Chapter Text
In the reflection of the huge floor length mirror six girls are standing in fifth position in a staggered line, the heels of their right feet pressed against the toes of their left. Lydia beat Erica to the front center spot today and she stands with her arms curved in front of her pelvis, palms up, thumbs tucked in, studiously watching herself in the mirror.
"Entrechat!" Madamoiselle Marin calls out. She's standing in the front corner of the studio near the piano, hovering at the edge of the mirror so they can all watch themselves as they move.
Lydia jumps straight up in the air, toes pointed, beats her right leg behind her left before bringing it back to the front, rolling through the balls of her feet as she lands in fifth position again, left foot behind the right, turning out from her hips.
"Changement!"
They all jump straight up again, six pairs of legs scissoring in the air and landing in fifth with their left leg in front this time. It's a pattern, entrechat, changement, and all the girls follow along with Marin's commands, warming up their feet for the bigger jumps they'll do across the floor.
Marin watches them with a critical eye, the hem of her black chiffon skirt brushing against the grey slip-resistant vinyl covered sprung floor before clapping her hands. "Alright ladies, from the corner."
Allison bumps her hip against Lydia's as they walk to the far corner to file into a single line, a row of girls in matching scoopneck black leotards and pale pink tights, the regulation uniform of level eight girls, the highest level of Hale Ballet Company's School of Ballet.
"Pique jumps," Marin calls out, leaning her hip against the piano in the opposite corner of the studio. "In attitude derrière, s'il vous plait. Two groups of three."
Cora, Erica, and Malia get into place, standing with Cora front and center facing the opposite corner of the studio, Erica and Malia behind her on either side, forming a V. The accompanist starts playing as Marin starts to count, five, six, seven, eight, and the three girls all step onto their right feet and leap up into the air, their left legs bent at the knee in attitude derrière position (the raised left leg held at a ninety degree angle to the body in back, right leg straight and pointed down at the floor) before landing and stepping onto their left leg to repeat the jump on the other side, all the way across the floor.
Lydia lets Allison take the front position on their side of the studio, standing a few feet behind Allison's left shoulder as Kira moves into place behind Allison's right. Marin counts them in when the first group is halfway across the floor. Lydia leaps into the air, surreptitiously glancing at her reflection to see how high she is. She's shorter than the typical dancer, much to the dismay of her teachers, so she has to work harder to make the most of her limbs.
She throws herself into the second leap, body hovering high above the floor as she bends and lifts her right leg behind her, and this right here, this feeling, is why she loves ballet:
For a few brief seconds she feels huge, and powerful, beyond human. She's weightless, she's flying.
She's free.
They do a few more combination jumps across the floor, a series of glissade jetés and pax de chats, before dancing a final combination. Marin almost never demonstrates, just tells them the combination while they mark it with their hands.
"Tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, grand jeté, step back to fourth, triple pirouette en dehors, repeat on the left." Marin waves an arm and they all scurry to line up against the left wall facing the mirror.
They get eight counts to prepare, standing in fifth position. Lydia flutters her arms before bring them to low fifth, arms curved and palms facing up, six, seven, eight, go. She falls to the side and lands on her right leg, lifts up on releve for the pas de bourrée, a small three step: left leg behind her right, right out to the side, left coming in front to land in fifth position. Glissade, she leaps to the right, closing her feet in fifth position when she lands before jumping to the right again, landing solely on her right leg, working left leg bent behind it, her left toes kissing her right heel.
Lydia's right ankle throbs and she wobbles, just a bit, as she steps her left leg back and bends her knees, finding a spot on the wall, arms outstretched. She rises up on her right leg, left leg coming to passé so her toes are pressed against her right knee, pulls in her core and turns, her head the last thing to snap around.
Marin is watching her as she comes out of the turn, leaning to the left to repeat the combination on the left side. Lydia ignores the burn in her right Achilles' tendon as she jumps, a line of energy stretching out from each toe and fingertip. She lands strong on the grand jeté and does a triple pirouette while Marin stands two feet in front of her, one hand on her hip.
"Better," Marin murmurs, before clapping her hands. "One more time girls."
Lydia glows at the simple praise, ignoring the dirty look Erica shoots her. The second time through Malia falls out of her pirouette and Marin makes them all start over while Malia glowers at the floor, stomping back to her starting position. She's a Hale, technically, although no one is exactly sure how Malia is related to the family. She's always been passed off as a distant cousin, there's a rumor that she didn't even have to audition before getting into the school, showing up one day to join their class halfway through the year when they were all level threes.
