Archive of Our Own

Scott and Stiles telling her that she’s a werewolf is the first thing to happen once she wakes up from her coma. Well, technically, the first thing is finding herself completely naked in the middle of the woods, but she’s chosen to ignore that particular humiliating incident.

They tell her she got bitten (there’s nothing there), that her Alpha is dead (she can feel it), that she’s the Alpha now. Mostly, they tell her that they don’t know why.

They say that they’ll help, although it’s Derek’s fault she’s even an alpha anyway, but he’s more complicated than Jackson and more useless than they used to be at lacrosse.

(Stiles still is, but she bites back the words before they trip off her tongue. She knows when to accept people’s help, even if she hates it. Even if being seen with these two is going to bring down her popularity so far-

She can’t think about that now. First she has to focus on not killing people every full moon. She thinks that she’ll be alright in between; she’s had to learn to be good at controlling her emotions already, but from what Scott says, the full moon is too intense to even think.)

She’s an accidental alpha, bitten and turned and risen to power before she even woke up from her coma, and she’s utterly alone.

--

The following month sees her in the woods again, covered in dirt and missing her shoes, though at least she kept her clothes on this time. It’s not the Sheriff who finds her, nor his son. She’s not surprised, honestly. She doubts her mom has even noticed that her bed is empty, what with all the half-empty wine bottles that Lydia found hidden in the back of the fridge when she got home.

That always happens when her dad calls.

Instead, it’s Allison, dressed all in black with a quiver strapped to her back.

“What am I doi-”

“Shh,” Allison mouths but doesn’t say, pressing Lydia against the nearest tree. It’d be hot, if she hadn’t just woken up in the middle of a forest at four am for the second time. It would also help if she didn’t have the suspicion that Allison - and whoever is with her - are hunting for her.

“Allison?” She knows that voice, would know it anywhere. She might only have met him once or twice, but she would rather think about kissing Mr Argent than any of the boys in school.

Allison doesn’t answer. Her breath is loud in Lydia’s ear, and she winces, every nerve wired and over-sensitive.

“Allison?” he calls again. There’s a sound like when cops take the safety off their guns in movies, and fuck.

She already escaped death once. She would rather not find out if being a werewolf lets her do it again.

“I’m here, Dad!”

“Did you find anything?” Anyone, she substitutes silently.

“Just rats. And some bullet casings.”

“That’d be Gerard.” Allison's heartbeat is lightning fast under her hand, and she realises that at some point, her fingers have stretched to cover half of Allison’s chest. She can feel her own heart matching it, beating perfectly in sync. She doesn’t know if it’s because they’re both afraid, or if-

Mr Argent’s pager buzzes, the noise too sharp for Lydia’s ears.

“Lionel thinks he saw something.”

He walks away before he even quite finishes, the words snatched reluctantly from his mouth. She can barely hear his footsteps, despite her heightened senses.

Allison waits, still pressed against her, and Lydia lets herself enjoy it a little, now that she looks less likely to be getting killed by the father of someone from school. Statistically, she supposes, she still had a chance of that even if she wasn’t a werewolf, but she doubts she would let herself be nearly alone in the woods at night with said guy if she wasn’t.

“Can you still hear him?” Lydia shakes her head.

“Scott and Stiles told me everything. Something about Derek doing it wrong?”

That’s an understatement. It had taken three days, twenty-six texts, and a promise to actually acknowledge Stiles at school before he had told her what he knew - which honestly, wasn’t much. Apparently, a still supernatural Scott was busy licking his wounds after Derek had fallen through on his promise to let Scott kill his Alpha, Peter. Because high school boys should be allowed to kill a person. Even if said person had ruined their life, and their death at your hands would supposedly make it go back to normal again.

Lydia would sympathize less with Scott if Derek having his own agenda hadn’t led to her becoming a packless creature of the night with no idea what she's doing. But he did, and she had, and no one seemed to know why exactly she had skipped beta-hood, and became an Alpha instead of Derek anyway.

“They don’t really know much, do they?”

“More than we do. My dad won’t tell me anything,” Allison says, clearly frustrated. Lydia might sympathize more if it wasn’t obvious that Mr Argent is trying to kill her, and says so.

“You don’t understand - it’s the family business.” She sounds like she’s quoting someone.

“Your family should look into clothing distribution. Maybe sell alcohol to minors if they just like breaking laws.”

“There’s no laws about werewolves.”

“We’re people too,” she snaps, too loud in the calm night. Something rustles near her feet and she starts. It takes until her heartbeat settles under her skin again that she realises it’s the first time she’s ever admitted to being a werewolf. Even to herself.

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I know.” If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have trusted Allison to keep her safe once Mr Argent arrived.

Allison pauses, glancing between the moon and the direction her dad had gone in.

“I’ll take you home?” she offers.

“Please.”

The sun starts to rise just as Lydia climbs through her window without saying goodbye.

--

Allison is never quite pack, until she gets bitten.

It’s not for lack of trying, on either of their parts. Lydia needs a pack, can feel the part of her that calls out to any werewolf passing through on the full moon - and Scott, who refuses to join any pack, even hers.

Allison just needs someone.

Derek says it’s normal, when she gets him to actually talk to her, to want that feeling of connection, especially with people she already knew before she was bitten. Even if they’re human. Derek himself still refuses to have anything to do with her beyond the bare minimum, which she would be offended by if it wasn’t for her own lack of want to see him, and the fact that he avoids everyone except Scott. She’s never even heard about him going to the grocery store.

She flirts with him once, when Jackson’s being petty and Allison silent, and his one sentence answers are more annoying and cryptic than helpful. He stares at her like he’s never seen a girl before, his eyes so wide that she has to remind herself to keep smirking and not crack an actual smile.

“Derek?” she asks, and it seems for a moment that interest flashes blue in his eyes, before he pulls away and almost throws himself up the stairs in his haste to get away.

She’d be offended, but Allison calls, wanting her to come over.

