Kansas City is considerably simpler than Beacon Hills, and not just because Lydia's not there. Since the Winchesters made everything go to hell - literally - there have been demons all over the place, to the point where even a lot of newer hunters think being a hunter is all about killing demons. Hell, these days there's a preponderance of demon-killing blades and people who are willing to sell you devil's trap stencils.

But hunting is not, in fact, all about killing demons. Hunting is about killing evil, and while it would be simpler if all evil came in the form of demons, that's just not how the world works.

Of course, Allison can't actually kill the worst evil in the world. She can't do anything about the kind of evil that sits in governments or is entirely human but preys on children. But she can, and does, banish the spirit killing janitors in Kansas City's city hall. She thinks she's gotten out of there clean, no drama and no problems, until she starts having visions.

That alone doesn't make her panic. Her father's had visions a few times. Anyone - excluding a very few people - can have visions. But their vividness, and suddenness, suggests a strong cause. So she thinks about it for long enough to conclude that it must be the chest they found back in Beacon Hills.

When she realizes it, she goes out and buys a 6-pack of a local brewery's best IPA, sits in front of the shitty motel TV, and quietly curses to herself. She doesn't want to go back to Beacon Hills. And technically, she doesn't have to; she knows other psychics. But Lydia's the most powerful.

And - okay. Part of her wants to. Allison's always believed in self-awareness; she gets that she likes Lydia, and wants to spend time with her, and all that jazz. But just because she likes Lydia, doesn't mean she has to do anything about it. Allison's in control of her emotions.

She calls Lydia.

"What do you want, I'm getting my nails done," Lydia says.

"I'm - that chest I found. It's giving me dreams."

"And here I thought I was the - special one."

"I'd like for you to take a look at it," Allison says. Her stomach is in knots. "If you don't mind."

"I've been working on improving my skills in that area," Lydia says. "I'll see you in, what, two days? Book a hotel. This isn't a sleepover." She hangs up.

Allison kind of hates herself for being really happy about that.

She takes off the next morning. She pushes the speed limit more than a little - not enough to get pulled over, though. The Argent family is old and distinguished, but that doesn't mean Allison wants her face in any kind of database.

She stays in the Argent house. Two days after calling Lydia, she goes over to her house.

Lydia opens the door and says, "What are you, staying in the Super 8?"

"The Argent house."

"I thought you hated that place."

"Better than the Super 8." Allison pointedly lifts the chest. "This is heavy."

Something happens with Lydia's expression, but it's there and gone in a second. "Sorry. Come in."

It's not until they're sitting in the living room that Lydia says, "I've been practicing."

"Have you been training with anyone?"

"Derek knows a bit. I've been working with him." Lydia tosses her head. "But I'm better."

"Of course," Allison says. She does her best to not look amused. "I wouldn't expect anything else."

"So," Lydia says, running her hands over the chest. "What kind of dreams have you been having, exactly?"

"Visions," Allison says. "Old men, clocks, mountains being worn away by time. That kind of thing. I haven't tried to open the chest - it could be dangerous."

Lydia looks pointedly at the knife at Allison's side. "You might want to take that out," she says, and rests her hand on the chest. The locks glow, then fall away. Lydia opens the chest.

Allison's half expecting disaster to strike, in some form or another; she's not expecting a smooth interior, full of water.

"I didn't hear it," she says.

Lydia's closed her eyes. "It's not water when the chest is closed," she says. "It's the suggestion of water, but it's only filled when you open the chest. This is old magic, angel magic."

"No," Allison says, "no, I am not getting involved with heaven and hell. That's Winchester shit, the Argents don't deal in that."

Lydia says, "The chest chose you. It's your heritage. Even now, it whispers to you...it wants you to know what it is."

"Well?" Allison says. "What is it?"

Lydia opens her eyes. Her pupils are wide and her gaze is far away. "The fountain of youth."

Allison laughs. "No, but really."

Lydia blinks, and her pupils go back to normal. "Really. God, Allison, this of all things is what you don't believe?"

"The fountain of youth is a myth. No hunter's ever heard of it."

"Well, now one has." Lydia purses her lips. "I feel like I should be charging you."

"For what?"

"Well, I have to store it, obviously. You can't just carry the fountain of youth around."

"You said it was calling for me."

"Well, obviously," Lydia says. "It was made by your ancestor."

"There's no record -"

"If you made something literally every human on Earth would kill for, would you tell anyone?"

Allison thought she might, if only to brag. But it wasn't like she could tell Lydia that. "Well. Thanks. Do you have somewhere safe to put it?"

"My house is warded now." Lydia smiles. It's the smug, proud smile that Allison remembers from high school - but this one is a lot more mature, and Allison's way more aware of how it makes her feel. Damn it.

"Excellent," she says, and stands up. "Well - great. I have to drive to Seattle, so I guess I'll see you later."

Lydia stands. "What's in Seattle?"

"A demon," Allison says. "He's set up shop preying on Space Needle tourists. I'm going to kill him."

"Good luck," Lydia says. She sees Allison out.

Demons are harder to hunt than your average ghost or poltergeist, but insomuch as anyone can tell - it's not like hunters are an easy group to profile demographically - they're not the primary cause of death for hunters. Vamps, werewolves, pagan deities, ghosts, all of those kill more hunters than demons. Part of that is that demons are relatively rare; even now, post-Hell opening, you're more likely to find a ghost than a demon - regardless of what new hunters think. But the biggest reason demons are less deadly is because hunters prepare for them more. The world of hunters is a world full of guys obsessed with machismo, who don't take the appropriate steps to protect themselves against something like a ghost. They think they're better than that - and then they die. Allison never makes that mistake. She prepares for ghost and demon alike.

She has three knives, an enchanted gun, and a crossbow on her when she starts stalking the demon. It's living in an abandoned warehouse on the water, but it spends most of its time by the Space Needle. The body it chose is a young white male, charming, easy to trust. Allison knows from news clippings that it takes young women back to its warehouse, strings them up, and cuts them open. Slowly. The hearts disappear - Allison assumes it eats them. The bodies wash up on the docks a few days later.

Allison really, really wants to kill this thing.

It only takes a few hours of stalking before he finds a victim. She fits the profile (demons and sociopaths aren't that far apart, really): young, light-colored hair, gullible. He gets into a cab with her. Allison puts her car into gear and follows.

It - he - is sloppy; he doesn't check for a tail. Allison parks a block from the warehouse and creeps closer.

A single demon is standing watch outside a loading dock door. Allison tosses a pebble against the loading dock and then, when the demon turns, slits its throat. The enchanted knife does the job; the demon dies with the host.

Allison doesn't have many qualms about killing hosts. Most of them die after the possession, anyway. And she can't risk one getting away while she does an exorcism.

The warehouse is dark and dank, so Allison's not surprised that a demon likes it. It's easy to find him; he's chuckling under a single spotlight in the middle of the warehouse.

"Beg," he says as Allison creeps closer. "Please, beg. I love when they beg."

The woman lifts her chin and doesn't say anything. She's tied to the chair and isn't trying to get free; Allison guesses she's accepted her death. Smart woman. If Allison wasn't here, then she'd definitely die.

"I guess I'll have to make you beg," he says, and raises a hand.

Damn it. Allison raises her bow and shoots three arrows in rapid succession. They pierce his wrists and his midsection. He stumbles back, and Allison leaps into the light, knife flashing.

"Bitch," he snarls, and reaches for her.

If he grabs her, it's over. Allison dodges and weaves and then, when she has a clear sightline, throws the knife.

It lands in the demon's neck. Light flashes, and he dies.

"Oh my god," the woman says from behind her. "I...oh my god."

"Hi," Allison says. She retrieves her knife and wipes it on her jeans - blood comes out. She pulls her arrows out, too - she has someone make them, but they're spelled not to break, and that comes at a hefty price. "Here, let me untie you."

The woman's stiff and mistrusting as Allison does it. "I can give you a ride," Allison says.

The woman shakes her head. "I'll take a taxi," she says. "He didn't even take my wallet, he just…"

"I know." Allison doesn't reach out to her. This isn't the kind of woman who'd appreciate that. "He's a scumbag, and a murderer, and now he's dead."

"Will you get in trouble?"

Allison shrugs. "They won't find anything on the body, and now that it's - " She can't explain what happens to human bodies after demons inhabit them. "It's not a problem," she says finally.

"Thank you," the woman says. She edges away from Allison, still wary. "Thank you," she says again, and leaves the warehouse.

Allison looks at the body, then up into the rafters of the warehouse. She sighs and sketches out a bow. "And the crowd goes wild," she mutters, and goes back out to her car.

She's poring over news sites in her motel the next morning, looking for another case, when Lydia calls.

"Hello?" Allison says. She doesn't want to make any assumptions about why Lydia might've called, but -

"I'm in trouble," Lydia says. "Are you still in Seattle?"

"Yes?"

"Stay where you are." Lydia clears her throat, then says, "I think I can find you. And if I'm on the move, they can't find me. I'll be there by tonight, I've got a flight booked."

Allison doesn't generally recommend flying when something supernatural is going on, but she knows better than to get in Lydia's way. "I'll see you then," she says.

"Excellent," Lydia says. "I hope you're not staying in some rat trap."

"Well, I haven't seen any rats yet."

"How promising," Lydia says, and hangs up.

Allison's smiling a little. Damn it. "Get it together," she mutters to herself, and goes back to the news sites.

She's awakened at 2 AM that night by a knock on her door. Probably Lydia, but hunters don't live to almost-30 without being careful. She takes a knife and creeps towards the door.

"Allison, quit reenacting scenes from some dumb cop show and let me in," Lydia says. Her tone is distinctly irritated.

"Fine." Allison opens the door. "Christo," she says.

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "Should I levitate some objects to prove I'm not a demon?"

"Can't be too careful," Allison says. She puts the knife back on the side table.