Everyone who knows ballet knows that it runs in the blood of all the Hales but still, Malia dances nothing like her cousin Cora, who is all but guaranteed a spot in the company when the semester is over. Malia is strong and full of energy but her technique is sloppy, worst of all she has a temper and tends to get frustrated when she makes mistakes.
Lydia ignores the smirk Allison shoots her in the mirror. She doesn't have time to be silly or worry about the other girls. She's a woman on a mission, every second of every day devoted to ballet, improving her technique, her reputation, proving that she's worthy of a spot in the company.
There are two open positions available in the company this year for the girls, and since Cora (with her perfect extensions and long slim lines and gorgeous arched feet) is in her year that means there's really only one.
They finish the combination and perform a grand reverence, curtsying to Marin and the accompanist. With that class is officially over; all the girls migrate across the floor where their bags are sitting against the wall.
Lydia plops down on the floor next to Allison, crosses her legs and lifts her right foot onto her left thigh to start untying the ribbons of her shoes.
"Oh my god, I'm starving," Allison moans. "I can't believe I only have thirty minutes until English, that's barely enough time to shower and change and get to class on time, let alone run down to the cafeteria."
Lydia hums in response and pulls off her pointe shoes, wrapping the ribbons carefully around the arch so they don't get tangled.
"I still can't believe you finished all your academic credits a year early," Allison goes on, trading her pointe shoes for a pair of Ugg boots. "You're so lucky."
Lydia pulls a roll of gauze out of her bag and wraps it around her bleeding pinky toe, tapes it off. "My toes beg to differ."
Allison takes a navy and white striped sweater out of her dance bag and pulls it over her leotard. "You want me to grab anything for you?"
"I can get something after Deaton." Lydia tosses her shoes into her dance bag and pulls out an oversized grey sweater and her pair of pink scalloped Chloe flats her dad sent her for her birthday last year.
Allison looms over her while she puts on her shoes and tugs her sweater over her head, looking concerned. "Everything okay?"
Lydia takes the hand Allison offers and pulls herself up, shrugging her dance bag over her shoulder. "Just need to ice."
"We're still good for tonight, right?" Allison asks as they walk out of the studio and into the hallway.
Lydia flashes her a tight smile. "I didn't forget."
Allison has been begging her to socialize outside of school and Lydia finally conceded to going out to dinner with her and Scott tonight. Not that Lydia is terribly interested in being a third wheel but she knows it matters to Allison.
Allison waves goodbye and runs off to the back set of stairs to go up to the forth floor to their dorm room. Lydia meanders past Studio D, pausing in the doorway to watch. It's a level eight boy's class, they're doing barrel jumps in a large circle around and around the studio.
"You call those jumps? My nieces' hamster can jump that high!" Finstock is yelling. "You all look pathetic!"
Isaac catches Lydia's gaze coming down from a jump; he winks at her as he jogs past the doorway before leaning over his shoulder and jumping backwards into the air. She turns around and walks to the elevator before Jackson can spot her.
Lydia takes the elevator down to the first floor and walks to the back hallway towards the trainer's office. Deaton has been working for the Hales longer than Lydia's been studying ballet. He has all kinds of degrees hanging on his office wall: sports medicine, kinesiology, chiropractic, acupuncture. She could ice up in her room but Deaton's ice packs are always mysteriously more effective. And she likes the feeling of being sequestered away, twenty minutes of quiet where no one is judging or critiquing her.
Inside the front room of the trainer's office Scott McCall is sitting behind the desk, an open biology textbook in front of him. Scott is Nurse McCall's son, he practically grew up here alongside the students. The Hales wanted him at first, way back when Lydia was a level one, before they realized Scott's asthma outweighed any potential physical ability he may have possessed.
Still, Scott's spent nearly as much time at the Hale School of Ballet as Lydia, and she boards here during the week. He goes to public school, Beacon Hills High, but he comes here every day after school when he doesn't have lacrosse (he can't be very good, Lydia reasons, given the asthma, but inexplicably plays anyway) until his mother, the school's nurse, is off at seven. He started interning for Deaton last year, Allison says Scott is thinking about going into sports medicine or possibly physical therapy.
So Lydia knows Scott, has for a long time, but they're not exactly friends, and her ankle is still throbbing. She clears her throat to alert him to her presence and Scott's head snaps up.