--

“I got this on a hunt last night,” Allison says, pulling her sweater to reveal her shoulder, and something Lydia doesn’t even want to look at, much less think about. The sweater is black, of course. Since Kate’s funeral, Lydia doesn’t think she’s seen her wear anything else.

“We could go shopping after school tomorrow. There’s a sale on at Macy’s,” she comments, admiring her lipstick in the mirror behind Allison.

She wants to put this whole conversation off, wants to talk about other things until they both almost forget, because this… This opens up a whole other world of trouble, on top of the multiple ones she’s already dealing with. Sometimes it seems like her life went from a popularity contest to Buffy the Vampire Slayer almost overnight.

She could smell it the moment she walked in the room.

Allison turns around, her face pale. Her shoulder is so, so red, and Lydia finds herself reaching out to touch the bite before she even thinks.

“Does it hurt?” She doesn’t remember if hers did. Wouldn’t, being comatose for nearly two weeks.

She doesn’t even remember if it hurt when it happened to her. The doctors had called it temporary amnesia, but two months later they had seemed to have forgotten the temporary part altogether.

“Not really.” Allison seems so far away, even though they’re almost touching.

“It’s healing.” She wishes that she didn’t hear the fear in Allison’s voice, like becoming someone like her is something to be afraid of. Although, she supposes, you can’t be a hunter if you think werewolves are people, unless you’re actually just a murderer.

“Is that bad?” she says, carefully.

Allison ignores her.

“In my family, you’re not supposed to… My dad had a best friend. Hunter, lesser family.” She sounds like she’s reciting something.

“An alpha bit him. They killed it, but he started to turn anyway. My mom says that they slid a blade under his pillow and told him to make sure he wouldn’t wake up.” Her voice catches on the final word, and Lydia braces herself when Allison falls against her, her face smushing awkwardly against her shoulder. She’s not surprised to find that Allison’s cheeks are wet.

“Your family loves you.”

“We follow the code.” Lydia wishes that Allison would stop saying things that sound like they came from someone else.

“I’ll help you,” she promises. Allison is the closest thing she has ever had to a best friend. It’s not the first time she’s made something happen through pure strength of will.

--

Chris Argent’s face when she shows up on her doorstep is a work of art. She preferred him without the heavy beard, but she supposes they don’t call it a “grief beard” for nothing.

It’s the first time she’s been to his house since Peter turned her. She wonders if he knows that she’s not just a beta, that she never was.

Well, he’s about to.

“Are you going to let me in?” She may not be a vampire, but she is polite.

He’s wearing a soft tan sweater and a holster without a gun, and she lets her eyes linger over it before dragging them up to meet his. He looks uncertain, like he doesn’t know what she wants, and she likes it. It feels like the full moon does, like she can do anything. Like she doesn’t have to fake that power because she already has it.

He stands back from the door without saying a word, and she sweeps past him into the living room. Keeping her breathing calm, she waits until he follows her before she turns to face him.

Her eyes flash red.

He takes a step back, hand going to his empty holster. She wonders if it’s second nature now, to have a weapon in hand, to know you can control it.

She still isn’t sure how to make her claws retract.

“What do you want?” he asks, harsher than she’s ever heard him. This is the voice of the man who could shove a teenager against a refrigerator and threaten to kill him. She hadn’t believed Scott before.

“For you to stop sending people to kill me in the woods,” she says, her voice lilted at the end. It was a stupid question.

“You want a ceasefire.”

“It’s hardly a ceasefire if I haven’t done anything!”

“You’re a werewolf!” You’re dangerous, his voice implies.

“I’m sixteen.” Barely sixteen, and scared. Lydia might feel eighteen sometimes, might dream about the parties she’ll attend when she’s twenty-one, might have an IQ higher than two people combined, but she’s just got her permit and her first credit card that isn’t in her mom’s name. She doesn’t even know how to use her claws properly, let alone hurt people with them.

“There are other werewolves, ones who aren’t so inclined to spare my family."

“There’s two of us,” she says. She doesn’t know if he knows about Derek, and she’s not going to be the one to give him away. Even if Scott and Stiles seem to think that her being like this is his fault.

“There’ll be more. Alphas always breed.” His eyes are dark, and she thinks about the look on Allison’s face when she talked about her dad’s best friend.

“Not me,” she says, and her voice is final.

His eyes search hers like he’s looking for answers he wouldn’t believe if they came from her mouth. He must be satisfied with what he finds, because his fingers finally leave the empty holster.

“We protect human life. We live by the code. Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.” We hunt those who hunt us. Interesting.

She nods.

"We'll leave you be."

"And my pack."

"And-" He stills, clearly curious.

She dismisses it, a slight shake of the head.

“Allison will be home soon,” he says, and she takes the hint, starting toward the front of the house again. There’s a picture of Kate on the mantel. She’s smiling, the unmistakeable swell of a gun tucked into the front of her jeans. Lydia wonders if Kate’s eyes would have been blue, if she had been turned by Peter instead of killed.

“Don’t hurt my daughter,” he says, when she’s a step away from the front door.

“She’s my best friend.” And she is, finally; the kind of best friend Lydia had always wanted. Best friends were supposed to do anything for each other, and make each other smile, and feel comfort from just being in the same room, and now, finally, she has that.

It only took nearly being murdered, and becoming a supernatural creature to do it.

"She's my pack," she says, and it feels true now.

The last steps to the door are quick, before he can say anything else. Lydia doesn’t run unless she has to - her picture is in the dictionary under ‘purposeful walk’ - but she isn’t too proud to admit that she considers it for a moment.

She’ll save it for the actual monsters.

--

After that, she decides she’s never going to be caught like that again. If Lydia’s going to be a werewolf, she’s going to be the best werewolf the supernatural has ever seen.

She reads everything she can get her hands on - Allison’s bestiary, old books, forum comments in hidden corners of the internet. She practices her transformation, over and over and over until she can control every part of it, can flash her eyes red or bring out her claws with only a moment’s thought.

