Stiles had been fussing with Lydia's blanket, trying to get it to lay just right, for the better part of ten minutes. And, yeah, he knew it was pathetic, but he couldn't stop himself either. It made him feel better. It was keeping him from totally and completely losing his fucking mind. Well, the whole blanket thing and the rhythmic beep of her heart monitor. There was just something about that thing that had always been comforting to Stiles.

Likely more trauma surrounding his mother. Not important right now. All he knew was he didn't want to think. Nope. No sir. Thinking was bad. Thinking made Stiles all weepy. Thinking reminded him that they could still find themselves without Lydia in the morning if shit went sideways. So, he fussed with the blanket to keep himself from thinking. He didn't want to think, damnit.

Not about the fact that Kate had shown up here earlier. Not about the way she had learned that her niece was more well-versed in all things paranormal than she had initially let on. Not about the way Stiles had forced them all out the door to concoct a plan to keep it from Gerard so Allison didn't get shipped away because no way Scott wouldn't unravel if Allison suddenly disappeared.

And not about the fact that they still had no idea who had shot at them.

Another two minutes and Stiles finally managed to sit the hell down. He put his hands in his lap and relaxed further into his chair, watching Lydia's chest rise and fall for a solid minute before turning to Jackson. No, he wasn't hurt, but Stiles knew by now he could never be too careful in this hospital. Or this town. Weird shit happened constantly in Beacon Hills.

His eyes started to close next, his blinks getting longer and longer, about the time Lydia opened hers. And he gave her a lazy smile.

"Hey, you," she whispered.

"Hey, Lyd," he returned. "How are you feeling?"

He sat up, careful not to jostle her bed too much. Jackson needed the rest and he didn't want to risk waking him up. Hell, Stiles probably needed it too, but he'd always had terrible sleep habits. There was no point in denying it or fighting them now when he could just put them to good use instead.

"Oh, you know, just peachy," Lydia joked.

She sighed deeply, her breath hitching in her chest for only a second, but Stiles caught it. She was in pain, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise. And he would never, ever forgive Peter for making her feel that way. His Lydia was excellent at brushing most things under the rug, but she'd learn soon enough that wasn't possible this time around.

Suddenly, it seemed to dawn on her where she was and why she was here. Her heart monitor reflected it shortly after too, like her memory was assaulting her with the moment Peter had bitten her. So, without thinking, Stiles reached forward and grabbed her hand, like it was instinctual, and gave it a kiss.

"Hey, it's okay. You're fine." Oh, well, no. She wasn't fine. Not yet. But he still needed her to calm down before Melissa came bursting in here. "We, uh, don't know where Peter is right now, but I already talked to Derek. He promised to hunt him down and make him pay."

"Stiles, I..."

She bit her lip, as if she was nervous to keep speaking, afraid of his reaction to what would be the next words out of her mouth. And that confused him. Nothing this wonderful, amazing, incredible girl could say would upset him.

"What?"

"I don't know if that's a good idea," she rushed to say in one breath.

"If what's a good idea?"

"You didn't see him," she insisted. "He was so upset, Stiles."

He scoffed, shaking his head but never letting go of her hand. "Lydia, he bit you. Do you understand what that means?" She shrugged. "I'm not trying to scare you, but you could still die." He paused, allowing the severity of his words to sink in fully. People always had a tendency not to take him seriously due to his default setting of heavy sarcasm. "Your body could, like, reject the bite. He's not going to get away with this."

"Reject it? Like an organ?"

"Yeah, pretty much," he acknowledged. "But it's not like we get another shot at this. You don't go back on the transplant list. You just... die."

"Oh." She ducked her head. "Gross."

"Agreed," he said, letting out his own dramatic, and definitely overexaggerated, sigh. "And to think... you used to be so hot."

She laughed and then began to cough, clutching her side before swatting his hand playfully. Actually, swatting felt a bit generous. Lydia didn't have the energy for swatting. A gentle tap, maybe.

"Uh, speaking of that, can I take a shower?"

"You want to take a shower? Right now?"

It was early. Like wee hours of the morning early. Way too early to be doing anything besides sleeping and getting better. But he could see on her face his girl wasn't going to let this go.

"I feel disgusting, Stiles," she argued, poking her bottom lip out in an adorable pout. "Pretty please?"

He rolled his eyes, seeing right through her antics, hating how well they worked on him. "Fine. Let me go and see if Melissa says it's okay."

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he muttered, standing up.

She smiled. He gave her a wink. Damn, it was embarrassing how much he was wrapped around her finger. But also, he didn't want any of it to change. Especially since she blew him a kiss as he walked toward the desk in the middle of the four ICU rooms on this floor.