"Hey, Lydia," he says cheerfully. "What's going on?"
"Where's Deaton?"
Scott smiles apologetically. "Helping my mom, something happened with one of the level two girls."
Lydia winces sympathetically, the girl must have really gotten hurt if it requires Nurse McCall and Deaton. "I just wanted to ice."
"Oh, I can set that up for you." Scott jumps up from his chair with a ridiculously serious expression, like he's totally devoted to assisting her. "Come on back."
She walks around the desk and follows him down the hall to Deaton's exam room. She hops up on the table and toes off her flats while Scott opens a filing cabinet and starts rifling through it.
"Sorry, just a second," he apologizes, digging through folders until he comes up with her file. "I'm supposed to chart everything."
Lydia sits patiently, her right leg stretched out in front of her, watching Scott flip through her file to a blank page and uncap a pen. "Okay," he says. "You said you needed ice, right?"
"Mm-hm."
Scott raises an inquisitive eyebrow. "For your ribs?"
Lydia stiffens, repressing a sudden urge to snatch her file out of his hands. "Ankle."
"Ankle?"
"Right ankle, Achilles' tendon specifically."
"Pain, scale of one to ten?"
She rolls her eyes. "Really?"
Scott looks sheepish. "I'm supposed to ask."
"It just feels a little tender."
"Okay," Scott says easily. He scribbles something in her file before shelving it and opening the mini freezer where Deaton keeps the ice packs.
He makes them himself, Lydia doesn't know what he puts in them but they're not the cheap plastic single use ones Nurse McCall has, or the reusable gel packs sitting in her and Allison's little dorm freezer. Deaton fills individual ziplock bags with crushed ice and a strange mix of herbs, some secret blend, little purple flowers and mossy green buds.
Scott pulls one out of the freezer and gets an ACE bandage out of a cabinet. He hops up onto the foot of the table, free hand hovering above her ankle. "Okay if I wrap it for you?"
"Alright," she says casually, like she doesn't mind, like the idea of him touching her doesn't make her nervous.
Scott nods, picks up her right foot and pulls it into his lap. He slides the ice pack around the back of her ankle and starts to wrap it, his fingers carefully holding her still as he works. It feels almost intimate, the way he's holding her foot, like he's being very careful so as not to hurt her. She doesn't usually let boys touch her like this anymore, not when she could fall right off the table if he's too rough.
But Scott wraps her ankle quickly and professionally, plunks an old fashioned white timer down on the counter and sets it for twenty minutes. "I'll be out front if you need anything," he says, and shuts the door behind him.
Lydia pulls her tablet out of her bag and plugs in her earbuds, slips them into her ears and opens up YouTube. She's been obsessed with one video in particular lately, has been watching it studiously on repeat. It's a taped performance of the Hale Ballet Company, of what was supposed to be the opening ballet of the season - The Little Mermaid, choreographed by the company's artistic director at the time, Peter Hale, staring his niece, principle dancer Laura Hale, as the titular character.
The video is of opening night, the only night the company performed the ballet, back in October. When the show was over, after Laura Hale stood onstage and curtsied to a standing ovation, roses for her thrown onto the stage, she slipped out the stage door, still in her leotard, drove to the burned out husk that used to be her parents' house, and shot herself in the head with a hunting rifle.
It was the largest scandal in company history. The season closed before it even began, for a full week no one knew if the company (and the school) would be shut down altogether. There were rumors of backdoor meetings, panicked donors running. The day after Laura was buried HBC announced that Peter Hale was resigning as artistic director, with Deucalion from Alpha Ballet Academy stepping in as interim director.
They came back two months ago in January with Giselle, a safe crowd pleaser, starring Derek Hale as Duke Albrecht with Braeden, a hastily-promoted soloist, as Giselle. The raves immediately began pouring in: Braeden and Derek's undeniable chemistry, Deucalion's vision and fortitude in the wake of a tragedy. It saved the company, that ballet, but rumors still fly around the school - that Deucalion is a nightmare to work with, that Peter Hale is coming back, that Derek hates them both so much that he's threatening to retire after the season is over.
Lydia jumps the video forward through most of the first act of The Little Mermaid. She's watched it at least twenty times, has the choreography memorized. Onstage Laura is wearing a blue costume made of layers of tulle, a full length tutu, her long brown hair braided back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She flicks back and forth across the stage in her pointe shoes, the soft blue lighting making it look like she's floating through water. She shows off her little human treasures, dances a pas de trois with her fish friends, moves through the space like it's effortless.