(Regrettably, she has to stop painting her nails, the paint coming off when the claws come out, but it’s worth it to see the look on Allison’s face the next time the hunters come after her.)

--

Everything seems to slow down, the world spinning through time like it’s pushing through caramel, like it wants her to appreciate the calm before the storm.

And there will be a storm. She might not be a pop culture nerd like Stiles, but she’s read enough books to know that if the supernatural is involved, any semblance of peace just means that they’ll be less prepared when the inevitable disaster hits them.

For now though, she enjoys it. Allison takes to studying outside on the lawn in front of her house, and it’s easy enough for Lydia to come by when she can smell that no one else is around. She makes mistakes a few times, trusts her new senses more than she should, and after her first meeting with an armed Victoria Argent, they move their studying sessions to the woods.

Derek is there sometimes, although he never says anything. She can feel him watching them at the edge of her senses. It’s always enough to make her take Allison’s hand defiantly, lean closer to her. He can’t scare her. He’s the one who refuses to even have a conversation.

Allison squeezes her hand, mouthing a silent questions when Lydia turns her head to look at her.

“Derek’s here.”

“I know,” she says. “But we have a test tomorrow.”

“Two werewolves taking a chemistry quiz on the history of atoms, who would have thought?”

“Well, Scott’s taking it too, so technically it’s three werewolves.”

They grin at each other, and the knot in her chest from Derek’s appearance dissolves again. Lydia relaxes back into Allison, moving closer to read her notes. She thinks Allison might have missed a few points about the significance of electricity in the creation of atomic theory, and tells her so, as matter-of-factly as possible, trying to keep her eyes of the sliver of cleavage she can see from this angle.

“You’d make a good teacher,” Allison says, dropping her hand to scribble a note in the margin of her notebook.

“I don’t think so. High school would be more annoying when you’re not actually in it.” She doesn’t say that she’s already bored with it, that she learns more in one afternoon on her own with the internet than she does in a week of classes, that the drama of homecoming court politics is the only thing that keeps her returning. And Allison, of course. College hangs in front of her like a promise.

“What do you want to do, then? When you grow up?” Allison asks, rolling away slightly to sprawl in the thick grass.

“I’m going to have my own lab. All the best scientists in the world will work there, and I’ll lead them. I’ll win a Field’s Medal and two Nobel Prizes, and they’ll invite me to be a speaker at the International Congress of the International Mathematical Union.” She stops, not quite embarrassed. No one had ever asked her what she wanted to do before, and actually listened. Allison’s gaze is intent on her face, like she wants to know everything about Lydia, and Lydia wants to tell her.

But not yet. Keeping her cards close to her chest has always worked for her before.

“I hope they record your speech, so I can watch it and show you off to everyone I know. ‘That’s my best friend!’” she mimics, like it’s nothing, like she’s certain they’ll still know each other then.

“I can bring a guest.”

“Then at least you’ll have your pack there for your big win,” Allison smiles, all teeth. And then that’s it, it’s decided; Lydia has a pack now, one she’ll protect with everything she has.

--

Erica approaches her the week before the full moon, and honestly, if the girl hadn't fallen off the climbing wall a few weeks ago, Lydia wouldn't have known who she was.

She knows now, though, the brief file of facts she keeps hidden away in her mind, in case she needs them. Epileptic. Loner. Says too much of what she thinks.

"I want your help," Erica says, no polite how-are-you, not even the semblance of a normal conversation. Lydia can appreciate it, even if it's not the approach she would take.

"Sorry, can't." She turns away, knowing Erica will follow. She knows she's probably not going to do whatever it is, but she still wants to know what she's turning down. Maybe it'll make a good story, and she can tell it to Allison. Lydia loves making her smile.

"Stiles said you could. He said- Did you know Scott's not asthmatic anymore?" That explains why he suddenly got so good at lacrosse. Plus the whole super strength and senses, of course.

Lydia faces her again.

"I know about werewolves," Erica whispers, suddenly closer than she had been. Too close. Lydia can hear her heartbeat, the slow pump of blood, the way she's holding her breath.

She can't stop staring at Erica's lips, and she doesn't know why.

"How?" Lydia asks, though she can imagine. Stiles. Or maybe Scott - despite keeping his distance from the supernatural except when he absolutely has to, he has a bleeding heart.

"It's easy to find things out when you're invisible," Erica says. Her expression changes. "And Scott and Stiles aren't very quiet."

"True," Lydia says, biting down on a smirk. "Still can't help you."

"You can turn me. My seiz-" Erica cuts herself off. "Some things don't have a cure. Except, maybe..." she trails off, looking at Lydia hopefully, and God, for some reason she wants to say yes. She won't, of course, reason overruling emotion, but for some reason, she wants to give Erica everything.

They haven't broken eye contact yet.

She feels strange, off-kilter. She can still hear Erica's heartbeat, can't find it within her to tune it out like she usually does. It feels like-

Impossible. But Lydia's not stupid, and she's never played the game of denial. Still, this takes more thinking.

"Sorry, Erica." she says, and she thinks she means it.

--

Despite feeling like she’s an actual Alpha now, Lydia ignores the upcoming full moon for as long as she can. It’ll be the first one where she (hopefully) won’t be running from the Argents and their hunters. More importantly, it’s the first one where she won’t be alone.

Allison will be there.

In the end, she’s not the one who brings it up. Scott does, sliding his bag on the table to sit next to her in chemistry. Allison shoots her a weird look when she enters, but doesn’t pause before sitting with Stiles on the other side of the classroom. Not that it would stop her from listening in anyway.

“We have to look after Allison tomorrow,” Scott says, almost the moment he sits down.

“Tomorrow…?” she asks, purposefully playing dumb.

“The full moon!” he says, too loud, and more than one head turns in their direction.

“Allison is my responsibility,” she responds, not quite a hiss, her voice too low to be caught by anyone human.