It's then that she realizes she rented a room with a single bed. "Um."

"Oh, relax. I can sleep with you. I'm too tired to explain it all." Lydia looks at the circle of salt. "Good, it's not broken." She turns and hefts a huge suitcase over the line. It's some designer thing, done up in deep purple and turquoise. "I wore pajamas on the plane. Pajamas. I'm going to sleep, and you're not going to say a word about how I look in the morning."

"Okay," Allison says. This is the hurricane side of Lydia, the one she rarely sees.

"Good," Lydia says, and climbs into the bed, on the unused side. She's asleep almost immediately.

Allison's really, really not sure what she's gotten herself into, but she knows she's slow and ineffective when sleep deprived. She gets into the bed, tells her heart to calm the fuck down, and falls asleep quickly.

She wakes up the next morning to Lydia sitting in a chair pulled up to the bed, staring at her.

"Jesus!" Allison bolts upright. It's 8 AM, way later than she normally wakes up.

"Your dreams are loud," Lydia says.

"You shouldn't be able to sense them, you've hardly been training for any time at all."

"Well, I can," Lydia says. She sniffs. "And that's a problem, apparently."

"I'm going to brush my teeth and get us some food," Allison says. "There's a McDonald's across the street."

"I know. Because you're staying at a truck stop." Lydia's glare says she doesn't approve of that, at all.

"We can't all stay at the Ritz," Allison says. Well - technically she could, with Argent money. But she gets enough grief from other hunters for her lineage as it is.

She goes into the bathroom, brushes her teeth, and tosses cold water on her face. "Any requests?" she says, shrugging into her jacket.

Lydia purses her lips. "From McDonald's? Get me something that's not likely to make me vomit."

"Yeah, okay," Allison says, and leaves.

It's chilly in Seattle, even though it's only October. Allison hunches her shoulders in her jacket and ignores the misty spray of wind.

Fifteen minutes later, she's back with two egg McMuffins - and hash browns for her. "Here," she says. "Guaranteed not to make you puke or fat."

"You spoil me," Lydia says. She makes a face when she bites into it, but she doesn't complain.

Once they've finished their food, Allison says, "So. What's going on?"

Lydia taps her foot on the chair. It occurs to Allison that she hasn't moved since she woke Allison up, and the chair has a clear sightline to the door. "Lydia," Allison says with more urgency. "What's happening?"

"I'm being hunted," Lydia says.

That's - not what Allison was expecting. "By what? Can you tell?"

"No one has shown up at my doorstep. Yet," Lydia says. "But every time I use my abilities for anything more than something really minor, I can feel them. Looking." She shivers, then looks irritated with herself for doing it. "It's annoying. And I want it to stop."

"There are people who hunt psychics," Allison says. She's thinking hard, going through what the Argents know of psychics. There are so many cults devoted to the discovery and use of psychics among humans alone - and then, of course, there's vampires who are devoted to turning psychics, demons who want to possess them, and so on. Most psychics learn from a young age to deal with the need to defend themselves, but Lydia obviously doesn't fall into that category.

"How are you being taught now?" Allison says. "Who was training you?"

"Derek helped, in his grouchy way," Lydia says. "And I've been training remotely with a psychic in Tennessee."

"Remotely?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Skype, Allison."

"Oh." Allison can feel herself blushing like she's a teenager again. "Right, of course."

"So I can continue doing that," Lydia says. "While we travel."

"Wait, we?"

"You can't know what's coming after me, and I'm not trained enough yet to find out." Lydia's ticking points off on her fingers. Her long, polished fingers. Allison looks at her own hands. At least she got a manicure recently. "You can protect me, so I'm traveling with you."

"You can't go with me on hunts," Allison manages to say through the whirl of thoughts accosting her. "It's just not practical."

"I'm aware," Lydia says. "Lots of time sitting in hotel -" She wrinkles her nose. "Motel rooms. But it will give me time to practice, and then we can hunt down whoever's trying to find me, and hurt them."

"I don't hurt humans," Allison says.

Lydia smiles. "I'm starting to become willing to."

Allison's pretty sure that's a threat directed at whoever's hunting Lydia, but not 100%. Luckily, there's very little Lydia could do to harm Allison. The necklace she always wears is cute and in style, and it's also spelled with more protection charms than most hunters' safe houses.

"Right," Allison says. "Well, there's some kind of pagan god thing going on in Indiana. You up for a road trip?"

"Isn't there anything closer?"

Allison shrugs. "I don't always stay on the west coast. There are only so many hunters. We go where the job takes us."

"Fine," Lydia says. "Then, I guess. Can we go to Boston after? I like Boston."

"We'll see," Allison says. "Lydia, this isn't a vacation."

Lydia gives her the evil eye. "I know." She finishes her sandwich and stands up, tossing her hair. "I'm going to shower."

Allison packs the few belongings she left out, scrubs the wards off the windows, and tries very hard not to think about Lydia naked just a few feet from her. When Lydia emerges - forty minutes later; what was she even doing in there? - Allison goes to shower. She's in and out in ten minutes, braiding her hair and putting on light makeup. She might not be Lydia, but she does like looking good, even if she's going to spend all day driving.

"Off we go," she says, grabbing her bag.

"Don't we have to check out?"

Allison just barely manages to not laugh. "I paid in cash."

"Oh," Lydia says, and grabs her suitcase. "Let's go, then."

Allison's car is nice and runs smoothly, but Lydia's fidgeting barely an hour in. "It's a two-day drive to Indiana," Allison says. "You might as well settle in."

"I keep getting - glimpses of things," Lydia says. "It's intrusive. And shouldn't you be looking at a map?"

Allison does laugh then. "I've been doing this since I was in middle school. Trust me, I can get from Seattle to Indiana."

"Well, you can't prove the axiom of choice," Lydia says. But she doesn't snap it; she only sounds amused. When Allison glances over, she's smiling.

"True," Allison says. "Did you bring a book?"

"If by a book you mean a Kindle, yes." Lydia twists around to grab her purse from the back. Allison keeps her eyes on the road. "Should I read out loud?"

"Nah, I zone out when I'm driving."

"Tell me you pay attention to the road."

Allison's first instinct is to say yes, of course, but - she thinks maybe they've been flirting a little. So she smiles and says, "I haven't died yet."

Lydia huffs, but it doesn't sound serious. She pulls her Kindle out and starts reading.

An hour later, she says, "Well, that was a waste of four dollars."

"What'd you read?"

Lydia launches into an explanation of the sci-fi book she just read, complete with cutting descriptions of the flaws in the narrative. It sounds like she enjoyed it, probably; she just also enjoys cutting comments. In return, Allison tells her about the lore book she was reading. Most hunters depend on retired hunters' libraries, but Allison depends on piracy. There's an entire undernet of lore books, if you know where to look. The younger hunters are pretty dedicated to digitizing.

"Really?" Lydia says. "Shapeshifters?"

"Sure," Allison says. "They have to tear their skin off, though. Not recommended."

"Tell me most of them live regular lives. Non-skin-tearing lives."

"Well, we only know about the ones who go rogue."

Lydia shudders. "Gross."

Allison hesitates, then says, "You'll see a lot of gross things. If you stay with me."

"I'm not staying with you forever, and I'm not going on hunts with you."

"You said my dreams are loud."

When she glances over, Lydia's frowning. "That's true, but...I'll learn to block it. That'll be my next lesson."

"Okay," Allison says. "Good."

"Good," Lydia says.

They're silent for almost 100 miles after that, Allison easing up on her considerable speeding when they pass through Spokane. It's not until they're passing a random truck stop at 3 that Lydia says, "So are we just not going to eat?"

"Oh," Allison says. "I kind of - didn't notice I was hungry." She's not going to admit she was too busy worrying that her nightmares would bleed over to Lydia. "There's a McDonald's next exit."

"Good enough," Lydia says, in a tone that makes it obvious she's being a martyr. Allison rolls her eyes and pulls into the right lane.

They don't stop until almost midnight. Lydia fell asleep sometime around ten; Allison waits another hour to start looking for motels. She finds another Super 8 about thirty miles outside Billings.

She expects Lydia to complain, but instead Lydia just shuffles from the car to the motel. She brushes her teeth silently, squinting at the mirror. Allison's stomach does an idiotic flip-flop; she can't help it. Lydia's cute like this, and that's an adjective she can almost never apply to Lydia.

She tells herself to stop being an idiot and goes to brush her teeth. Lydia's asleep by the time she gets back out. She gets into the bed - she got a single again, telling herself it would be wasteful otherwise - and does her best to fall asleep. Luckily, she's had military-esque training in managing her sleep since she was five. It's easy to fall asleep.

Lydia's watching her when she wakes up again, but this time, it's seven-thirty.

"Hi," Lydia says. "Did you sleep enough? You only got about seven hours."

"Augh," Allison says. "Yeah, I slept fine, I don't need that much sleep. We'll eat breakfast on the road, come on, let's go."

"Good morning to you too," Lydia says. "Put your makeup on while I brush my teeth. We'd better be allowed to shower in Indiana before you go all monster-hunt-y."

"We're still two days outside Indiana," Allison says. "I don't tend to drive like a maniac."

"Won't more people die?"

"That's the job," Allison says. "And I don't always wear makeup."

"Relax, I'm not judging." Lydia goes into the bathroom. "It's better than if you did the tomboy, I'm-better-than-other-girls thing."

"I'm glad you approve of my grooming habits," Allison says. She's trying to sound dry, but Lydia just rolls her eyes as she brushes her teeth.

Allison is just now realizing how used to driving alone she is. Lydia doesn't complain that much, if you don't count her almost-automatic cutting comments as complaining; but she does roll her eyes at Allison's music and need a ton of restroom breaks. After their third one in as many hours, Allison says, "Is your bladder the size of a peanut or something?"