The storm comes, flashes of white light crack across her face. Derek as the Prince falls off his ship and into the water with a dramatic jump. The music swells as he and Laura perform a stilted pas de deux, ending as she drags the unconscious prince to shore.
Lydia slides her finger across the screen until she gets to the part she wants to watch: the sea witch, cruelly ripping off the mermaid's tail and revealing her new human legs. Laura's costume is wrenched off her body, leaving her in only a nude colored leotard. Laura writhes, flings her body around with the kind of recklessness that comes from deliberate, careful training, a viscerally painful looking performance as she demonstrates her new human legs to the audience. In the story, every step the mermaid takes cause terrible stabbing pain. Laura's face crumples in agony, a natural emoter, as she rises en pointe and throws her body across the stage, her incredible legs in full extension.
It's the kind of performance you rarely see, a perfect blend of technique and artistry. There are stories of course, rumors, gossip about what really happened, what drove Laura over the edge. So many theories - that she'd never gotten over the fire, that she was depressed. She was on drugs, she was being pushed past her breaking point. Pushed by Peter, who demanded nothing less than perfection.
Lydia knows some people think Peter's resignation was indicative of guilt, but Laura's death was also considered to be his personal tragedy - the death of his prima, his muse as he often called her, his career plummeting to an early death.
The timer on the counter goes off, a dull buzz layering over the music of Act II. Lydia pulls out her earbuds and puts her tablet away, waiting for Scott. When he doesn't come she unwraps her ankle herself, puts the ice pack in the freezer and steps into her shoes. She opens the exam door and tiptoes into the hallway. "Scott?"
There's a boy sitting in Scott's chair behind the front desk. He doesn't go here, Lydia's never seen him before but he looks to be roughly her age. He's wearing street clothes, jeans and a blue and green plaid flannel. He has headphones clamped over his ears, dark messy hair. Lydia impatiently walks up to the desk and raps loudly with her knuckles. He jumps halfway out of the chair, steadying himself against the desk before reaching up and taking off his headphones. He blinks amber colored eyes at her, his mouth dropping open as he takes her in.
Lydia resists the urge to rolls her eyes at his obvious display of attraction. She doesn't even look good right now, her hair is damp with sweat and pulled tightly back from her face and she's not wearing anything more than tinted moisturizer and brow gel. She's not the same dancer she was last year. She's serious now, she doesn't wear her favorite bright lipstick to class anymore or pack cute outfits to change into so she always looks good walking around school.
The boy is good looking though, she supposes, with those pretty eyes and an upturned nose, long elegant fingers twirling a pen around. But as tempting as he may be Lydia doesn't need the distraction. Not now, when she's so close to getting everything she's ever wanted that she can taste it.
"Who are you?" she asks bluntly. She's on a clock here, she still has to stretch before showering and getting ready to go out with Scott and Allison.
"I'm a friend of Scott's, I'm just holding down the fort for him," he says, sounding maybe a bit nervous. He's probably not even allowed back here.
Lydia sighs and leans forward to rest her elbows on the desk. "Would you happen to know where he went?"
"Yeah," he says, bobbing his head. "He ran to get his mom a change of clothes, a level two got kicked in the head and threw up all over her."
"How the hell did she get kicked in the head?" Lydia asks before she can stop herself. "Did someone grand battement right into her?"
"Uh, I don't really know," he says sheepishly. "I'm assuming a battement is some kind of kick?"
"Mm, technically more of an extension really," Lydia says offhandedly. "Look, will you just tell Scott that Lydia left?"
"Lydia?" he parrots, looking inexplicably pleased at the revelation of her name.
"Martin," she adds, tossing her last name over her shoulder as she hikes her dance bag up over her shoulder and walks out of the office.
It's four in the afternoon, Allison won't be back from her academic classes until almost six. Lydia takes the elevator up to the fourth floor and lets herself into their dorm room. Allison's bed is pushed against the left wall and Lydia's the right, two narrow nightstands between the beds under the window. Lydia takes her yoga mat out from under her bed and unrolls it on the floor between the beds. She puts on her stretching playlist and gets down on the floor, spends almost an hour working on her quads, hamstrings and hips. She feels like jello when she's finished, has to drag herself into the bathroom she shares with Allison on shaking legs.