Melissa stood so fast when she saw him appear behind the curtain that her chair nearly fell over behind her. But Stiles made sure to hold his hands up in a way that signaled there was no fire. Everything was fine. Well, as fine as it could be given they either had mere hours left with Lydia or she was about to become a werewolf.

"She's awake," he confessed, still whispering.

He couldn't seem to help the way his voice automatically lowered in this place. He wanted to blame the late hour, but he knew it was the somber setting and all the memories that came with it for him. It would forever be impossible to raise his voice here.

"She wants to know if it's okay for her to take a shower."

"Oh, yeah. Of course. Yes. That's fine. I'll come help."

But, as was their luck, the minute she rounded her desk, an alarm from another room began to blare.

"Go," Stiles implored her. "I got it."

He watched as she rushed toward the noise, knowing he had absolutely no intention of actually helping Lydia. He would just have to keep her occupied until Melissa was free, but she didn't need to know that. Melissa would get distracted, rush through something, and then feel terrible if it went poorly.

She was already exhausted. Adding anything extra felt exceptionally cruel.

"She said it was fine," Stiles replied to Lydia the moment he reappeared. "But she's helping someone else right now."

"Can't you just help me?"

He shook his head. "And get murdered by Jackson when he wakes up and I'm standing next to you, all nakey, in the bathroom? Yeah... no thanks."

"Nakey?" she giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as she laughed.

"I appreciate all the faith you have in me, Lyd, really, but I'm not a saint. I promise you I will see you naked, so why don't we just wait for Melissa, okay?"

She wiggled her eyebrows. "I can keep a secret if you can."

"You're going to get me killed," Stiles groaned.

"Nah, not tonight. You're safe."

"Ha. Ha."

"Besides, maybe I'll be dead before morning and Jackson won't even care that you saw my vajayjay."

"You laughed at nakey, but you call it your vajayjay. What the hell?"

He smiled wide as she started to giggle harder, her shoulder shaking with her barely contained enjoyment of the conversation. And then, without thinking hard about any of it, Stiles stood up and went to the other side of the bed—careful again not to jostle a very sleepy Jackson—and began to turn off alarms. It would be necessary to unhook her from everything that alerted them to there being a problem, but if Melissa felt it was safe, Stiles felt comfortable.

And he really would do his best not to look. But he was also not a saint, which he had made clear, so he also knew whatever future images might arise from this activity, they would likely be seared into his fucking brain whether he wanted them there or not.

Stiles held out his hand once he was finished and tried not to wince when she did as she stood. He knew she was in so much pain, but she was also incredibly stubborn. And if she wanted to shower, she'd do it with or without his help. At least with, he had a better chance of making sure she didn't hurt herself further.

"Thank you, Stiles," she whispered near the bathroom door as soon as they were inside. "You're the best."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "I just hope your shower is worth it."

She giggled again and shook her head as she easily stepped out of her loose hospital gown, and Stiles did as he promised and didn't look. Or rather, he didn't concentrate on what he was seeing, focusing instead on all the reasons he had known how to help her turn off all those machines. Because that was safe for him. Well, it was safe-ish. It kept him from doing anything to make his crush on Lydia any worse, but it did deal with his mom, so this wasn't exactly a good idea either.

As soon as the shower curtain was closed, and she was satisfied with the temperature of the water, Stiles went back to the room and set up camp in the seat across from Jackson once more. He had already decided to simply wait for Lydia to be done, focusing on the sound of the water hitting the tiled floor underneath her feet and zoning the hell out.

Because the alternative was letting his mind wander to the parts that he usually covered up with sarcasm and humor. The parts that involved his mother.

But despite his best efforts, he jolted awake, not having realized he'd fallen asleep, however many minutes later anyway. He had fallen asleep. Fuck. Not good. He rushed to the shower, thinking maybe it hadn't been that long since the water was still running and she hadn't asked to get out yet, but he had to make sure. He had to know everything was okay and he had just closed his eyes for a few seconds.

"Lydia?" he called from the other side of the shower curtain. "Lyd? You good?"

No answer. He furrowed his brows. Damnit. His heart rate accelerated, worried about what might be there to greet him when he pulled the curtain back, and he was legitimately concerned he might not survive this time around.

"Lydia?"

He waited a full ten seconds. Still no answer. Great. So, he gripped the plastic curtain and began to peel it back slowly, trying to mentally prepare himself for the worst.

But it was empty. Lydia wasn't there. The space between his eyes formed a very distinct v as his mind came to terms with what he was seeing. And then it went into overdrive.

She was gone. Shit. He raced back to the desk where Melissa was nearly dozing off again, except this time he didn't approach her slowly. He didn't put her mind at ease. He didn't do anything except blurt out the truth.

"I need help," he admitted, tears forming rapidly in his eyes. "She's gone."