"Bladders aren't naturally very large, and holding it in can cause all kinds of health problems," Lydia says. "Besides, I like to stretch my legs."

"Get in the car, princess," Allison says, but she can't manage any heat behind it.

"You must really like sharing a bed," Lydia says that night. They're in Nowhere, Illinois, and she's stopped at another Super 8. "Also, what's with the Super 8s?"

"They're reliable," Allison says. "And a single is way more efficient."

"Uh-huh," Lydia says. "I'll be glad when we can stay in one place. I'll actually be able to practice then."

Allison waits until they've warded the hotel room to say, "So...can you still feel yourself being hunted?"

Lydia's expression gets cagey. "I haven't actually used my skills much in the last two days."

"But?"

"But, yes, I can feel them."

That's really not encouraging. Allison presses her knuckles to her forehead. "I'm going to shower," she says finally. She's warded the room; that's the best she can do.

When she gets out - in pajamas, because she's not a living cliché and she's going to change in the bathroom until she gets Lydia safely back to Beacon Hills - Lydia's Skyping with someone. She doesn't open her eyes to look at Allison; to the computer, she says, "Okay, I'm focusing and everything but I can still feel them? What am I doing wrong? And can you tell me before they break the door down?"

The woman on the other end says, "I've told you. You're too tense. You work too hard. Being a medium isn't about winning awards or finishing first, it's about working."

"I know how to work."

"Then show me. Find your center, and hide yourself."

"I don't hide."

"Honey, right now, you have to. Are you going to do this or not?"

Allison watches, still standing in the doorway of the bathroom, as Lydia huffs and says, "Fine." She scrunches her eyes shut more tightly, obviously focusing on something - inside, Allison guesses. The Argents have worked with psychics for generations; their methods aren't foreign to her. Lydia's a little temperamental and amateurish, but this look-inside-yourself stuff is familiar to Allison.

A subtle shiver runs through the room, and Allison's knees go slightly weak. Lydia opens her eyes and smiles. It's the narrow, confident, sly smile that Allison remembers from school. On adult Lydia, it's -

She turns away and busies herself with her luggage as Lydia says, "There. They won't find me now."

"Tomorrow we'll work on reaching out to other people," the woman says. "I trust your companion will be willing to help with that?"

"That's what I'm here for," Allison says. "That, and killing demons."

"Good," Lydia says. "I'll talk to you then." She closes the computer.

Allison doesn't realize Lydia's watching her until Lydia says, "It's difficult for me too, you know."

"I know it's difficult for you," Allison says. "It'll be more difficult when you're in the hotel room and I'm killing pagan gods."

"Actually, I think staying away from that will be pretty easy." Lydia leans back against the wall, then makes a face and delicately situates herself away from the wall. She's already thrown the comforter on the ground; yesterday she gave Allison a lecture on how dirty motel comforters are. "I have no desire to get all invested in killing everything that goes bump in the night."

Allison double-checks the salt and wards on the room. She needs to contract a witch to make her portable wards; dry erase markers on the windows work well enough, but someday a hotel proprietor is bound to notice.

To Lydia, she says, "The killing thing is really distasteful to you, huh."

"I'm a Fields medal nominee. I've collaborated with Stephen Hawking on quantum mechanics." Lydia shrugs. "What can I say? Being all dirty and stabbing things just isn't in my purview."

"It's not all about that," Allison says.

"Oh?"

"It's about -" Allison doesn't know how to explain it. She's talked with Chinese demon hunters, English con men, and Kenyan psychics. It's not about the killing; it's about the battle, about standing with others to fight the tide of evil. It's about belonging to a community, an old and storied one. The blood and guts are easy to focus on, but the Argents know that they're an accessory, a symptom of their fight. The fight itself has a higher purpose.

"Never mind," she says, and gets into bed.

"You're just going to ignore what i said about comforters, aren't you."

"Fifteen years in motels and I've never been given the clap by a comforter," Allison says. She closes her eyes. "Goodnight, Lydia."

There's a long enough silence that Allison's half asleep before Lydia says, "Goodnight."

They arrive in Indiana midday the next day. The town they stop in, Apple Grove, is small and idyllic. A little too idyllic, really; even the old Victorian, cordoned off with police tape, is painted like it came out of a story book.

Allison explains the case in the motel they're staying at. "I've warded the room, but once we're out, watch what you say. If that family was murdered to appease pagan gods, the trees might have ears."

Lydia pauses in curling her hair to say, "Like - literally?"

Allison rolls her eyes. "No. But the pagan god might be listening through the trees, the earth. The storefronts. So just - be careful."

"How are we going to gather information if we can't talk about it?"

Allison waves her iPhone. "I thought you were a genius."

"And I thought I was going to stay in the hotel room."

Allison had thought so too, but Lydia's been using "we" since they crossed into Indiana. "It's harmless enough for you to gather information with me," she says.

"What's our cover?"

"Why are we asking questions, do you mean?"

"Obviously I'm leaving the final, undoubtedly gory confrontation to you," Lydia says. "But we need a story if we're going to be poking around before then."

Allison normally goes with federal inspector or long-lost, concerned relative, but - there are benefits to traveling with a partner. "We're together."

"Um, yes. Duh."

"No, I mean - " Allison takes a steadying breath and finishes her eyeliner. "You and me, we're a couple. We want to buy the house. The police should be finishing up their investigation, and the house is on the market. That's how I found out about the case."

"Will a town like this like lesbians?"

"We're white and clean-cut," Allison says. "Town with pagan gods are usually a little more permissive on the sexuality thing."

"Whatever," Lydia says. "Okay, how do I look?"

She's wearing skinny jeans and a nice blouse. She looks utterly normal. Allison's own tank top and leather jacket seem a little edgy in comparison, but - well, if they're pretending to be a couple, that will work. "You look good," Allison says, ignoring the lump in her throat. "Let's do this."

Allison contacts the realtor on the way over. As Allison thought, she's eager to meet with them, and is at the house by the time they get there. They get out of the car together, Lydia smoothing her clothes and looking - a little jumpy, honestly. Allison frowns. "You've gotta look more together than that," she says. "Come on, hold my hand."

"Please," Lydia says. "I know how to pretend I'm in a happy relationship." She shakes herself, and suddenly her expression's changed. it's softer, more open. She approaches Allison and kisses her, the barest brush of lips, before taking Allison's hand.

"See?" she says. "Now, let's do this thing."

The realtor does blink when she sees them, but then she says, "I want to reassure you that we're an equal opportunity housing community."

"Thanks," Allison says. "We appreciate that." She lifts Lydia's hand and kisses it. "Don't we - baby?"

"Of course, sugar." Allison's not sure if Lydia's voice is promising retribution later or not. "Can we see the house?"

"Absolutely," the realtor says, and leads them down the walk.

As soon as they step inside, Lydia flinches. "My shoes pinch," she says with an apologetic smile when the realtor blinks at her. "These vaulted ceilings are amazing."

"There's more where that came from," the realtor says. "Cathedral ceilings, and the original antique bannister preserved. This is one of the few Victorian houses in the town that wasn't chopped up into apartments at some time or another."

"Fascinating," Allison says. "The ones we passed are apartments?" She lets herself sound snobbish - all the better to get information from the realtors.

"Ah, no," the realtor says. "They've since been restored, as the town's - found its way back onto its feet."

"Excellent," Allison says. "We'd like to see the kitchen. Lydia here just loves to cook." She smiles at Lydia, as sappily as she can. Lydia waits until the realtor's assented and turned to lead them to the kitchen before wrinkling her nose at Allison.

Allison rolls her eyes and tugs Lydia's hand, leading her towards the kitchen. "Oh, this is lovely," she says, looking around. It's huge and airy, with a rack for pots and pants above the stove, and a massive island with stools in the middle of the space. "Look at that range. Honey."

"It's lovely," Lydia says. "I have to ask, though - not to be indelicate - but we noticed that the price is so low. Is there a reason? Plumbing, electricity?"

"Ah," the realtor says. She doesn't look remotely flustered. She looks suspiciously calm, actually, Allison thinks. "There was an...incident."

She describes the murder, with as few details as possible. Husband shot the wife and kids, then himself. When she's done, she says, "Of course, if that's a problem, I completely understand."

Lydia turns to look at Allison. They trade a look that Allison hopes looks like silent communication - honestly, she has no idea what's going on in Lydia's head. "No," Lydia says finally. "That should be fine. It's such a beautiful house."

The realtor smiles, a tense baring of teeth. "Excellent," she says. "Let me show you the master bedroom."

The rest of the house tour goes fairly quickly. Allison and Lydia hang out in Allison's car until the realtor has driven away. They don't discuss it or anything, but when they get back to the motel room, they says, "She's suspicious," at the same time.

Lydia blinks at Allison and then laughs a little, harshly. "Yes," she says. "Yes, I'd definitely say that."

"You got bad vibes," Allison says.

"I managed to shut most of them out. But my shielding is imperfect." Lydia presses her lips together, like admitting even that imperfection bothers her.

"I'd like to tell you what we're looking for, but honestly, I have no idea." Allison sits down on her bed, pulling her boots off. There's sunshine coming in through the front window, and the motel room almost looks cheerful. The rune shadow on the carpet ruins the effect a little, but Lydia's hair is lit up and -

Allison looks away from her. "The town coming back from a depression, though," she says, wetting her lips. "That's a definite sign that someone dug up some lore on a pagan god."

"So with cases like this, is the town usually in on it?"

"Kind of." Allison scoots back to lean against the headboard. Lydia's eyes stray to the coverlet and she wrinkles her nose. Allison can't help but smile. "Oh, relax. My car's been through much worse."

"Oh God, I didn't need to know that."

"Now you do," Allison says. "Anyway - it's usually a select group, the upper crust. A circle, a council, that kind of thing. Paternalistic crap about how they're doing what's best for everyone. You know the type."