Lydia peels off her tights and her sweat-soaked leotard, steps out of the bundle of fabric and tosses it into the hamper. Her hair is next, she pulls out all the bobby pins and shakes the damp strands out, turns the shower on and steps inside. She takes her time, letting the hot water sink into her muscles. She washes with her vanilla-lavender body wash, shampoos her hair and applies a deep conditioner, shaves her legs, rinses.
When she gets out of the shower she turns on the fan and plugs in her blow-dryer, dries her hair naked standing over the bathmat. She runs a brush through it once it's dry, braids the top half of it away from her face and ties it off with a clear elastic band. She goes through her usual routine; moisturizer, foundation, concealer, a little blush, eyeliner, mascara and a deep rose matte lipstick.
It's the first week of March, cold in northern California. Lydia wraps herself in a towel and shuffles over to her closet, shivering. She selects a long-sleeved jersey dress roughly the same shade as her lipstick and a pair of grey cable knit tights. She pulls on a nude colored bra and thong before getting dressed and hangs up her towel. When Allison comes back from class Lydia is sitting on the edge of her bed with her Rag and Bone ankle boots on, black knit coat spread over her lap, mentally going over the variations she did earlier in class.
"Hey, I just need five minutes," Allison says breathlessly, tossing her book bag on the floor.
Lydia waits while Allison pulls off her sweatshirt and changes into a silky navy blue top and a nicer pair of jeans. Her hair gets brushed out into shoulder-grazing waves. Allison used to wear her hair long and curly but she cut it over the summer and Lydia's still not quite used to it. It's still long enough to pull into a bun, but barely. Allison applies mascara over her desk, squinting at the mirror, and adds a coat of pink lip gloss before sliding her feet into a pair of boots and reaching for her motorcycle jacket.
"Okay," Allison says, flipping her hair over the collar of her jacket. "Let's go, Scott's going to meet us outside."
Lydia pulls on her coat and flips the lights off before following Allison out of their room, locking the door and slipping the keys into her cross-body bag. They take the elevator down to the first floor and walk down the main hallway to the office. Lydia knocks on the open door before walking inside. "Hey Mom."
Her mother is sitting behind the desk in a frankly terrible floral shift dress, glasses pushed up into her hair. "Oh, hi sweetheart, Allison. Are you two signing out?"
"Yes." Obviously.
Her mother, oblivious to her attitude, folds her arms over the desk and smiles at her. "Care to tell me where you're going?"
"Mom" -
"Just out to dinner," Allison supplies helpfully.
"Oh, alright." She pushes the sign-out sheet across the desk and Lydia and Allison both sign and date on the dotted line. Her mother will have gone home for the night by the time they get back to school, they'll have to sign back in with whoever is on overnight duty.
Lydia kisses her mother's cheek and follows Allison out of the office, turning around to wave. "Bye Mom."
"Bye Ms. Martin!" Allison shouts from the hallway.
"Allison, makes sure she eats something!" her mother calls out, and shuts her office door behind them.
Lydia's cheeks flame but Allison doesn't seem to notice. They walk through the foyer of the school, the walls covered with photos of the school's former students: Derek, Braeden, Camden Lahey, Kate Argent, Jordan Parrish, students who've gone on to dance with other companies around the country. They took Laura's photo down after she died, which is a shame because it was beautiful- Laura in a white tutu, dancing Odette in Swan Lake.
"Hey, so, one thing," Allison says, pushing through the glass double doors of the front entrance. "Don't be mad, okay?"
Lydia glances sharply at her as she passes through the doorway. "Why, what did you do?"
Allison looks sheepish. "Scott and I thought it would be fun if Stiles came with us."
Lydia wrinkles her nose. "What the hell is a stiles?"
"Uh, that'd be me?"
Lydia's head whips to the side. It's him, the boy from Deaton's office, Scott's friend. He's leaning up against a blue Jeep parked by the curb, wearing a grey hoody zipped over his flannel shirt. Now that he's standing she can see that he's rather tall and lean looking, but then she thinks about those broad hands and idly wonders what he looks like underneath those layers.
"Hey." Scott's standing next to him, the stupid puppy dog look he always gets around Allison on his face. "Lydia, this is my best friend Stiles."
"We met," Lydia says vaguely, looking pointedly at Allison. Lydia agreed to socialize for a few hours with her friend and her boyfriend, she absolutely did not agree to a double date.
"Oh," Allison says, looking a bit surprised but also pleased. "Well, great then!"