Scott looks confused. She sighs, flashing red eyes at him for barely a second.

“Allison is my responsibility,” she says again. “And I thought you didn’t want anything to do with other werewolves?”

Scott shifts, hunching his shoulders.

“I want to help her. She deserves more… more of a chance than we got,” he finishes, a long exhale of emotion. I love her, he doesn’t say, but she hears it.

A tiny part of her hopes that Allison didn’t.

“We’re meeting near the ridge before moonrise,” Lydia says, as much of an invitation she’s going to extend.

Scott nods, and the roll is called, effectively ending that conversation. She’s never been more grateful for Mr Harris, and she doubts she will be again. The silence between them is less than comfortable - at least for her. Scott seems perfectly content with it, sending her a smile whenever they happen to make eye contact.

She’s more concerned with why she doesn’t want Scott to take care of Allison.

It’s not that Lydia doesn’t know exactly how she feels about her. In a world where soulmates genuinely exist, a girl who grew up on fairy tales is always going to be on the lookout, and she knows what she felt when she met Allison for the first time. She knows that they were drawn together for a reason.

But she had decided a long time ago to let things take their course. She’s heard of the half-bonded, the unlucky ones whose soulmate never materialises, or worse, doesn’t feel the same way. In the middle of the night, when the crescent moon is high and there feels like no one else in the world, she imagines what she’ll do if it turns out that their soulmate bond is only platonic, at least for Allison.

She knows that it’s nowhere near platonic for her.

--

“See you tonight?” Allison says, a trace of nerves in her voice.

“Of course,” she replies. Allison remains silent, and Lydia takes her hand. “You’ll be okay, Ally.”

“I know. You’ll be with me,” Allison adds, a blur of emotions whisking across her face. The anxiety, Lydia understands, but the guilt? The regret?

Sometimes Lydia wishes knowing how to read people came with an explanation manual.

“I gotta go,” Allison mutters, dropping her hand and kissing Lydia on the cheek, too close to her mouth for comfort. It’s not that she doesn’t want it - she wants it too much, wishes she could turn her cheek just a little, and kiss her. Really kiss her.

But she can’t, and Allison’s dating Scott, and she doesn’t know if she could take it if she kissed Allison and didn’t get her name written on her skin.

“Allison?” she calls, when her best friend is already steps away, like she’s rushing to get away. Allison still turns, though, staring straight into her eyes like something out of The Notebook, and she feels like she can’t breathe. She thinks Allison is feeling it too, the way the world has tilted a little, like it wants them to come home. To fit together.

It must be wishful thinking. Allison isn’t there yet.

“Yeah?” Allison prompts, too quiet for anyone but a werewolf to hear, but the spell is broken anyway.

“Nothing. See you tonight.”

--

It's nearly moonrise, and Lydia can feel it prickling under her skin. Everything is cast in an eerie, silver glow. She doesn't know if she'll ever get used to it, the way her power surges up and takes over her body, humming in her veins. She couldn't make her eyes less red if she wanted to.

It's scary, sometimes, how little control she has over herself on nights like this. Scarier, how little she cares, for someone who spent years building herself from the outside in.

"Where's Scott?" Lydia asks. After all the fuss he had made about taking care of Allison tonight, it would be odd for him not to show up.

"I'm not sure," Allison says. Her voice sounds cold, but maybe she's just nervous. It is her first moon.

Lydia sniffs the air.

"I can't smell him," she reports.

"I think we should just go," Allison says. "He'll find us."

Lydia would protest, but the moon is running hot in her blood, making it hard to think. She doesn’t give in to it. Not yet.

“Are you okay, Ally?”

“I’m fine,” Allison responds, and Lydia squashes down the part of her that says she wouldn’t be able to tell otherwise. She’s still working on scenting emotions.

A wolf howls within the forest, and Lydia grins. She can feel it changing in her mouth, suddenly sharp canines are biting into her lip. She doesn’t know who takes off first, but then they’re running through the trees, the wind icy where it hits bare skin, and it’s better, better than any other moon she can remember.

Allison is here, only trees away. She can feel her presence like a hot flame, can tell whenever she moves, slows, is unsure. She howls, letting it rip from her throat, and feels more than hears Allison get caught up in it. They’re drawn closer together by it, until they’re almost touching, running side by side.

Lydia thinks that if she actually touched her, she’d burn, but she risks it, elbows knocking together. Allison’s skin is warm, and she smiles when Allison looks at her, golden eyes inquisitive.

She’s never felt more connected to anyone than in this moment.

The wolf howls again, and she frowns, thickened eyebrows pinched together. It doesn’t feel like a wolf anymore. It feels like…

It feels like one of them.

It’s not Scott, his presence still too distant. She wonders where he is, why he’s missing this, although she doesn’t think it would be the same if he were here.

Allison nudges her, and she turns from her surveyance of the moon, like it has the answers. Allison jerks her head toward a knot of trees, and feels her breath leave her body when she looks.

A figure outlined in silver stands before the trees, long blonde hair tangled by the fierce wind. Lydia can smell her from here, should have known before now, too distracted by Allison’s presence, and the moon.

“Erica,” Lydia says, and watches her take it as an invitation. She doesn’t stop when she reaches them, though, just grins as she walks past. Lydia likes it, the way Erica seems to change under the wolf’s influence.

She’ll worry about how the fuck Erica became a werewolf tomorrow.

“Catch me if you can,” Erica teases, before taking off, away from the ridge. There’s something different about the way she talks. Lighter somehow.

Allison laughs, the sound distorted by her teeth, and runs after her, pulling Lydia along by the hand. Their fingers lock together, and they run side by side, chasing a flicker of blonde hair and the smell of white chocolate.

The moon shines overhead, and Lydia feels like she’s almost home.

--

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Allison asks. It’s the morning after the full moon, and every muscle in Lydia’s body is competing to be the most wired. The sun is warm on her face, and when Allison takes her hand, she feels languid, a sheet of calm stretched over the buzzing energy under her skin.