"I was in academia. Believe me, I do know the type."

"Good," Allison says. "Two eyes trying to spot them are better than one."

Her phone buzzes. She checks it, and blinks. It's a text from the realtor, a forwarded invitation to a -

"Bingo party," Allison says. "They want us to play bingo."

"Okay, that's definitely evil." Lydia pulls the comforter off her own bed and sits down. "What time?"

"7:30 tomorrow night."

"You bring your guns and knives or whatever," Lydia says. "I'll bring my keen intellect."

"I can at least give you a knife, if you're not comfortable with a gun. I don't carry that many guns. Mostly my crossbow, when I think I'll need the firepower."

"You can't exactly sneak that into a bingo party."

"I never said I wasn't going to bring a gun." Allison stands up and goes over to her weapons duffel. She has an Italian stiletto knife, which she pulls out and hands to Lydia. "It's easy enough to use."

The knife looks weird in Lydia's hands, especially when she clutches it so tightly her knuckles go white. "This might shock you, but I'm not entirely confident in my military capabilities."

Allison surveys the room. It's not the world's most spacious motel room, but there's a pretty big open spot by the door, so she says, "Come here."

"Um, that wasn't an invitation for you to teach me proper form, or whatever."

"Sure," Allison says, "But I'm going to anyway. Come here."

Lydia sighs and rolls her eyes, an expression that hasn't changed a bit in ten-plus years. But she stands up and goes over to join Allison.

"Unsheath the knife."

"Is that safe?"

Allison reaches out and rests a hand on Lydia's arm without thinking about it. Or, okay, without thinking about it much. "Lydia. None of this is safe."

Lydia makes a grumbling noise, but unsheaths the knife, tossing the sheath onto the bed. "Now what."

"Now," Allison says, "I show you some basic form." She stands behind Lydia, guiding her arm. "The point of using a knife is to hurt the other person without letting them take the knife from you. This knife is best for surprise attacks - throat slitting, stabbings. Hopefully we won't have to do any of that today."

"Hopefully," Lydia says, tone dripping sarcasm.

"Plant your feet like this," Allison says, demonstrating a defensive stance. "Yeah, good. See, the point is to make it hard to access your body."

"You're accessing my body just fine," Lydia says.

Allison goes still, and watches as the back of Lydia's neck turns red.

"Sorry," Lydia says. "I'm tired. I'm listening."

"Right." Allison's voice absolutely isn't rusty when she says, "So. Move your arm like this, stab like this."

They go through some basic stances, blocks and thrusts. It's too technical for Allison to get hot and bothered - and also, she's not the kind of weird, middle-aged person who uses phrases like "hot and bothered" - but she does feel a little flustered by the end of it. "Anyway," she says, stepping back. "That's how you avoid getting stabbed. Hopefully."

"Thank you," Lydia says. She sheathes the knife and takes it over to her side of the nightstand. "So, what are we doing tonight?"

"Pardon?"

"The bingo game is tomorrow," Lydia says, with exaggerated patience. "That leaves us tonight to do - what, exactly? Sit in the motel room, eat McDonald's? Or should we solidify our position a bit?"

"Um," Allison says. She's really not used to working with a partner, apparently.

"Exactly," Lydia says. "I saw a Thai place on Main Street on the way here. Let's show them we're serious about becoming the world's most nonthreatening lesbian neighbors."

"You're paying," Allison says. She leans down to put her boots back on.

"Of course," Lydia says. "A nice, romantic walk, and then dinner. I can't wait. Sweetie."

Her smile is poisonous. Allison has to look away.

It's possible - probable, really - that she didn't think this cover through. It's a cool day, but not quite cold, so Allison's comfortable in her leather jacket and jeans as she walks around the park at the center of town, her hand in Lydia's. Lydia's delivering a sunny talk on the history of small town America. Allison's honestly not sure how much of it is true, and how much of it is Lydia just making things up on the fly.

The Thai place downtown is small and intimate. They sit on the floor around a small, round table, and the waiter brings out dumplings for both of them, along with a bottle of red wine. Allison drinks wine at family functions, mostly, dull events full of people talking about duty. She loves her family, but to her, wine means a certain kind of anachronism.

But Lydia smiles at her and says, "Do you want to do the honors?" as she waves to the uncorked bottle. So Allison sighs and picks it up, pouring them both glasses of wine.

"To...working together," Lydia says, lifting the glass.

At least she's committing to the role, Allison thinks. She lifts her glass and they clink theirs together.

Lydia's foot finds Allison's ankle under the table as they drink. Allison almost chokes on her wine.

"Sip it," Lydia says. "Lord, were you raised in a barn?"

"That's taking it a bit far, don't you think?" Allison says, moving her leg away.

But Lydia finds it again and strokes the back of her calf, slowly. "I don't think so at all," she says, smiling.

Allison is an Argent, and she's not going to do something as undignified as choking on her wine. But all the same, she's bright red throughout the dinner, which involves some truly delicious pad see eew and the entire bottle of wine. No one approaches them, but Allison's situational awareness isn't dulled by half a bottle of wine, and she can feel and see people watching them.

She tells herself that's why, when they pay their bill and leave, she pulls Lydia against a fence and kisses her.

"Allison, what -"

"Shh," Allison says, and kisses her again.

"There," she says when she pulls away. She holds her hand out for Lydia to take.

Lydia stares at her for a long moment, gaze hard - and then, like it was never there, her expression melts, and she takes Allison's hand.

"If I have leaves in my hair," she says in a pleasant tone, "I will kill you."

They were good kisses. Allison chooses not to respond.

Lydia meditates for a long time that night, and when Allison wakes up at dawn, Lydia wakes up and meditates some more. Allison calls the realtor after they've eaten breakfast, to let her know they want to move forward on buying the house. Then she sets up the bait: "But - I'd like to have a priest bless it. Just in case."

"A priest?" Anna the realtor says. Her voice sounds strained, and Allison presses her lips together to suppress an unattractively smug smile. They've got her. "I'm not sure where you'd find a priest."

"I saw a church on the drive into town, on 12th Street?"

"Oh, yes, of course, but that's - what I mean to say is -" Anna pauses, then says, "I actually have the number of a priest. Would you like it?"

Allison takes the number down and hangs up. Without looking at her, Lydia says, "What was that all about?"

"The church we saw on the way in is their pagan temple, and I -" Allison smiles - "have the number of the guy who runs it."

"So, what's our game plan?" Lydia says.

"Simple," Allison says. "You meet them at the house. Say I'm feeling ill or something. When the head honcho is out of the church, I go in and investigate. I return, hopefully with a clue about what god we're dealing with. Then we stab things."

Allison doesn't know Lydia very well - not well enough, really, to gauge her moods. But it's obvious, when Allison looks at her, that she's worried.

"It's perfectly safe," Allison says. "You're tough and smart, and they don't suspect anything. You'll be fine."

"I wish I could trust that," Lydia says. "But I'm not really - you know what? Never mind." She smiles up at Allison. "Bingo tonight. Call the priest and tell him to come tomorrow. I need to brush up on my shielding." She turns away from Allison, crossing her legs and - apparently - falling into a trance.

They don't get dressed up for bingo. Allison's been accused of dressing like a dyke before, even though she generally does her hair and makeup - it's just an occupational hazard when you're a hunter who turns down testosterone-soaked hunters who think staking a couple vamps makes them hot shit. And it's not entirely false, anyway. But tonight she wears her leather jacket and jeans, and does her makeup as prom-y as she knows how. Lydia wears slacks and a blazer. It's probably how she dressed at school, when she was busy earning her PhD and making everyone scared of her, but Allison's mouth goes a little dry anyway. She looks so smart, so together. She shouldn't be traveling with Allison in Allison's Toyota, staying in motel rooms and dodging psychic hunters.

Then again, many people have told her she shouldn't be in as bloody a business as hunting. Everyone makes compromises, but especially people from Beacon Hills.

"Ready?" Lydia says, smiling. Her lips are shiny with pink gloss.

"Ready," Allison says.

The bingo game is, well. Uncanny.

Everyone's thin and clean-cut. Everyone's white. All the women have either a bob or long, curly hair. All the men have short blond hair. If Allison didn't already suspect something was going on, the Uncanny Valley display happening would be more than convincing enough.

"Keep your head," she mutters to Lydia as they enter.

"I should be telling you that," Lydia says. She smiles wide and says, "Hi, do you mind if we sit here?" to the nearest table full of elderly women.

Allison's quiet for most of the night, to the point where she's a little worried about seeming sullen. Hopefully she just looks devoted - to Lydia, who's sparkling and charming everyone within earshot.

"And of course, she wants a garden," Lydia says, laying a hand on Allison's arm. "She's so fond of - plants. Growing them."

Allison can hear the undercut of worry in Lydia's voice. There's someone who's never gardened, Allison thinks in dark amusement. Not that she has, either. But she's picked some things up. "Tomatoes," she says, putting her hand over Lydia's. "I want to grow tomatoes. And basil, of course. Caprese salads in the summer are wonderful, don't you think?"

"You could start the basil now, inside," one of the old women says. "Get it planted out back when spring comes."

"That's what I'm hoping to be able to do," Allison says, smiling as sappily as she can at Lydia.

"I say," the old woman says. "You two ought to come round our church when you've bought the house. You seem like just the type we want."

Allison's not sure if they're going to be inducted or murdered, but it's a promising lead. "We'd love to," she says. "Thank you."

Lydia's tense when they leave. It's not until they get back to the motel room and she says, "Oh my God, we're really doing this," that Allison realizes the tension is excitement.

Allison herself can almost taste the kiss Lydia gave her when they won a round of bingo, in full view of everyone in the cafeteria. "We really are," she says. "I hope you're ready for your part tomorrow."

"You know, I think I might be," Lydia says. "I'm at least fifty percent sure I can knock someone out just by thinking about it, which is a good start, don't you think?"