Scott and Allison go through their usual kiss-hug-stare-stupidly-into-each-others-eyes routine while Lydia and Slides stand on the sidewalk next to them. Lydia takes the opportunity to check him out again and promptly gets caught in honey colored eyes. Stiles grins, rolling his eyes in the direction of Scott and Allison. Lydia can't hold back a smirk, secretly delighted to have someone to commiserate with.
"Okay," Stiles says a touch too loudly, clearly for Scott's benefit. "We should really get going, the girls have a curfew."
"Oh right," Scott mumbles, pulling away from Allison with a bashful smile on his face.
Scott and Allison get into the backseat without even letting go of their linked hands. Stiles opens the passenger door for Lydia and she hops up into his Jeep, flashing him a tight smile as he shuts her door for her.
"So where are we going?" Lydia asks, twisting around to look at Allison while Stiles jogs around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat.
"We wanted to try that new Italian place," Allison says casually. "You know, over on Chestnut by the Coffee Bean?"
Lydia swallows, fingers reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear in a nervous twitch before she remembers that it's braided back from her face and drops her hands into her lap. "Okay."
Stiles starts the car and the radio turns on, Top Forty blasting through the speakers. It's a welcome distraction, Lydia turns to the side and stares out the window, Beacon Hills blurring past her as Stiles drives in the direction of downtown. She returns back to class with Marin, mentally going over the variation she didn't quite nail, her hands twitching in her lap as she flexes her right foot inside her boot.
Stiles parallel parks down the street from the restaurant and they all jump out of the Jeep, Scott and Allison leading the way, Scott's arm slung over her shoulders. Lydia shivers in the cool night air, crossing her arms tightly across her chest as she walks. Stiles catches the door to the restaurant after Scott and Allison go inside and he gestures for Lydia to go ahead of him.
"Thank you," she murmurs, stepping inside behind Allison and breathing in a sigh of relief at the central heating.
They all follow a waitress to a booth on the far side of the restaurant. It's a cute place, little red and white checked tablecloths and soft lighting. It smells like pizza and warm bread, making Lydia's mouth water. Scott and Allison file into one side of the booth, leaving Stiles and Lydia to sit together opposite them. Lydia unbuttons her coat but leaves it pooled around her shoulders, tuning out the boys, who are telling a story about lacrosse practice and some guy named Greenberg. She opens the menu, fingers skittering across the list of appetizers.
A busboy swings by their table with waters for everyone and a basket of breadsticks. Lydia fiddles with her napkin, watching Scott pull two breadsticks out and hand one to Allison. Lydia picks up her glass of water and sips, watching while Allison dips her breadstick into the little dish of olive oil on the table before taking a bite.
"These are so good. Lydia, you have to try one," Allison says brightly, wiping a drip of olive oil off her fingers. Lydia stares at it, watching the little pale green bead shimmer against Allison's white skin.
"Here, we can share one." Stiles reaches across the table for the breadsticks and breaks one in half. "Lydia?"
She startles next to him, reaches out and takes it with a tight smile. She breaks off a tiny piece and puts it in her mouth, sucks until the bread gets soft and mushy before swallowing.
"It's better with olive oil," Allison says, pushing the dish towards her.
Lydia exhales harshly through her nose and smears the tiniest bit of oil onto her breadstick, and pokes Allison with the toe of her boot under the table. Allison pouts and retreats, leaning against Scott to cuddle under his arm. A waitress comes and Lydia goes back to the menu, scanning frantically before ordering a Caesar salad with chicken, dressing on the side. She traces patterns into the condensation of her water glass while everyone else orders, staring down the half-eaten breadstick on her plate.
Scott and Allison share a second breadstick, sitting with Allison's back to his chest, her head tilted up towards him so they can kiss and lick olive oil off each other's lips between bites. It's adorable of course, but also sort of exasperating, being forced to be around something she can't have. Lydia's focused on ballet completely now, she knows how a relationship can cost her everything she's ever dreamed of and she's not willing to risk that.
Not again.
"Hey," Stiles says in a low voice, leaning into her space. "Just so you know I didn't have anything to do with this."
"The blind date or the relentless PDA?" she asks, jabbing at Scott and Allison with her breadstick.
Stiles laughs into his fist. "I hate to break it to you but trust me, there's nothing we can do about that other than ignore it or throw cold water on them."
"I'll keep that in mind," she murmurs. "And just so you know, I didn't have anything to do with this either."