“It’s hard not to, when you know they exist.” Lydia’s parents are soulmates. Not that it stopped them from getting divorced.

“No, but,” Allison props her chin up on her spare hand. “Do you really believe in them? Like, do you think you have one?”

Every trace of lazy comfortableness is gone in an instant. Her heart is beating so fast, cutting of questions before they can even begin. Is this-? Does she-? Will they-?

“Does it matter?” she asks, outwardly calm.

“It’s just...I always thought Scott was my soulmate,” Allison confesses. Lydia drops her hand before she even realises, ignoring the trace of hurt she sees in Allison’s eyes.

Of course this is about Scott.

“He might be,” she suggests, carefully neutral.

“No.” Allison says, final, and Lydia can’t help but hope again.

“Why not?”

“He called me yesterday.” Allison pauses, like she’s remembering. “He said he was sorry, that- Stiles. He kissed Stiles.” She takes a shuddering breath, and Lydia marvels at how strong she is, to have kept this under wraps even during the moon, when Lydia can smell almost everything she’s feeling. She underestimates Allison sometimes, forgets that not everyone needs to be steel in order to be strong.

“They’re soulmates,” Allison finishes. Lydia watches her touch her wrist, in the place Scott’s name would be if they truly were soulmates. “I thought it might be us, that we might just be latent… My parents took sixteen kisses for their names to show up.”

“Months of dating is more than sixteen kisses,” Lydia points out.

“I know that! But the way we fit together. It felt like that had to be it.”

“It’s called first love,” Lydia says, her secrets making her bitter.

Allison gives a sad, strained half-smile, and folds, like a house of cards just waiting to be blown over by the wind. Lydia lets her curl into her, wraps her arms around her soulmate’s waist and takes everything she can, her veins running black as she pulls Allison’s pain from her. It’s slightly clumsy; she’s only done this a few times, when Scott was feeling less like he hated everything supernatural.

“Thanks,” Allison says, wiping her eyes.

“You’re my best friend,” Lydia says, and that seems to be enough.

--

Lunchtime is incredibly awkward.

Everyone is studiously ignoring the elephant in the room. Allison isn't looking at anyone but Lydia. She can see Scott and Stiles holding hands underneath the table.

"Erica's a werewolf," Lydia says, because she’s been thinking about it, and they have to be told. Mostly though, she tells them because the silence is unbearable, and she can feel Allison beginning to snap.

Scott says he wants nothing to do with it, that he never has, but despite Stiles’ reluctant support, she can see him being drawn back in. Both of them. Stiles is easy; always wanting to know things, to be two steps ahead of everyone else and rub their faces in it. Scott, though - he feels guilty. He wants to protect, to stop them from being sucked into this like he was, with no warning or wanting or making a choice. He wants them to be able to choose.

She gets that. She might like it now, the way her mind and her body finally connect when it’s the full moon and the blood under her skin sings, but she never forgets that she never asked for this. Not like Jackson, who begged, or Derek who grew up with it.

She never asked to be a werewolf, and never to be an Alpha.

(Privately, she admits, that if she has to be a werewolf at all, at least she is the best of the best.)

“Can you believe Harris wants to give me a detention for lipstick?” Erica says loudly, swinging into the seat next to Allison like this is something she always does, the aforementioned red lipstick smudged slightly in one corner.

Scott and Stiles start talking at once, their sentences overlapping, talking too loudly about werewolves and “This is not what I meant!”

Lydia waits for everyone to quiet, prepares the perfect expression, one eyebrow raised.

“Well?”

Erica looks at her. Lydia can almost see the confidence dropping away, only to be replaced by another, faker kind. She knows what that’s like.

“You said no,” Erica says bluntly.

“But I’m not the only Alpha around here,” Lydia guesses.

Erica nods.

“I can’t believe you asked a random Alpha to bite you!” Stiles bursts out, looking like he only hasn’t said anything before now because of Scott.

“Like you can talk, Stilinski,” Lydia eyes him.

“I-”

“We know it was your idea,” Allison says, speaking for the first time since they sat down. The table is suddenly cold again, everyone aware of the double meaning and trying to pretend they aren’t.

All except Erica.

“Brrr,” Erica jokes, although she cuts it out when Lydia shoots her a look.

“I have a paper,” Stiles says abruptly, standing up from the table. He still hasn’t let go of Scott’s hand. “Coming?”

Scott nods, looking torn.

“Allison…” He looks at her pleadingly, and Lydia doesn’t have to be his pack in order to feel his guilt.

Allison, however, is pack, and her soulmate besides, and Lydia can feel her hurt as if it were her own.

She catches Scott’s eye, and shakes her head firmly. Scott’s face droops, but he nods, letting Stiles lead him away.

Lydia slides her leg against Allison’s under the table, letting it rest there and hoping that it brings her some kind of comfort. It’s too awkward an angle for Lydia to pull her pain, so she doesn’t try.

It’s not that kind of pain, anyway. She just wants to do something.

“Well, that was awkward,” Erica says. Lydia just restrains herself from rolling her eyes.

“Erica-”

“It’s okay,” Allison cuts her off. She addresses Erica directly. “I’d like to see you have a non-awkward break up.”

“I’ve never dated anyone,” Erica responds, a mixture of loneliness and assurance that thirteen year old Lydia feels in her soul. “But I’ll let you know.” She smiles wide, stretching out her legs in loose-limbed confidence. Lydia can feel their legs almost touching underneath the table, the gap between them more obvious and warm than if they were touching.

She can feel the bond between them like it’s a physical being, and only then does she admit to herself that yes, there is something there.

To Lydia’s surprise, Allison smiles back, if a little shakily.

Interesting, she thinks, and wonders if she needs to do a little more research on this soulmate thing.

--
They start having lunch together after that, a month of trading food and stories, and on one occasion, homework. Lydia feels slightly guilty, letting Erica copy her answers, when she’s spent the last twelve years abjectly refusing to let anyone anywhere near them.