Allison blinks. "I'm sorry. What?"

"You heard me."

"Heard, maybe. Didn't understand. You can knock someone out by thinking about it?"

The look Lydia gives her is at least vaguely apologetic. "It's not like I can practice. Knocking you out would be a bad idea. But if I have to, then yes. Maybe."

"Let's...try to avoid that," Allison says. She's torn between horror and wanting to throw Lydia down on the bed and - well. It's a good thing they have two beds, is all.

"You're so cautious for a hunter," Lydia says. "I'd expect more, I don't know, banging down doors and yelling."

"There's plenty of that later on," Allison says. "When a job goes badly."

"Ah, yes." Lydia sits down on her bed, kicking her heels off. "Because the Argents are professionals. I used to be jealous of you, you know."

"When we were in middle school?" Allison says, largely unwilling to believe it.

"Of course," Lydia says. "The Argents were so established, and you knew so many people, and you were so mysterious - I was just the queen bitch, dating Jackson and hiding all my good grades." She waves a hand. "Water under the bridge. But I do want all of this to be over, so I can go back to solving the Millennium Problem."

Allison wants to ask her to explain it. She wants - no. She says, "How's the shielding going? Are you still being pursued?"

"Between my shielding and the wards, no. Not right now, anyway." Lydia looks at her. Her gaze is piercing; Allison has to resist the urge not to wiggle. "You're coming back to Beacon Hills with me."

"I am?"

"Absolutely." Lydia draws the word out, giving it its own texture. "When we figure out who's trying to kill me, you can help me deal with them."

"I don't kill humans, Lydia."

Lydia's smile is cold. "Who said anything about killing?"

"Okay," Allison says slowly. "Well - we'll deal with that once we've fixed this town. Okay?"

"Good," Lydia says. "Here, I brought you this. You need to unwind at night. It's creepy when you go from target practice to being asleep in fifteen minutes." She stood, went over to her bag, and pulled out a book.

Allison blinks down at it. "Alpha And Omega: The Search For The Beginning And The End Of The Universe? Lydia, I don't know if this somehow escaped you, but I'm not a physicist."

"It's pop science," Lydia says, in the tone someone else might say "mouse droppings". "I thought you'd like it." She looks at Allison with a calm, somewhat scary expression, like she's daring Allison to turn it down.

"Um, thanks," Allison says. She kicks her boots off and leans against the bed, opening the book. It's brand new, and hardcover, and creaks a little when she turns it to the first page. It'll probably be boring, but she can skim it. She's not uneducated.

She's up for almost an hour reading the book, which is a little ridiculous with all its talk of stardust and expanding universes. Her head is spinning when she finally falls asleep, and for once, Lydia wakes up before her.

Allison knows she does, because she wakes up to Lydia sing-songing, "Wake up, Allison. Wake up, Allison. Wake up, Allison."

"'m wake," Allison says. "What time is it?"

"Almost 8:30. Horribly late. How do you handle hunts alone?"

"I go to bed earlier," Allison says. "Or I stay up all night and sleep during the day. Whatever works." She yawns and stretches, cracking her back. When she looks over at Lydia, Lydia's staring at the far wall. "When are you meeting the priest?"

"You're the one who set up the appointment." Lydia rolls her eyes when Allison just looks at her. "After lunch, at one."

"Should we eat lunch out?"

"Probably," Lydia says. "This town is full of Stepfords. They'll notice."

"I don't think they worshipped a pagan god in Stepford." Allison gets out of bed and stretches. "Ugh. Okay. Continental breakfast okay?"

"I have no idea how you live," Lydia says. "But yes."

"Great," Allison says. "Back in a few." She grabs her robe and the room key and leaves.

Lydia keeps shifting the foot with the knife in her boot as Allison drives them to the church. "It'll be fine," Allison says. "I promise."

"I know," Lydia says. "You're a professional. I'm aware."

"That's right," Allison says. "I'm a professional, and I'm going to solve this."

"Good," Lydia says. She says it a little sharply, but Allison lets it go; it's obvious enough to her that Lydia's afraid.

"Okay," Allison says. She parks the car, and they both get out. "Be seeing you," she says as Lydia gets into the driver's seat.

"Yep," Lydia says, and peels out of the church parking lot.

Allison takes a deep breath and goes up to the front door. No sense trying to find a side entrance; all the fun pagan god worshippers will be off trying to secure their new church members.

Or possibly their next sacrifice.

She's expecting an aggressively dull church interior with a false wall somewhere. Not so. She walks in and is immediately assaulted by a smell of rot. The interior of the church isn't the inside of the building so much as it's a miniature forest - with three bodies hanging from the trees.

She looks at them. White women, all three of the missing persons that drew her to this case to begin with. "What kind of god hangs people?" she murmurs, edging closer to the far end of the church.

A voice sounds behind her, dry as sand. "You'll never find out," it snarls.

A finger, its nail so long it's almost curling, touches her temple. Before she has a chance to strike, she passes out.

She wakes up tied up. It's not exactly a balm to her dignity. They're still in the main room of the church, and she's tied to one of the many trees. The church doesn't even have a roof - what looks like a sloping roof from the outside is just two sloping eaves that end with enough space for sunshine to get through.

Then again, these trees probably don't need a lot of sun; they're not natural. They're god-grown.

"Okay," she says, feeling behind her. They've tied her arms thoroughly; she can feel the knife in her boot, but she has no way of reaching it. "Show yourself. What kind of god are you?"

"The Lady of the Earth does not grace us with her presence," the voice says. It moves into her line of vision; it is a he, a man with a hood up that doesn't hide the dry, flaky skin on his face and hands. "But we feel her blessings all the same."

"Yeah, at the price of three tourists every - what is it, two months?"

"We are happy," he says. He sighs, a sound that rattles in his chest. "You could have been happy too, Hunter."

"That's not a title I prefer," Allison says. "Argent is good enough for me."

The man hisses. "Argent. Silver - moonlight is your power, then."

"No power," Allison says. "I'm just human. And pissed off, currently."

"The Lady will take that away. She'll take all of that away."

"Like hell she will," Allison says, but she's not actually sure how she'll get out of this. If the Lady isn't corporeal, Allison has no idea how she's going to stop the worship. Kill this guy, and the town will just replace him with another. Surely someone else has encountered this problem and come up with a binding, or another spell - but Allison's not really in the position to be consulting her books.

"She will," the man says. "She is mighty."

"Yeah, okay," Allison says. "Then why don't you just kill me?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Lydia says from the doorway.

The man whirls around. "Who are you?"

"I'm Lydia." Lydia smiles. "And you're going to regret your actions."

Allison watches silently as Lydia walks into the room. She glances up at the bodies, but doesn't betray anything but mild distaste. Allison gasps when she notices the people filing in behind her - half the bingo crowd, it seems like.

"It's so funny, who you can round up when you're even a little bit good at compulsion. Does worshipping some pagan god make people mentally weak or something? Not an invitation to talk," she says when the man opens his mouth. "Now."

The air changes. It becomes still, almost stifling. Everyone but Allison and Lydia stiffens, and when Lydia speaks, her voice holds a terrible kind of resolve.

"You will cease worshipping this goddess," she says. "You will go back to your normal lives. Never again will you kill to service yourselves. Never again will you kidnap women. This church will burn, and you will leave this goddess behind you."

"We will," everyone says in chorus.

"Good," Lydia says, sounding much more like herself. "Allison, come on. Let's go." She walks through the miniature forest and pulls out her knife. It flashes in the sunlight. "Here," she says, and kneels, cutting Allison free.

The worshippers are kindling a fire in the center of the church. "Will they go through with it?" Allison says.

"Yes," Lydia says. There's a shadow of whatever was in her voice earlier, and it makes Allison shiver. "I brought the car," Lydia says. "Let's go."

Allison feels fine by the time they get back to the motel. That's the first time she's had to be rescued from being tied up, but, well - things happen, and she's almost died before. So when they get the motel door locked behind them, salt circle intact, Allison turns to Lydia and says, "Thanks."

Lydia looks at her, anger obvious. "You idiot," she says, and then she's kissing Allison.

Allison shoves her away. "What - what was that?"

"What you want," Lydia says. "What we both want. Don't be obtuse."

"I…" Allison shakes her head. "Lydia, I -"

Lydia kisses her again. This time, Allison doesn't push her away.

They go to Allison's bed and Lydia shoves Allison down, smirking up at her before tossing her hair to the side and moving down to kiss Allison again. Allison's not the type to be pushed around, normally, but this feels good, Lydia pinning her and kissing her like she's never wanted to do anything else.

"You're so careless and so lucky," Lydia says. "You - " She shakes her head and kisses Allison again, sliding a cold hand up Allison's stomach.

Allison has time to shiver and arch her back, and then Lydia's hand closes over Allison's breast, pushing her bra aside. "Take your shirt off," Lydia says. She sits back, straddling Allison's hips as she follows her own advice.

Allison's own bra is from Target, not like the lacy Victoria's Secret-esque bra Lydia's wearing. But then Lydia takes her bra off and it doesn't matter, because her tits are right there and they're so fucking gorgeous that Allison sits up to kiss them.

"Not that this display of ab strength isn't great, but it's my turn right now." Lydia pushes Allison back down, tossing Allison's bra to the side and licking her nipple, hot and hard. With her other hand, she plays with Allison's free breast, rolling her nipple between her fingers and squeezing gently.

Allison gasps. She can't help it - this is Lydia, and she's wanted this so much, and Lydia's pressing her thigh against Allison's cunt and saying, "I'm going to go down on you," like she's been thinking about it too.

"Um," Allison says. She winces at her own inarticulateness, but Lydia laughs, then tugs Allison's pants and underwear down, throwing them decisively to the floor and then pushing Allison's legs apart.