"I don't know if this was intentionally a setup," he muses quietly, leaning back against the booth and turning to face her. "Scott and Allison have talked about you before but he didn't mention you were coming tonight, I was just as surprised as you were."
Lydia raises an eyebrow and takes the bait because lets face it, she'd rather at least attempt to have a conversation with him than watch Scott and Allison kiss like a voyeur. "Scott told you about me?"
Stiles' tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. "Yeah, he said you've been dancing since you guys were kids, you're pretty serious about ballet, right?"
Lydia nods in confirmation. "My mother works for the company, she got me an audition when I was ten, that's level one for official students. She runs the school's office now."
"Wait, so if your mother works for the school are you from Beacon Hills?"
Lydia shrugs delicately and wraps her coat tighter around herself. "We used to live in San Francisco, it's where the company's based, but my mother is originally from Beacon Hills, she grew up here. When I got accepted into the school they offered to transfer her so she could be close to me. She came and my dad... didn't."
For some reason Stiles' face wrinkles in concern. "Hey, are you cold?"
"I'm fine," she says quickly, and peeks up at him flirtatiously through her eyelashes. "You know, this is very unfair. I know absolutely nothing about you."
"Eh, what's to know? I'm a Beacon Hills native, I live with my dad, and I play lacrosse with Scott. I love curly fries, science fiction and long walks on the beach. Back to you."
"Careful," she teases lightly. "This is starting to feel like a date."
His eyes drop briefly to her lips and something in her stomach twists. "Would that be so bad?"
Their food arrives before she has to give him an answer. Lydia focuses on drizzling the little ceramic cup of dressing over her salad while Scott and Allison break apart so Allison can dig a fork into her fettuccine alfredo. Scott and Stiles are both eating pizzas, puddles of grease pooling over the melted cheese. Lydia spears a piece of chicken with her fork and chews furiously, counts to ten and swallows. Takes a sip of water. Another bite of chicken. Count to ten. Swallow. Repeat.
"Lydia?"
She startles, head snapping up to look at Allison, who has her eyebrows raised impatiently. "What?"
"I said, do you want to try my pasta?"
"No thanks."
Allison tugs on the ends of her hair and frowns, like she forgot she doesn't have long curls to twist around her fingers anymore. "Are you sure?"
"I'm fine, thank you." Lydia stabs a piece of romaine with her fork for emphasis.
Allison makes an obvious face of annoyance and Lydia glares at her across the table until Allison slouches back and shoots her a fine, but we're talking about this later kind of look. She doesn't push Lydia again though, lets her eat her salad in piece while everyone else devours their dairy-covered carbohydrates. There's a weird tussle for the check when it comes, Scott is insistent on paying for himself and Allison, while Allison blushes and protests while looking immensely pleased.
Lydia rolls her eyes and takes her credit card out of her wallet and throws it on top of Scott's cash. "Can you split the bill please?" she requests to the waitress, who nods and dashes off to run her card.
Stiles starts to splutter in protest and Lydia leans back out of the way of his waving hands. "It's fine, my dad pays for it. Seriously, it's not a big deal."
"I guess l owe you then," he says.
Lydia pauses, taking a second to note the challenge in his eyes. "Hmm, I guess so."
The waitress comes back with her card and Lydia calculates the tip by hand before signing. Jackets get put on, Lydia slides her arms through her coat sleeves and does up the buttons as she follows everyone else through the restaurant and back outside.
"It's only eight," Allison says, checking the time on her phone. "You guys want to take a walk or something?"
Lydia knows exactly what's she's doing - they have an hour until they have to be back at their dorm unless they're willing to risk getting written up, which Lydia definitely is not; Allison's running down the clock. Lydia bounces on the balls of her feet, her fingers jammed into her coat pockets.
"You guys go ahead, I wanted to get a cup of coffee," Stiles says, tilting his head in the direction of the Coffee Bean across the street from the restaurant.
"I'll go with you," Lydia volunteers. "I could use some coffee."
"Meet you by the car in forty?" Scott suggests.
"Don't you crazy kids lose track of time," Stiles warns, voice sharp with sarcasm.
Allison giggles and starts to walk, looping her arm around Scott's waist and turning over her shoulder to wave. Lydia waves back and falls in step with Stiles, heading towards the intersection in the opposite direction to cross the street.
"Nicely done," he says. "Those two have some serious kissing to get out of their system."
"You set me up well," she admits.