But it’s for a good cause. Erica might be mostly cured now, but she still has to get check-ups at the hospital, and that means less time for homework.

“White chocolate is my favourite,” Erica says, licking her fingers. Lydia definitely does not stare. “I wasn’t allowed to eat it before.”

It makes sense. Lydia doesn’t know much about how to manage a seizure, but she knows about the science behind them, and the effects of hyperglycemia.

Allison wrinkles her nose.

“I don’t know how you like it. It’s basically all sugar,” she says, fishing her water bottle out of her bag.

“That’s the point,” Lydia and Erica say in unison. Erica cracks up laughing, offering Lydia the last square of chocolate once she’s gotten herself under control. She takes it with a smile, pointedly not thinking about how Erica’s mouth has just been there.

That would be creepy, and she refuses to be third grade Stiles.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with two people who think cocoa butter makes real chocolate,” Allison teases, mock-scoffing at them.

“You love us,” Erica says casually.

If Allison’s smile freezes on her face a little before she laughs, Lydia barely notices, too concerned with keeping her own heartbeat steady. She feels stupid, like she’s fourteen with her first crush, like she’s going to melt into a puddle the second someone even implies that they might like her back.

“I guess that means you don’t want to share a dessert tonight then,” Lydia says, recovering herself.

“Tonight?” Erica asks, looking between them, a trace of a smirk on her lips.

“I’m gonna kick Lydia’s ass at bowling,” Allison explains.
“Hey!” Lydia says, elbowing her, but she’s not too busy giggling with Allison to ignore the look of hurt on Erica’s face.

“Do you want to come?” she offers. “It’d be nice to have some actual competition.”

Allison laughs.

“She means it, you know,” she confides. “Lydia’s intense about her bowling.”

“I’ve never been bowling,” Erica confesses, but she looks happier now.

“Then you definitely have to come. I can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t bowl,” Lydia smiles, and presses her leg against Erica’s until she smiles in return.

--

Lydia had severely underestimated what being in a date-like environment with two girls she is ninety-eight percent sure are her soulmates would do to her psyche. It’s like an equation: take one Lydia, add one Allison, one Erica, and a bowling alley. Is the sum greater than or less than Lydia plus her strength of will?

It feels like a date without really being one, Allison laughing like she doesn’t care if she misses and stretching her legs across Lydia’s when Erica takes her turn.

“Damn,” Erica swears loudly, watching the ball collide with the gutter. Again.

“Isn’t being a werewolf supposed to enhance your senses?” Allison giggles under her breath.

“Heard that!” Erica calls back, but she’s laughing, and Lydia’s smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.

“Your turn,” Lydia tells her almost reluctantly. She misses Allison’s warmth when she swings her legs off of Lydia’s lap. She has to squash the urge to grab her hand again, pull her back down and kiss her till she’s smiling again.

Not yet.

It feels like the mantra of the last month, waiting for the right moment, for Allison to seem like she’s getting over Scott and what they could have had.

Erica steps off of the bowling platform, winking when Lydia catches her eye.

“Be right back,” she says, before she suffocates under all the things she wants but can’t have, before Erica snuggles next to her again, daring her to do something. They’re both waiting, her and Erica, but she’s not sure if Erica knows exactly what they’re waiting for.

Who they’re waiting for.

The bathroom is quiet and calming, the sink cool under her fingers. She checks her makeup, brushes away an eyelash that had escaped onto her cheek. She can feel her heartbeat returning to normal.

She closes her eyes, opening them again just as quickly when something makes a noise nearby. She can smell white chocolate and charcoal.

She’s not alone anymore.

“Allison said you might be here,” Erica says, stepping through the doorway. The bathroom suddenly feels too small, Erica almost crowding her against the sink. Her cherry smile looks slightly predatory in the dim yellow light.

“Am I not allowed to go to the toilet alone anymore?” Lydia says, arching an eyebrow.

“Just wondered where you were,” Erica says, closing the minute distance between them. She can feel her hips warm under Erica’s touch. A tiny part of her mind whispers that they shouldn’t be this close, that she hasn’t allowed it for a reason, but she’s too overwhelmed by Erica’s heat and the nearly full moon overhead.

Erica bends her head, leaning down, and Lydia curses the fact that bowling shoes don’t have heels. It seems to take forever for Erica’s lips to even get close to hers, but she still feels enveloped in the heady scent of sweet white chocolate and gritty charcoal.

Charcoal.

Allison.

She’s not supposed to be doing this yet.

“Erica,” she says, her eyes flashing red. She can feel Erica’s breath against her lips. It would be so easy.

Erica’s eyes burn with gold, and she takes a step back. Lydia might not be her Alpha, but she is an Alpha, and omegas will always bend to her will.

“Do you not want me?” Erica asks, her voice quiet. All bravado is gone; she looks like the few vague memories Lydia has of Erica before the bite, before she had gotten up the courage to ask for it. She hates the hurt she can hear in Erica’s voice, that she can feel in her own skin, despite them being unbonded, despite the unconfirmed suspicions.

“I’m waiting,” she says. It isn’t an answer, and she knows it.

If she confesses to how much she wants Erica, she thinks she’ll give in. She’s stronger than that - more rational than that. She knows she has a plan for a reason.

“Oh.” To her surprise, Erica smiles. “You want to wait for Allison.”

Relief rushes through her, that Erica knows, that she’s not the only one who feels it.

“You know,” she says, not sure if she’s surprised or not.

“When you spend a lot of time alone, you think about finding your soulmate a lot,” Erica says bluntly. “I noticed when it felt the same for both of you.”

Lydia smiles, feeling warm. Erica takes her hand and squeezes it once, gently, before letting go again.

“Let’s go back. She’s waiting for us.”

--

It seems like when something happens, it all happens at once.