"Much better," Lydia says. "I'll ogle you later." She settles between Allison's legs, looking up at Allison smugly as she traces a finger over the folds of Allison's cunt.

"Already wet," she says, and - God, of course Lydia's into dirty talk.

"Danger gets me going," Allison says.

"I get you going," Lydia says. "What, did you think I didn't notice?" She laughs a little, then bites Allison's thigh, sliding a finger inside her.

It's not enough, none of this is enough, and Allison can't hide the way she's shaking a little. When Lydia finally licks her, fucking her shallowly and circling Allison's clit with her tongue, Allison feels so close to coming that she's dizzy with it.

But Lydia draws it out, licking and sucking, pressing a second finger inside Allison and curling them, letting Allison fuck her face. It's so methodical, so neat in spite of the inherent messiness, and the reality that it's Lydia is what finally pushes Allison over the edge, crying out and shaking, tightening around Lydia's fingers.

When she opens her eyes and looks down, Lydia's sitting up, licking her fingers. She holds eye contact with Allison as she trails her fingers down her own body, over her breasts and then down to her cunt.

"Come here," Allison says. "Just - here." She grabs them and rolls them - probably unnecessarily efficiently, but it gets Lydia under her, with her bright red hair spread out on the pillows, a smug smile on her face.

Allison kisses her and reaches between them, pressing her palm against Lydia's cunt. That makes Lydia gasp and thrust her hips, and then Allison slides a finger into her and thumbs her clit, rocking her hand until Lydia's hips stutter and she comes, moaning.

It was quick - so quick Allison's a little turned on just from that, knowing how into eating her out Lydia was. And maybe this is a bad idea, maybe she should cut her losses and acknowledge this was just an adrenaline fuck, but she can't keep from kissing Lydia, long and slow, curling herself around Lydia, tucking her hand between Lydia's back and the bed.

"Oh, I have some bad news," Lydia says, in between trading lazy kisses.

"Mmm?"

"Yeah. That display of power? They felt it. The people who are hunting me. We're gonna have to leave."

Never let it be said that Allison puts sex over her job. Half an hour later, they're on the road. They don't discuss it much; it's obvious that they need to go back to Beacon Hills. Allison likes her independence, she likes things being simple, but the protection of an entire werewolf pack is nothing to sneeze at.

They don't talk about how they slept together. Allison half expects things to be weird; she's never slept with a friend before, and if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't usually stick around long enough for things to get weird with people she does sleep with. But all of her worries end up not mattering. That night, Lydia goes to her own bed like normal, throwing the comforter on the floor and sleeping with her back to Allison. Two days later, they're back in Beacon Hills, knocking on Scott's door.

"Lydia, hey," Scott says. "Oh! Allison!"

"Hey," Allison says. "So, this is embarrassing."

He frowns. "What's embarrassing? Did something happen?" He looks between them and sniffs a little. "Ohhhh."

"Oh my god, I've showered three times," Lydia says. "What even - never mind. It's not that. A cult is trying to kill me. We need your pack's help."

"Sure," Scott says. Allison honestly can't tell if he's not bothered, or if he's just hiding it really well. "Come on in, and you guys can explain."

Stiles is lounging on the couch, and Boyd's knitting in the armchair. Boyd raises a hand to greet them, but Stiles just says, "So is a cult trying to kill Lydia, or what?"

When they all look at him, he says, "Just a lucky guess. But I'm right, aren't I. I've been reading up on it since you guys left."

"Do you ever think about your flair for the dramatic?" Boyd says. "And how it's annoying?"

"Nah," Stiles says. He grins up at Scott; Scott, predictably, is beaming at him.

"You knit now?" Allison says to Boyd.

"We only have fur part of the time, and it can get chilly in the foothills," Boyd says. "Plus, it's soothing." He holds up the sweater. It's full of complicated cable twists, and judging by the cut, is for Erica.

"It's nice," Allison says.

"Okay, this is a very touching scene, but can we focus on how Stiles was right and someone is, in fact, trying to kill me?" Lydia says. She sits on the couch next to Stiles; Allison quickly shoots down a totally irrational bolt of jealousy. "Did you narrow it down?"

"To six Puritan-inspired cults, a couple Catholic ones, some agnostic New Age crazies, and the Illuminati, sure," Stiles says. "Why is it always the Illuminati?"

"It's probably not the Illuminati," Scott says. "But we were worried."

"Next time," Allison says, trying to sound friendly and casual, "you should tell me."

By the looks Stiles, Scott, and Boyd exchange, her attempt isn't very successful.

"We will," Scott says. "But for now, how about Stiles and Lydia research?"

"Good," Allison says. "Bring me something to punch. Lydia, can you get a ride back to your place?"

"No need," Scott says. "I'm not a researcher. How about we go make dinner? I'm roasting some squash."

The incongruence of it makes Allison laugh. "Sure," she says. "Just tell me what to do. I'm not much of a cook."

Apparently, the pack trades off cooking duties. "Sometimes Derek tells me I shouldn't be doing it, since I'm the alpha," Scott says. "But Derek's got some weird ideas about these things."

That's a bit of an understatement, Allison thinks. She says, "Where's the sausage? I think I can handle browning it."

An hour later, the pack hangs out in the living room, eating stuffed squash. "So," Stiles says, "There's this spell."

Allison is going to survey hunters and find out if that statement has ever gone anywhere good. "Oh?"

"It should let us track Lydia's charming stalkers," Stiles says. "Or, it might bring them down on our heads."

"That's fine by me," Allison says. Her hand goes to her knife at her waist.

"Calm down, Xena," Stiles says. "Our ultimate goal is bringing the cult here, yes. But in a controlled way."

"Or, ideally, I just compel them to stop looking for me," Lydia says. "No muss, no fuss, so to speak."

Personally, Allison thinks that's dreaming. Those kinds of cults don't go down easy. But she stays silent when Scott says, "That sounds good. When can we do it?"

"There are a couple ingredients, let's call them esoteric," Scott says. "Alpaca wool, for starters."

Allison once again stays silent.

"Probably two days," Stiles says. "Maybe three."

"We're being optimistic, though," Lydia says.

There's no reason to feel jealous, Allison tells herself. That's insane. She accidentally meets Erica's gaze, and realizes Erica's smirking at her. Werewolves and their damn sense of smell. Werewolves and their - everything.

"Great," Allison says. "I can probably work on a case on the west coast for a couple days."

"Actually, we were hoping you'd stay here," Stiles says. "First line of defense and all."

"I'm a hunter," Allison says.

"Just for a few days," Scott says. "Please?"

He looks so hopeful that Allison can feel herself melting. "Okay," she says. "But only for a few days."

"Of course," Scott says. "If you're looking for something to do, the twins have a martial arts studio downtown. I'm sure they could use some help."

"My style's a little mixed."

"So's ours," one of the twins says.

Allison should really learn their names.

"Okay, I'll stay," she says. "You'll probably need me, anyway, when you bring a crazy cult to town."

"Your faith in me is charming," Lydia says.

There's enough acid in there that for a second Allison pauses. What problem can she have with - no, she's not going to think about that. Not their hookup, not her jealousy, not her need to be away from Beacon Hills. She's not thinking about any of that.

"Cool," Allison says. "Whose dishes night is it? I'll help."

As it turns out, it's Erica's. Allison can't really walk back her offer, so instead she steels herself for irritation and follows Erica back into the kitchen.

Erica doesn't talk as she loads the dishwasher. Allison doesn't have much to do until Erica starts washing the bigger pans, at which point she hands them to Allison to dry. "Lydia's been lonely," Erica says finally, voice pitched low.

"I'm sorry?"

"She comes back occasionally," Erica says. "We're not friends. But she was part of all of this, once upon a time."

"Okay," Allison says slowly.

"The Argents have always been pretty high and mighty."

Allison doesn't answer. It's not like Erica's wrong.

"Don't break Lydia's heart because you're stubborn."

At that, Allison snorts. She rubs the broiler pan a little harder, trying to get it dry. "As though I'm capable of breaking Lydia's heart."

"You'd be surprised." Erica sprays down the sink, then quirks her eyebrows, looking at the pan in Allison's hands. "I think that's probably done."

Allison curses herself and says, "Where does it go?"

"Bottom drawer, on the left."

Everyone probably heard that conversation, Allison realizes when she gets back out to the living room. It's a great reason for her to say, "I'm going to spend the night in the Argent house. I'll go down to the twins' studio in the morning."

"Sounds like a plan," Scott says. "I'll let you know when we're ready to do the ritual." His eyes seem bigger than usual; he's obviously concerned. "Take care of yourself."

Allison smiles narrowly. "I always do," she says, and leaves.

She doesn't look at Lydia at all.

Allison doesn't think much about Erica's advice as she gets ready for bed that night. She has a lot of really good reasons for that, chief among them that Erica's completely wrong about Lydia. There's no way Lydia's heart is in danger of being broken, or even bruised. Lydia's not like that. She's not frigid, or anything, but she doesn't form attachments easily. They slept together, sure, but that was just some weird fluke. Adrenaline. It didn't mean anything.

All the same, Allison tosses and turns a lot before she finally manages to get to sleep. She's not at all confident that their clever plan for dealing with the cult will work out. She's worried she'll have to kill people. She has before, of course - Ben Green when she was 22 and Charles Jameson when she was 25. Both of them were necessary, serial killers who she'd thought were supernatural beings until the last, terrible second. Most of the time, she doesn't feel guilt.

But she can't kill an entire cult. There has to be another solution, one that doesn't involve Lydia forever staying in Beacon Hills, protected by Scott's pack. That's actually a fairly reasonable solution, as far as these things go, but Allison tries to think of Lydia adhering to it and can only snort at the improbability.

She finally manages to get to sleep just before midnight. She wakes up at five AM, grouchy and exhausted; when she checks her phone, she groans, rolls over, and goes back to sleep. She wakes up again at eight, stumbles into the shower, and then walks into downtown.

