him, he says, "But you should really talk to someone else about this. Here, talk to Stiles."
Stiles' voice is faint, "What- Who-" and then louder, "Lydia. Hi, Lydia! Are you being brilliant? Is the Academy," she can practically hear quotes around it, "astounded by your intelligence?" He doesn't wait for an answer, dives into a monologue instead about the respective intelligences of his varying professors.
Lydia lets it all waft over her without having to take any of it in, until Stiles squawks, "No! I'm talking," and then, from far away, "Bye, Lydia! Call anytime!"
"He didn't," Derek says. "Not for a very long time, but it's easier when it's pack. You'd be better off talking to Allison about this."
"Allison told me once what it was like being in love with Scott." Lydia pauses, listens to Derek's silence become more weighted. "Her name is Emily Greene. If anything happens to me, you will protect her." She's careful with the tone, leaves no room for argument without challenging his authority.
"Yes," Derek says.
Two months later, Lydia sits cross-legged on the bed across from Emily and says, "I've seen my parents once in the last two years. I have nightmares. I might never tell you about my scars. I applied for summer internships in New York, but I'm taking one in Boston. If anything ever happens, if we're ever in trouble, call this number."
Emily curls her fingers over the slip of paper and Lydia's hand both and says, "I'm just as smart as you, about different things. My parents want you to come for Christmas next year. I'm not leaving Boston unless you come with me."
Near the end of the semester, they go looking for an apartment together. Lydia keeps directing them toward the nicer areas of town, more appropriate for a lawyer on the rise. They fight about the expense, until Lydia snaps, "My parents aren't good at love, but they're very good at money. We can afford it."
Emily sucks in a breath and puts her arms around Lydia. "I love you."
Lydia takes one of the summer internships in Boston, and they move into one of her choices of apartment in the two weeks between Lydia's last final and Emily's law school graduation.
When something happens, it's both unexpected and a relief that Lydia doesn't have to brace herself for it anymore. It's three small, purple flowers, one on her desk at her internship, one on the floor in front of the apartment door, one on the counter next to their phone chargers.
Lydia lines them all up on the dining room table, a straight row of three sets of petals, and calls Derek with shaking hands.
When Emily comes home, she's still sitting at the table, empty of the dinner it was her turn to cook, hands folded in front of her.
Emily sits across from her, silent and still.
"When I was sixteen," Lydia says, "I went with my boyfriend to the video store. Something attacked a man. I said I didn't see it, but I did. A monster. I was still in the car. It ran past me. It was a werewolf. Later, it bit me." Lydia doesn't move, but she sees Emily's eyes dip to her side. "It should have killed me, or made me into one of them. It didn't. My body rejected that part of it, but there was something." Lydia doesn't touch the flowers, knows, this time, that what she sees might not really be there. "I had hallucinations," she says without letting herself flinch. "I did some terrible things, things that hurt people. I think it might be happening again. I called Derek - the number I gave you. I don't know if he's a good man, but he'll protect you, and you should know."
Emily folds her hands around Lydia's. "Werewolves."
"Yes."
"What do I need to know?"
Lydia's hands begin to shake, even under the firm pressure of Emily's holding them together. "I don't know. I don't know enough about it. Don't let me hurt anyone."
Emily gets out of her chair, comes around the table, and leans over Lydia, blocking out everything else when she puts her arms around her. "I won't," she says. "I won't ever."
Lydia lets herself cry into Emily's shirt.
Lydia doesn't see what Derek does, but the flowers disappear, and she comes home to find a note on the table that says only, "Be well. -D"
Lydia takes what feels like her first deep breath since she saw the first flower on her desk.
Six months later, Lydia has dinner waiting when Emily comes home. That's not unusual - they take turns as much as possible with Emily's job - but this time Lydia lights candles and turns out the overhead lights, and when they're finished eating, she puts a jeweler's box on the table between them.
"I love you," she says. "Will you marry me?"
[Emily says yes, of course. Lydia debates about whether or not to invite her parents to the wedding, and then doesn't. She does invite Jackson. The story ends with Emily leaning over Lydia, one arm around her shoulders, as Lydia changes her Facebook profile pic to a shot of them from the wedding, not one of the carefully posed ones, but one where they're both laughing and uncaring about the camera.]
Lydia doesn't get out unscathed, but she gets out. Gets in everywhere she applies and chooses Harvard because she gets out. Because no one else from Beacon Hills is going there. Because her parents won't even make the trip to move her into the dorm.
Harvard isn't hard. Everything is as easy as it was in high school, except that she doesn't have to dumb herself down as much for public conversation. Lydia soaks up information, smiles and tests her way into as many graduate level classes as she can fit into her schedule, and has still never met anyone close to worthy of her full attention.
Then, in the law school library, satisfying nothing more than her own curiosity, she meets Emily.
"You're not a law student."
Lydia pretends to think about that for a moment. "I could be."
"But you're not."
Four hours and two arguments about precedent - one of which involves Emily countering Lydia's translation of [SOMETHING] with her own - later, Lydia's splayed out on Emily's bed, skirt rucked up over her hips and panties dangling off one ankle with Emily's mouth between her legs. It's the first time she's come with someone else since she left Beacon Hills.
She gives Emily nothing more than her first name and phone number, and isn't disappointed when Emily texts her two days later: Your Facebook is like a model home, and, Come see me win my mock trial.