Through the complicated chain that is Scott, Derek and Lydia’s semi-alliance, Deaton tells them that the Nemeton has started humming again. She’s not really sure what the Nemeton is, but Derek only frowns when she tells him. She’s used to that; Derek’s not really a thank you person. Sometimes she wonders if he ever was.

(Late at night, when she’s curled up in bed with Allison, she’ll wonder aloud if Derek would be better if he were an Alpha. If he wanted it at all.

Allison thinks he must have, to have killed his uncle and tried to become one, but she isn’t sure.)

In any case, Allison cracks open her stolen bestiary and finds absolutely nothing on the Nemeton. It takes two visits to Deaton, one to the counselor’s office, and bribing Stiles with curly fries before Lydia feels confident that she has all the answers. And, more importantly, that those answers don’t add up to anything more sinister than a lot of supernaturals living near a no-longer-dormant magical energy hub.

Even if apparently they’ll be getting a lot more supernatural visitors before the month is out.

The first of these shows up on the first day of school, and if Scott didn’t have Stiles, she would swear that he fell a bit in love. She can see why - Kira’s adorable and clumsy and innocent. Something none of them have felt like for a long time.

Scott says there’s something different about her, and even if she agrees, she’s not sure quite what it is. Kira’s not human, but she doesn’t recognise the scent. She doesn’t even know if Kira knows what she is.

Derek might, but he’s not talking, even to his pack. Erica says his sister showed up from South America two days ago and they haven’t seen him since.

Typical.

Kira’s sweet, and apparently incredibly curious, since it takes her all of two periods to overhear their discussion of the Nemeton, and an extra day to apparently work up the nerve to ask Scott why she can’t even find it on the internet.

Which, of course, means a supernatural-wide (plus Stiles) discussion of whether or not she should actually be told.

“I mean, we know she’s not human, so why should she be kept in the dark?”

“Because what if she’s evil, Scott!”

“You think everyone is evil, Stilinski,” Erica says, smirking when Allison nods wryly.

“Why are you even at this table? You’re not in this pack!”

“Neither are you,” Lydia points out, ignoring his wounded eyes.

“None of us are,” Scott adds.

“Except me,” Allison says, and Lydia smiles at her across the table.

“Takes three betas to make a pack,” Stiles says, because he has to have an opinion on everything.

“I think it counts, b-” Erica argues, purely to disagree with Stiles, she’s sure.

“We can protect her!” Scott says, cutting across the inevitable argument before it even begins, and taking Stiles’ hand to keep him quiet.

Honestly, if Scott wasn’t so opposed to being in anyone’s pack, she would just make him her second and be done with it. He’s the only person who can shut Stiles up.

“If anything else happens, we’ll tell her,” Lydia decides, and she bites down on a smile when no one fights her on it.

Something else does happen, more quickly than even Lydia had expected.

That something else is called Malia.

--

Lydia knows they call Wednesday the “hump day” for a reason, but no Wednesday has ever felt this long. She had spent the full moon chasing a coyote, who had turned out to be a were-coyote, once Lydia had stared at her for long enough. Finding where she lived and convincing her that none of them were going to kill her had been exhausting, and Lydia is more than ready to sleep.

There’s a knock at her window, and Lydia sighs, rolling over in bed to face it.

Erica slides through carefully, still dressed in her clothes from earlier. There’s a rip on the knee of her jeans, where Malia had attacked her, but the cut is already mostly healed.

“I can’t sleep,” Erica admits. “Can I-?” She doesn’t complete the sentence, but Lydia knows what she’s asking. She nods.

Erica starts to tug her shirt over her head, but Lydia looks away before she can see more than a strip of stomach, her heart beating fast. She doesn’t trust herself with a naked Erica in her bed.

She has a plan for a reason, she tells herself. She doesn’t know how many times she’s said it.

“You can borrow one of mine,” she says, pointing to the top drawer of her nightstand, and only looks back when Erica calls the all clear.

The nightgown is a slightly faded red, and far too short for Erica, but Lydia doesn’t have time to dwell on it before Erica is sliding into bed beside her.

“Allison’s coming over in the morning,” she warns, snuggling into Erica’s warmth in spite of herself. It feels different to when she and Allison have sleepovers; Allison is all angles and furry pyjama shorts, so different to Erica’s soft, almost bare skin.

“I’ll be gone,” Erica promises. “Don’t want to spoil your plan.”

Lydia wants to ask if Erica’s mocking her, but her bed is too comfortable, and it only takes Erica’s arm around her before sleep swallows her.

--

“Lydia?”

Lydia stirs. The sun is so bright in her eyes, but it feels like too much effort to get up and close the curtains. It’s still early, the clock reading seven o’clock in bright green letters.

Erica shifts beside her, pulling the blanket back over her eyes.

“Shhh,” she mutters, the words barely out of her mouth before she’s asleep again, the hair spilled on her pillow looking gold in the light.

“Erica?” The voice sounds astonished. And familiar.

She can smell charcoal.

She blinks her eyes open again, furiously, brushing away the sleep. Lydia can see her standing near her bedroom door, but it takes a moment for her eyes to focus, still half-asleep.

Allison looks like stone.

"Do you have to rub it in my face?" Allison yells, and Lydia doesn't think she's ever seen her this angry. "Invite me over and then- Did you have to tell me like this? That yo- That Erica?"

She's not really sure what's going on here.

“Allison-”

“I thought-!” she cuts herself off. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“Alli-”

“I hope you’re happy together,” Allison says, bitterness seeping into her scent, before she turns on her heel and goes out the way she came; it’s all happened so quickly that even her mind is having trouble keeping up.

Fuck.

She’ll fix this; she has to.

--

An untrained werecoyote and an even more untrained kitsune stop for no relationship drama, and she finds herself planning her Thursday around the two of them anyway anyway, despite her worries. Kira is almost easy; mostly, she gets Scott to explain. Telling a teenage girl that she’s actually a supernatural creature from Japanese mythology was never something she expected to have on her to do list, but she can barely focus on it.