Rise And Shine is a nice, relatively upscale diner near where Scott said the twins' studio is. She gets eggs and bacon there, propping her head up on her hands until they bring her coffee. She's almost done with her meal when Lydia sits down across from her.

"Hi," she says, smiling brittlely.

"How'd you find me?" Allison says. It's not really a question, whether or not this is a coincidence.

"Call it luck," Lydia says. "It's better for both our peace of mind."

"Uh huh," Allison says. That means Lydia psychically sniffed her out. Really not the kind of thing Allison wants to think about right now. "Getting ready for the ritual?"

"All I have to do is practice the mental stuff," Lydia says. "Which is a pain, by the way."

"Okay." Allison pushes the last little bit of egg around on her plate.

"I'm going with you to the twins' studio," Lydia says. She says it with the kind of sarcastic levity that tells Allison that Lydia thinks she's an idiot for not understanding where she was going with the conversation.

"Okay?" Allison says again.

"It's ridiculous that I don't know how to defend myself." Lydia levels a stare at Allison. "Don't you agree?"

"Sure," Allison says. "Have you eaten?"

"Of course."

"We'll leave in a minute, then."

Allison's fully awake, but not in the mood to talk. For once, Lydia seems to pick up on that; she's quiet as they walk down to the studio.

There's a morning class, and one of the twins - Ethan, Allison thinks - waves them into a practice room. "You can teach her, right?"

Allison forces a smile. "Of course."

"Great," he says, and leaves them.

"I'm wearing yoga pants," Lydia says. "That's how much I want to learn. Do you know the last time I lowered myself to wearing yoga pants in public?"

"Never?" Allison says.

"Precisely." Lydia ties her hair back, then stares at Allison. "Okay. How exactly do I defend myself?"

"It depends on the attack," Allison says. "It's probably a safe bet that these cultists are burly guys, though."

What follows is more than an hour of teaching Lydia to be a little less - helpless doesn't seem like the right word, since she can mind-whammy people, but she's definitely less skilled in the physical side of self-defense. Allison never learned a particular style of martial arts; she always had instructors who taught her mixed styles, and by the time she was sixteen, her dominant style was 'whatever works'. That hasn't really changed. She teaches Lydia as best as she can, and tries to ignore how hot the determined gleam in Lydia's eyes is, or how their breathing catches when Allison pins Lydia, her face inches from Lydia's own.

Aiden comes in when they're finishing up. "Sorry, morning classes are always packed," he says. "Allison, do you want to guest instruct?"

"And what am I supposed to do?" Lydia says.

"Dunno," Aiden says. "I guess you could attend classes?"

"All day physical exertion doesn't appeal to me. Do you have a back room I can practice in? The things I'm actually good at."

"Hey, you weren't bad here," Allison says.

"Touching. Back room?"

"Um," Aiden says. He glances between them. "Sure. This way."

Lydia sweeps past Allison with her nose in the air. For one horrifying second, Allison feels fond. Then she realizes what she's doing and shoves it down as quickly as possible.

She spends the rest of the day leading classes and doing her best to not think about Lydia, or the ritual, or any of the other major stressors in her life. It mostly works, until Scott shows up around six and says, "Are you coming out for dinner?"

"I'm still not part of your pack," Allison says. She knows how werewolves operate.

"Sure," Scott says. "But I know you don't like cooking in that big old Argent house."

She'd lie, but he's right - and on top of that, he'd be able to tell if she was lying. So instead she says, "Right, okay. What's for dinner?"

"Whatever Boyd and Isaac decide on."

That's honestly a little scary, but Allison just says, "Give me ten to grab my stuff."

Scott apparently ran here - the good people of Beacon Hills don't tend to report large animal sightings anymore, even of the humanoid, supernatural variety. Allison convinces him to let her drive them back to the pack's house. Scott goes along with it easily enough.

They're off the main roads and starting the 15-minute drive down a narrow, badly paved lane when Scott says, "You know we all heard Erica talking to you."

"I don't know what everyone's obsession with this is." Allison keeps her voice light, her heart rate steady. "Lydia and I slept together, yes. You know that. It was an adrenaline thing - I almost died. I don't go for the lesbian drama."

"I didn't say I thought you were a lesbian."

"I am, for the record," Allison says. "But that's not the point. The point is, I'm not going to drop my hunting just because Lydia bats her eyelashes at me."

"In middle school -"

"It was a kid's crush, Scott." Allison glances over at Scott briefly, then fixes her eyes back on the road. "You and I, we get each other. We both have responsibilities. I'm not going to let a thing with Lydia derail that."

"The difference is, I don't let my responsibilities get in the way of me being happy," Scott says. "Not anymore."

Allison knows perfectly well what the implication behind that is. She knows Scott spent years being tortured about his destiny, and denying that he and Stiles were anything. She knows through the grapevine, just like she knows that Scott did some soul-searching and figured his mess out. But Scott's not Allison. Allison's human, and an Argent, and both of those things mean that she can't just abandon her responsibilities to shack up with a psychic.

"The answer's no," she says. "I'd appreciate not talking about this again."

She doesn't put any threat in her voice. She doesn't need to; this is Scott. He nods and says, "Okay." Just like that, Allison knows no one else will bug her about it.

Of course, that doesn't mean things will be normal between her and Lydia. Smoothing that over is Allison's job.

"Things went better today than expected," Stiles says. "Having an occult store in Beacon Hills really helps."

"Newcomers," Boyd says. "So they don't realize the actual occult is just down the street. But they carry most of what we need."

"Yep," Stiles says. "We need some artichokes, but aside from that, we're ready to do the ritual."

"Artichokes?" Allison says.

"They symbolize peace," Stiles says.

"And the grocery store was out." Lydia rolls her eyes. "But they should have them in tomorrow."

"Wow. Good job, guys."

"Desperate times call for hasty and death-defying measures," Stiles says. "Lydia's got full shields up, but they're getting closer."

"And what will this ritual do, exactly?" Allison would like to be ready before they actually do it.

"Draw them out," Lydia says. "Right now, the connection - it's just a thread, them finding me when I use my power. This will open up a floodgate, so to speak. It'll let me see inside their minds."

Allison knows she shouldn't say it. Unfortunately, she also knows that no one else is going to say it. "So what you're saying is, you could kill them right there."

"If we were in the habit of killing people, sure," Lydia says. "But I don't think that's what the Argents would want, do you?"

Allison's silent, trying to figure out if that's a threat. Erica jumps in, saying, "If we know who they are, we'll know how to neutralize them. Not kill them. Just get them off Lydia's back."

"I'm still hoping I can compel them," Lydia says. "But if not, well. We'll find another way."

Responses crop up in Allison's mind, things like: what if there is no other way? But instead of voicing them, she says, "Cool. I'm starving. What's for dinner?"

Dinner turns out to be enchiladas. Growing up in California - or, well, spending the first twelve years of her life mostly in California - has given Allison a taste for Mexican food that she just can't satisfy in a lot of the Middle American locales she ends up hunting in. These enchiladas are perfect, warm and gooey with just the right amount of spice. She ends up focusing on them, closing her eyes in enjoyment, because that way she doesn't have to think about how desperate this plan seems, and how much she wishes they had one that wasn't cobbled together and reliant on luck.

She's ready to split after dinner - it's Stiles and Ethan's night for dishes, apparently - but Scott stops her with a look and says, "Hang out for awhile. We have a lot of books on lore. Some of them probably aren't in your family's library."

"You'd be surprised," Allison says, but she takes the Kindle Stiles hands her on his way to the kitchen.

The open title is, A Compendium of Psychic Knowledge Being Collected From Eight Subjects. It's old, dense reading, but Allison's used to that. Most of this is stuff Allison already knows from her family's dealings with psychics - but the third chapter is on compulsion, and that's where things get weird.

Lydia's ability, as it turns out, is unusual. Not her ability to do compulsion in and of itself, but her ability to do it on multiple people at once, and make it stick. The former indicates she has a magnitude of power beyond what 99% of psychics will ever develop; and the latter, according to this book, can't be done.

She's almost done with the chapter when Stiles comes back out of the kitchen. "Hey, Stiles," she says. "Do you have a minute?"

"Sure," he says.

She doesn't bother to pitch her voice low. "Were you aware Lydia's compulsion trick, the one she did in Indiana - did you know it's supposed to be impossible?"

Stiles stares at her for long enough that Allison can tell he's trying to decide if he should lie to her or not. Finally, he says, "I suspected. I didn't know for sure."

"Interesting," she says. "Do you think that's why they're hunting her?"

He shrugs. "I'd rather not speculate. If it is, hopefully they're not immune to her; that's the ace up our sleeve right now. And we'll find out who they are soon enough."

There wasn't anything in what he said to argue with, really. It was their ace, and they would find out, but Allison - Allison was gripped with the need to solve this. "I know," she says. "But -"

"Hang on," Stiles says. "I need to take the trash out. Come with me?"

The look on his face doesn't leave her with much room to argue. She nods wordlessly and gets up, taking one of the two trash bags he picks up, and following him out the back.

"The others can still hear," Stiles says. "And Lydia could, but I don't think it would occur to her to try. Which is good, because you need to talk to her about this whole in love with her thing you have going on."

"I'm not - I don't - that's ridiculous."

Stiles tosses his bag in the trash can and says, "Is it?"

"I barely know her."

"You knew her. You've traveled with her, and you're ready to stab me full of arrows because I can't pull out a miracle that'll make people stop hunting her."

"Shoot you full of arrows," Allison says, then scowls. "And that's not true."

"It's none of my business, okay, I know that," Stiles says. "But you should at least think about it, so it's not clouding your judgment when we do the ritual tomorrow. Rituals like clouded judgment. It makes things complicated."