She does win, of course, and they go back to Emily's again, Lydia on her knees this time, face buried in the wet heat of Emily's cunt.
Emily doesn't get her naked until the third time, after an expensive evening out on Lydia's credit card. Emily's fingers linger over the scars that even really good plastic surgery couldn't erase completely, the marks Peter Hale left on her.
"I'm sure there's a story here."
Lydia doesn't brush her off or lie, knows she's in trouble when she says only, "I'm not going to tell you," knows she's in even more trouble when Emily says, "Okay," and presses her lips to the edge of the scars, just once.
Eighteen hours later, Lydia calls the only person who might understand.
"How did you know you could trust them?" she asks as soon as Jackson picks up the phone. Jackson, who went to Davis and goes home, not to his parents, but to Derek's pack, some weekends.
"I don't know," Jackson says after a moment of wary silence.
"But you do trust them."
"Yes," Jackson says without hesitation. "They're pack."
Lydia sighs, because she expected him to be more help.
"It's worth it," Jackson says slowly. "Whoever it is, if you can, it's worth trusting them." Then, because genuine emotion has never been easy for him, he says, "But you should really talk to someone else about this. Here, talk to Stiles."
Stiles' voice is faint, "What- Who-" and then louder, "Lydia. Hi, Lydia! Are you being brilliant? Is the Academy," she can practically hear quotes around it, "astounded by your intelligence?" He doesn't wait for an answer, dives into a monologue instead about the respective intelligences of his varying professors.
Lydia lets it all waft over her without having to take any of it in, until Stiles squawks, "No! I'm talking," and then, from far away, "Bye, Lydia! Call anytime!"
"He didn't," Derek says. "Not for a very long time, but it's easier when it's pack. You'd be better off talking to Allison about this."
"Allison told me once what it was like being in love with Scott." Lydia pauses, listens to Derek's silence become more weighted. "Her name is Emily Greene. If anything happens to me, you will protect her." She's careful with the tone, leaves no room for argument without challenging his authority.
"Yes," Derek says.
Two months later, Lydia sits cross-legged on the bed across from Emily and says, "I've seen my parents once in the last two years. I have nightmares. I might never tell you about my scars. I applied for summer internships in New York, but I'm taking one in Boston. If anything ever happens, if we're ever in trouble, call this number."
Emily curls her fingers over the slip of paper and Lydia's hand both and says, "I'm just as smart as you, about different things. My parents want you to come for Christmas next year. I'm not leaving Boston unless you come with me."
Near the end of the semester, they go looking for an apartment together. Lydia keeps directing them toward the nicer areas of town, more appropriate for a lawyer on the rise. They fight about the expense, until Lydia snaps, "My parents aren't good at love, but they're very good at money. We can afford it."
Emily sucks in a breath and puts her arms around Lydia. "I love you."
Lydia takes one of the summer internships in Boston, and they move into one of her choices of apartment in the two weeks between Lydia's last final and Emily's law school graduation.
When something happens, it's both unexpected and a relief that Lydia doesn't have to brace herself for it anymore. It's three small, purple flowers, one on her desk at her internship, one on the floor in front of the apartment door, one on the counter next to their phone chargers.
Lydia lines them all up on the dining room table, a straight row of three sets of petals, and calls Derek with shaking hands.
When Emily comes home, she's still sitting at the table, empty of the dinner it was her turn to cook, hands folded in front of her.
Emily sits across from her, silent and still.
"When I was sixteen," Lydia says, "I went with my boyfriend to the video store. Something attacked a man. I said I didn't see it, but I did. A monster. I was still in the car. It ran past me. It was a werewolf. Later, it bit me." Lydia doesn't move, but she sees Emily's eyes dip to her side. "It should have killed me, or made me into one of them. It didn't. My body rejected that part of it, but there was something." Lydia doesn't touch the flowers, knows, this time, that what she sees might not really be there. "I had hallucinations," she says without letting herself flinch. "I did some terrible things, things that hurt people. I think it might be happening again. I called Derek - the number I gave you. I don't know if he's a good man, but he'll protect you, and you should know."
Emily folds her hands around Lydia's. "Werewolves."
"Yes."
"What do I need to know?"
Lydia's hands begin to shake, even under the firm pressure of Emily's holding them together. "I don't know. I don't know enough about it. Don't let me hurt anyone."
Emily gets out of her chair, comes around the table, and leans over Lydia, blocking out everything else when she puts her arms around her. "I won't," she says. "I won't ever."
Lydia lets herself cry into Emily's shirt.
Lydia doesn't see what Derek does, but the flowers disappear, and she comes home to find a note on the table that says only, "Be well. -D"
Lydia takes what feels like her first deep breath since she saw the first flower on her desk.
Six months later, Lydia has dinner waiting when Emily comes home. That's not unusual - they take turns as much as possible with Emily's job - but this time Lydia lights candles and turns out the overhead lights, and when they're finished eating, she puts a jeweler's box on the table between them.
"I love you," she says. "Will you marry me?"
[Emily says yes, of course. Lydia debates about whether or not to invite her parents to the wedding, and then doesn't. She does invite Jackson. The story ends with Emily leaning over Lydia, one arm around her shoulders, as Lydia changes her Facebook profile pic to a shot of them from the wedding, not one of the carefully posed ones, but one where they're both laughing and uncaring about the camera.]
(no subject)
Date: 2014-03-22 06:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2014-03-22 07:48 pm (UTC)