Allison hasn’t spoken to her since yesterday.

Lydia is bringing Malia home for training when she halts, just inside the front door. Something feels wrong. Malia can smell it too, she can tell, and it’s freaking her out. Lydia had cleared the house for a reason, told the rest of their pack not to come over.

“I want to join your pack,” Erica calls from the lounge, as casual as if she hadn’t waltzed into an Alpha’s house without permission. Malia bares her teeth, stepping in front of Lydia. It’s sweet, but she doesn’t need protection, not from a girl who can’t control her transformation, and not from Erica.

She slides her hand down Malia’s arm.

“Erica’s fine,” she tells her, holding it there until Malia calms down.

“Took you long enough.” She directs her words to Erica, this time, unsurprised when she barks a laugh.

“Well, you turned me down last time,” Erica says, no heat in her words. “Is it that easy?”

Lydia concentrates, reaching out towards Erica with her mind. It takes a moment, to sort out what parts of their connection are their unsolidified soulmate bond, and what is the pack, but she can feel them, intertwined but separate.

“Apparently,” she says, teasing a little, and she smiles when Erica rolls her eyes.

She wouldn’t expect anything less.

--

Chris Argent stops her at the gas station the Monday after they find Malia.

“You said you wouldn’t be adding to your pack.”

“I said I wouldn’t be biting people. Which I haven’t.”

He frowns.

“Maybe if your hunters spent more time actually hunting things and less time perving at Allison’s teenage friends, I wouldn’t need to add anyone.” She smirks. “There’s safety in numbers, they say.”

She gets back inside her car, closing the door with a bang that makes her ears hurt this close to the full moon, but her face stays blank.

“Lydia-” He cuts himself off. She doesn’t bother rolling down the window when he motions her to.

“Keep her safe.”

“You don’t need to tell us that,” Erica says, stalking across the lot.

“Did you follow me here?” Lydia asks, faintly amused.

“Maybe,” Erica smirks, taking her hand possessively. She doesn’t even notice her doing it anymore.

Argent looks between their hands and out to the skyline, but none of them need to discuss Erica’s worry. There’ve been more and more sightings of the supernatural every week, and not all of them are friendly.

--

“Your dad misses you,” Lydia says into the dark. Allison’s perched on the windowsill, as always unafraid of falling down. Lydia thinks that even if she weren’t a werewolf, Allison still wouldn’t be afraid.

“I didn’t come here to talk about my dad,” Allison says, her voice cold.

“I know.”

“Well?”

“I’m waiting for Erica.” Allison stiffens, looking towards the door.

“Ally…” Allison doesn’t even look at her. Her heart aches.

She takes a step closer, Allison still staring at the door, and they’re almost touching by the time Allison turns her head, and their eyes connect.

She can smell Erica coming up the stairs, and she doesn’t want to wait anymore.

“Do you still believe in soulmates?” Lydia asks, almost a whisper, and watches Allison’s eyes widen in confusion, and hope, and something else she doesn’t dare to name yet. She reaches towards her - or maybe Allison reaches for her, she’s not sure. It feels like they’re going in slow-motion, maybe, or that time has slowed down, just for this.

Erica’s in the doorway.

Allison kisses her, not quite taking her off-guard, she can feel Allison’s heartbeat just like she could when this really started, in the woods with the moon overhead and Allison pressed close.

There’s no hunters this time, just Allison’s skin under her hands and their lips crushed together, easier than breathing. It feels like the last few days just melt away into their kiss, like the waiting was worth it, and all she can think is finally. Her left wrist is burning, doesn’t stop when Allison pulls away, stopping herself from falling out the window.

“Wow,” someone says, but it isn’t her, and once her wrist stops burning, she realises that it isn’t Allison either.

“Erica,” Allison says, her voice slightly cold again, and confused, like she’s not sure what’s going on. Lydia wants to kiss her again, but stops herself.

Allison is owed an explanation.

Erica ignores her, stepping across the floor until she reaches Lydia. She’s not sure what Erica’s doing, until she picks up Lydia’s left wrist, smiles at the fine black writing.

“You were right,” Erica says, stepping so that the moonlight falls across the letters, surrounding them with silver. Lydia smiles, her heart full as she reads them for the first time.

Allison Argent.

“What is going on?” Allison asks, breaking into her thoughts. They’re still close together, though no longer touching; Allison is standing now, looking torn and confused.

“Can I kiss you?” Erica says, a teasing note in her voice. “It might be faster.”

Allison’s smart. Lydia’s always known that. She can see the gears turning in her head, counting up all of the things that she had to have noticed.

“All three of us?” she whispers, so loud in the silence.

“It’s not unheard of,” Lydia says. She doesn’t talk about all the research she had done, the late night Googling and sending messages to strangers halfway across the world.

“So, can I kiss you?” Erica asks again, looking nervous despite her red smirk.

Allison nods, her eyes so wide, and before Lydia can even blink, they fall into each other. She wonders if she and Allison had looked like this, if it had seemed like they were barely two people anymore, pressed so close.

It only takes a minute that feels like days, before they’re drawing back again. Allison is clutching her wrist, taking her hand away only to stare at them in the light of the moon, twin names on twin wrists. She’s smiling. Lydia feels caught up in it, like there might not be anything outside of the three of them, and this room.

She takes Allison’s hand in hers, her name and Lydia’s blank wrist pressing against each other.

“Shall we?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow at a breathless looking Erica.

“Took you long enough,” Erica says, but any mocking in her voice disappears when Lydia takes that final step, her free hand winding in Erica’s hair as she closes the distance between their lips. It had seemed impossible, before this moment, to imagine that anything could be as intense as kissing Allison was, but it is, it is. She can feel the heat of Erica’s body against hers, the warm flame of her wrist entwined with Allison’s, the connection between the three of them expanding in a way that even Lydia couldn’t have guessed.

It feels like coming home.