High Infidelity [Midnights #2]

chapter 9

Stiles stared ahead at the television screen, Lydia's head on his chest, not taking in a single word or image in front of him. And it had been like this for hours. Eh, more like days, actually. Stiles had been at Lydia's house, fussing over her with little to no sleep, for literal days. Ever since she got released from the hospital, to be exact.

At this rate, it wasn't likely to change anytime soon, either.

His sanity was already hanging on by a thread. If he wasn't able to roll over and see that she was still there, he would probably lose his mind and end up tapping on her window in the middle of the night anyway. This was the best solution. At least until someone could guarantee her safety.

Until then, if he managed to pass out, he would wake up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding away, scared to death that he was back there. Back in that godforsaken hospital room. Back to that moment he'd realized she was gone and he was terrified he'd never find her again. Back in those woods where she had been standing stock-still, shivering and alone.

And Stiles Stilinski knew what it was to be alone with that sort of fear, and he wouldn't wish it on anybody. Definitely not one of his best friends.

At least here, he could know she was okay.

Thankfully, if anyone had any particularly strong feelings about his sudden obsession with Lydia's location or his new and improved serious attitude, devoid of most of the snark, they hadn't uttered a word. And this allowed Stiles to play nurse and protector without any intervention. A situation he was glad to find himself in.

Even Jackson hadn't commented on it.

Okay, well, he'd said something, but it wasn't bad. Quite the opposite. He'd explained that while he was well aware of Stiles' not-so-secret crush on his girlfriend, which stemmed from their adorable kindergarten puppy love, he also knew that Stiles would never act on it while she was with Jackson. An absolutely true statement. And he'd even gone on to compliment Stiles, calling it an admirable trait, glad that Lydia had friends like him.

Stiles had almost teared up, but he knew better. It was still Jackson they were talking about here. He might not exactly be the poster child for the patriarchy or anything, but he didn't talk about his feelings. Stiles imagined what he'd already received was as good as he was going to get and anything above that would make Jackson uncomfortable.

But while he was grateful for all the grace and understanding being given freely at the moment, his friends still expected him to provide some answers. Mainly because poor Deaton was hitting a dead end everywhere he turned. Though Stiles wasn't sure why they thought he'd have answers Deaton couldn't find. He was the emissary, after all.

Stiles shook his head slightly, attempting to get back to pretending to pay attention to whatever trash TV show Lydia had picked out for the evening. Jackson had the night off, so there was no backup. It was just him. And he couldn't risk being distracted.

He wanted everything back to normal, though, damnit. Or as normal as things were capable of being in Beacon Hills, at the very least. Stiles Stilinski was fucking exhausted.

"I'm tired," Lydia said, echoing his silent sentiment.

She even capped it off with a yawn that Stiles wasn't convinced was entirely real. "Okay, Lyd," he returned.

She rolled over on her side next, pulling his arm over her and scooting back to cuddle against his chest. In turn, he gave her a gentle smile and a soft kiss on her temple as she closed her eyes, and before long her breathing evened out. But he didn't follow suit, deciding instead to prop his head up on his hand as he played with her hair.

Unfortunately, as it had a tendency to go, Stiles woke startled and alarmed, obviously not aware of just how exhausted he happened to be. He patted the spot next to him when he didn't see the curve of her under the blankets next to him. It was empty. She was gone.

He looked around her room with bleary eyes, but it was empty too. He peered into the hallway from his spot on the bed, noticing no other lights were on anywhere. She was gone gone.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispered to himself, hopping out of bed.

Then he heard it.

A notification on his phone.

He knew that goddamn notification. It was for a very specific app. It wasn't terribly loud or anything, which is probably why he'd slept through it when it had first gone off. It was one that let him access any of the cameras in and around Lydia's house. The same one that let him know if a door or window had been opened after a certain time at night. The home security system app that he had hacked into without telling a single, solitary soul because he imagined all that grace and understanding would promptly evaporate if someone found out.

But he didn't bother with regret or shame at the moment. Instead, he dove forward and felt around her comforter in the darkened room until he found it. He fumbled it a few times before picking it up fully with slightly shaking hands to unlock it and figure out what the holy hell was going on now.

Then it rang in his hands and he nearly threw it across the room in surprise, managing to answer it and put it to his ear instead.

"Hello?" he hissed.

"Stiles?"

He sighed deeply in relief, running a hand through his hair. It was Lydia. Thank fucking God. "Lydia, where the hell are you?"

"Uh, the pool."

"The pool? Really?" he whispered harshly. "You thought the middle of the night was a good time for a dip, did ya?" He groaned audibly in frustration. "I'll be right there."

"Not my pool," she corrected, sensing his line of thinking. "The city pool. In, uh, the middle of town."

"What the..."

"I called your dad too," she interrupted. "He's on his way."

"My dad?" Stiles nearly shrieked, struggling to keep his voice down now. "Why'd you call him?"

"There's a... a body here."

"A bo—body?" he stammered. "As in a dead body?"

"Yeah."

"I still don't understand why you called him," Stiles retorted.

"It's a dead body, Stiles," she repeated. "And I called you second."

"I'll be right there," he muttered.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "And bring a jacket. I'm fucking freezing."

Stiles rolled his eyes. Well, the typical, bossy Lydia was still in there. He grumbled a quick goodbye before he hung up and began to rush around her room, pulling out the first sweater-shaped thing he could find in her closet. Then he made sure to tiptoe down the stairs and through the foyer, not wanting to alert Mrs. Martin to the fact that her daughter was not only no longer in her bed, having experienced the same weird phenomenon from a few weeks ago that no one could properly explain just yet, but that she had also found another dead body.