But Lydia felt that connection, too, that she could talk to him. Everything felt like a walk on eggshells in this place. If she was too quiet, people wanted to know what was wrong. If she spoke up, they thought she was a bitch. There was no winning there, but with Isaac, he took the good with the bad and he rolled smoothly from one extreme to the other. She couldn’t help noticing the conversations that he had with Malia in public because she found herself jealous of his attentiveness to the other girl. ...but she also couldn’t help noticing a distinct and glaring lack of gratitude for all of his efforts. Meanwhile, Lydia craved even an ounce of affection from Stiles who seemed completely unwilling or unable to give it unprompted by her. So when Isaac brought her combs and coconut oil, she thanked him. He might not be moving a mattress through the camp in the pouring rain while trying not to snap at the fact that the only response was not “thank you” but “where will I bring other men to fuck” for her, but the little things meant a lot to Lydia, too. A lot more, probably, than he realized given the complete absence of them from Stiles with the exception of the teacup. In retrospect, she wondered if that thing had been Isaac’s idea and handiwork, instead. She couldn’t decide whether she felt defeated or endeared by that idea.
“No, she won’t turn you away,” she said in a long-suffering sigh that didn’t match the little smirk tugging at her lips. “...sometimes she likes to have someone to talk to who gets it, too. ...and who won’t call her a bitch for opening her mouth and daring to have an opinion.”
Isaac’s smile faded at her last comment and his hand tightened around hers for a second before slowly relaxing once more. He had a hard time talking about that. He had a hard time thinking about it, because every time he did it made Isaac mad. He wasn’t trying to stay out of the fray for the sake of not picking sides, he was doing it because he didn’t want to get into a physical altercation with somebody. The idea of Scott looking at Lydia, someone who he was supposed to consider as a friend, and refusing to see why it was even minutely unacceptable to call her a bitch simply because she spoke to Malia about an Alpha’s role back home versus here, or because she told someone that it was none of their damn business when she decided she wanted to get pregnant, was infuriating to him. Isaac didn’t know what happened. He had never seen Scott call anyone a bitch since he had known him, and Isaac was around when the Darach had started to wreak havoc in Beacon Hills. He was willing to move aside when Isaac admitted his feelings for Allison. He was willing to forgive Deucalion after all of the damage he did and all of the bodies he left in his wake. And yet he wanted to call Lydia a bitch because he disagreed with her. The simple concept made his blood boil.
“He’s not important.” Isaac finally spoke aloud, his voice a little flat when the words left him. He thought that he would have been, but Scott only gave a shit about Isaac when they were agreeing, apparently. It wasn’t okay for Isaac to leave Beacon Hills after watching Allison die, the first woman - only woman - he had ever loved, to stay with Chris, the only father who ever loved him, but it was okay for Scott to leave the entirety of Beacon Hills behind, including his own mother, who had done so much for Isaac, to get fucked on an island after Allison died. He had to take a deep breath in through his nose and slowly release it to keep his eyes from glowing. “It’s not important,” he repeated, a verbal confirmation that he was still thinking about it, and at that point he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Lydia or himself. It was hard sometimes, with Malia, because she was trying to figure out who she was and switching through different personalities and mindsets in the process, with Derek because of what had happened in the past, and with Stiles for the same reason. Scott, though. That was hard for different reasons. That was hard, because Scott was supposed to be his brother. And he didn’t even recognize him.