"We make a good team," he comments.
Lydia tilts her head in consideration, stopping at the edge of the sidewalk at the red light. "I suppose so."
The light changes and she and Stiles step out into the street. She can feel his hand hovering over the small of her back as they cross the intersection, protective but not possessive. She leans back, just enough to feel the solid weight of his palm, and Stiles pulls his hand away like he's been caught.
She smiles to herself. She can't help but think that it's cute, that he's obviously interested but so restrained, like he's unsure of where her boundaries are and he doesn't want to overstep.
Stiles opens the door to the coffee shop for her and Lydia steps inside, waiting for him to come in before walking up to the counter. Stiles orders drip coffee and Lydia does the same; he pulls his wallet out with one hand and gestures to her with the other.
"On me. I owe you, remember?" he says, raising a stern eyebrow at her.
"Okay, I get it," she says lightly. "You're a Lannister, noted."
Stiles pockets his change and grins, taking both cups of coffee from the barista and handing one to her. "Well, I don't want to fuck my non-existent sister, but points for the reference."
Lydia follows him to the milk station, scanning the metal canisters for nonfat milk. "Brothers?"
"Only Scott, if that counts. You?"
Lydia pours a generous amount of nonfat into her coffee and stirs in two packets of Splenda. "Only child."
Stiles sips his coffee black. "Isn't it great?"
"Which part? Having all your parents' hopes and dreams pinned on you, or the constant scrutiny?"
"Don't forget not having anyone to blame when you get into trouble." He ambles towards the counter over by the windows and Lydia follows him, taking his hand when he offers it palm up to hop onto a stool next to him.
"So don't get into trouble," Lydia says breezily.
Stiles chuckles. "Yeah, can't quite seem to avoid it. I'm kind of a magnet for trouble."
Lydia glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "Really?"
He reaches one long leg out to rest on the rung of her stool. "Yeah. I just can't help myself, I guess."
She raises an eyebrow and smiles, fiddling with the cardboard sleeve of her cup. "I'll keep that in mind."
He leans forward a little, resting his elbow on the counter. "Careful," he says in a low voice. "This is starting to feel like a date."
Her smiles slips off her face. It's one thing to play for her own amusement but she's starting to realize that she likes him. He's Scott's best friend, which is enough to be a ringing endorsement, because Scott is, well, Scott. He's witty. He's opened a door for her three times so far tonight without even seeming to notice, like it's just something that he does. He has beautiful hands and a bright smile and eyes that make her feel seen in a way she isn't used to.
He's a nightmare.
"Look," she says, straightening her spine. "I have a plan, okay?"
Stiles cocks an eyebrow. "Okay...?"
"Casting for the student showcase goes up in two weeks," she explains. "And I'm going to get a leading part."
His lips turn up in a hint of a smile. "I'm sure you will."
"My entire future in ballet depends on how I dance in the showcase. Everyone important will be there, it's a huge part of whether or not the company chooses to accept me. I can probably get an audition with San Francisco or Salt Lake City if I have to but I want to dance for the Hales, I always have. This is everything that I've been training for since I was a little kid, I can't afford to be distracted. This can't... this can't be a date, Stiles."
For some reason he's still smiling, like she didn't just reject him to his face. "We're just having coffee Lydia, it's not like I'm proposing here."
"Good," she says haughtily. "Because I'm not even considering marriage until after I'm a principle dancer. Ballerinas have short careers even if they're lucky, I'll have plenty of time to plan a wedding after I retire."
He snorts into his coffee. "Good to know you've thought this all out."
She stiffens, pulling away. "Are you making fun of me?"
"What? No!" Stiles leans forward and lays his hand over her wrist. "Lydia, it's awesome that you care so much about ballet. I don't know if I love anything like that, except for Scott and my dad, I guess. Seriously, I can't even imagine how hard you must have worked to be where you are right now. I'd never make fun of that. Of you."
She stares down where his long fingers are curled around her wrist, heat from his palm sinking into her skin. It's too much, the blatant honesty, his earnestness. "Do you think we could just sit here for a little while?" she asks softly. "Would that be okay?"
"Sure, Lydia," he says gently. "Whatever you want."
She flashes him a smile and ducks her head but doesn't pull her hand away from where it's pinned under his. She watches their reflection in the window as they drink their coffee, looking for all the world like two teenagers out on a date, until it's time to walk back to the car and they leave, Stiles' hand still wrapped loosely around her wrist.