"That's ridiculous," Allison says. "I don't...she'd never…"

"Maybe she wouldn't," Stiles says. "But that doesn't mean you don't want it." He takes the bag from Allison and throws it on top of the other one. "Hang out here if you need to," he says. "I'll say you went for a walk, or something."

"I don't need to," Allison says. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are."

"I am. And I'm going home."

She walks past Stiles, grabs her coat, throws everyone a wave, and leaves. It's probably a little abrupt, but who cares? Stiles is the one who was throwing accusations around like it doesn't mean anything. In love with Lydia - hardly. It occurs to her that she should've told Stiles that his relationship doesn't mean everyone else needs to be in a relationship, too.

She's not in love with Lydia. Lydia's always been the perfect, unattainable girl. That doesn't lend itself to a relationship. And what kind of a relationship would it be, anyway? Lydia hated the motels. She's not cut out for Allison's life, and Allison's not going to give it up to live in the drafty old Argent house while Lydia solves some obscure theorem. It would never work, and Allison doesn't want it to, because she's not in love with Lydia.

She's not.

She goes to bed as soon as she gets home, and falls asleep almost immediately. When banging on her door wakes her up, she's disoriented enough to forget where she is until she sits up and sees the heavy wall clock opposite her bed.

"Shit," she says, and runs for the door, grabbing her crossbow on the way.

"What's wrong?" she says when she opens it, lifting her crossbow.

She's expecting Scott in his pajamas, wolfed out, or something. Instead it's Lydia, in her pajamas. She gives the crossbow a disdainful look. "Let me in."

Allison perversely wants to tell her no. But it's Lydia, so Allison lowers the crossbow and ushers her in.

"What's wrong?" she says again when the door's safely locked.

"I can't sleep," Lydia says.

"And?"

"It's your fault." Lydia frowns at her. "Did Stiles really think it wouldn't occur to me to eavesdrop? I mean, honestly."

Shit. "Lydia, it's nothing. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Clearly," Lydia says. She tucks her hands in front of her, folded neatly. "Because he's wrong, you're not in love with me, there's no reason for you to be. You're not, and he's being ridiculous."

"Right."

"Right," Lydia says, and then she leans forward and grabs Allison, kissing her desperately.

Allison kisses back without thinking, grabbing fistfuls of Lydia's hair and pushing her back against the wall. Lydia's hands are on her hips, pushing her sleep shirt up. And, fuck, Allison's only in a shirt and underwear, and Lydia's already cupping her breasts, pinching just the right side of too roughly.

"Bed," Allison says. "I - bed."

"Don't talk," Lydia says. "I don't want to hear it, I just want -"

"I know," Allison says, and practically drags Lydia to her room.

Lydia's wet when Allison pulls her underwear down, and she cries out when Allison goes down on her. It's messy, too fast, Allison fucking her with two fingers and licking her clit, then pulling back to use her hands so she can watch Lydia come. Lydia moans and claws at the bed, then pulls Allison up for a vicious kiss, insinuating a hand between them to get Allison off. Allison comes with a terrible kind of finality, still half-sleepy, head spinning - and when she does, she pushes Lydia's hand away and makes Lydia come again, watching as Lydia falls back against the bed, eyes closed.

When Lydia opens her eyes, her expression's wary. "I should go," she says, pulling away.

"Lydia," Allison says. She feels helpless, stupid - she doesn't know how to express what she's thinking, how she's never had a real relationship, and how starting one with Lydia just wouldn't work.

"I know," Lydia says. "I'll see you later, okay?"

She's gone before Allison finds her voice. "God damn it," she says, and huddles into her blankets, trying to go back to sleep.

They do the ritual early the next day. It involves a lot of smoke, chanting, and other uninteresting things. Allison's attention drifts quickly. It's not until Erica goes stiff and speaks with a voice that isn't hers that she gets alert, hand tightening on her knife.

"So," not-Erica says, voice deep and smug. "You've found us."

"We have," Scott says. "Only, we're not sure who you are. Want to help us out?"

Not-Erica laughs. "Not particularly."

"That's too bad," Scott says. "Because we have a very powerful psychic, a hunter, and a werewolf pack. So we're gonna make you."

Before not-Erica can respond, Lydia says, "Okay, can we dispense with the theatrics? It's like this. I'm not going to let you kill me. You don't own me, you don't get to dictate how I use my power."

"We are guardians," not-Erica says. "We keep psychics from enslaving true humans."

"Right," Lydia says. "Well, you suck at it. I don't want to enslave anyone."

"And you'll never get the chance to try," not-Erica says.

An arrow shatters the window behind Allison and pierces her shoulder. She cries out involuntarily, falling to her knees.

Not-Erica smiles ghoulishly. "Surprise," she says, and Erica's eyes widen before rolling back up in her head. She tumbles to the ground, Boyd diving to catch her.

"Allison," Lydia says.

"I'm fine," Allison says. It's a clean piercing; it'll heal. "Go somewhere safe."

Lydia tosses her head. "I'm going to make them stop," she says, and yells, "I can feel you! You two in the yard, you four in the woods. Is that all you thought it would take?"

Allison gets the feeling she's amplifying her voice somehow. At least, she hopes Lydia is. Right now, Allison's a little busy with her blurring vision and shaking hands. The arrow was poisoned; that, or her pain tolerance has seriously gone down.

"I don't want a fight," Lydia says, "And I tend to get what I want. So this is what you're going to do." She shifts her stance, and when she speaks again, her words are weighted with the same terrible consequence Allison remembers from Indiana. "Leave me alone. Never come back here again. Never hunt another psychic. If you do, you'll put your blades to your own throats, and end it."

There's a long silence. "Did it work?" Allison says through gritted teeth.

"They're retreating," Aiden says. "Damn. I kind of wanted a fight."

"I definitely did," Erica says viciously.

"Oh, good," Allison says, and passes out.

She wakes up to angry whispers.

"I don't care how good your sense of smell is, Scott. If she doesn't wake up soon I swear to God, I will skin your entire pack and -"

"She'll be fine! Stiles mixed up an antidote, she just needs time to heal. You pacing and staring at her probably isn't helping."

"I'm a psychic, not magic. How does me staring at her matter?"

"Time is it?" Allison manages to say around a fuzzy tongue.

"Awesome, you're awake," Scott says. "It's six. You've slept most of the day."

"You," Lydia says. "You got shot! What were you thinking? Aren't you supposed to be tactical? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, not standing with your back to giant windows?"

"We weren't expecting them to be in Beacon Hills," Allison says. Or tries to, anyway. It comes out more garbled than that.

She opens her eyes. Lydia's standing beside her bed, eyes wild. Scott's leaning in the doorway, looking considerably more collected.

"I'm just going to leave you two to it," he says, and leaves.

"You're an idiot," Lydia says. "And why exactly do you think we wouldn't work out?"

"Huh?"

"I can hear you," Lydia says. "After we sleep together. Idiot."

She's really hammering that point home. "We can't all solve Millennium problems. Which is what you want. Not traveling around." Allison waves a hand. "Killing things."

"Admittedly, your choice in motels is disgusting," Lydia says. "There was a perfectly nice bed and breakfast in that town. But there's, oh, I don't know, compromise? We could at least try. But no, you need to deny you even care."

"We wouldn't work out," Allison says. She has to cling to that, because -

She really wants it to not be true.

"We can try," Lydia says. "We're going to try. You don't get a choice. I'll follow you if I have to."

"Hey."

"I will," Lydia says. "So think about that. And sleep. You need sleep." She twitches the covers around Allison's shoulders, tucking her in awkwardly. "Go back to sleep."

"I do like you," Allison says, but she's already drifting off.

She wakes up with sunlight streaming through the windows, feeling gross in pretty much every way imaginable. Her mouth feels gross, her scalp feels greasy, and she's way too hot, because…

She blinks and cranes her neck, wondering if she's having an oddly specific fever dream. Lydia is sleeping on top of the covers next to her, and she's somehow managed to curl around the lump of blankets that is Allison. Her fingers are clutching the sheets just under Allison's chin.

"Good morning," Allison says.

Lydia jumps, then rolls away. "Good morning," she says. "You look disgusting."

"Thanks," Allison says. "You don't."

"I always look great in the morning," Lydia says.

"I normally look better." Allison knows it's dumb to feel defensive over this, but she can't help it. "I had a long day."

Lydia sniffs. "Well, there's stuff in the bathroom for you if you want it. I got it from your house."

"Thanks," Allison says. She's made it halfway to the bathroom when she remembers their conversation from last night. "Lydia -"

"Let's not," Lydia says. "I get it, you don't want me to travel with you. It's a terrible way to start dating someone, anyway."

That's exactly how Allison feels, so Allison's not sure why her stomach drops. "Right," she says, and escapes to the bathroom.

After she showers and goes through the motions of brushing her teeth, putting makeup on, and generally making herself more human, she finally starts feeling hungry. Lydia's not in the bedroom when she comes back out, thank God, so she grabs her knife from the side table and goes out to the kitchen.

Boyd's hanging out at the kitchen table, reading and eating some eggs. "Morning," he says.

Allison means to say good morning, but what comes out is, "Have you seen Lydia?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Do you mean, has Lydia stormed through here crying, because you guys are a soap opera?"

"No. That's not what I meant."

"Okay," Boyd says. "Well, she went back to her house."

"Ah."

"There's pancakes in the fridge," Boyd says, and goes back to reading.

Allison thinks about Lydia while she eats her pancakes. She thinks about Lydia while she packs her stuff up and thanks Stiles for saving her life. She thinks about Lydia while she drives back to the Argent house.

Then she starts doing some research.

She's always traveled east-west, for the most part. There are more hunters on the East Coast and in the Midwest, but there are usually jobs anyway. Supernatural stuff is all over the place. But she gets hits for Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and San Jose - and then she starts reconsidering some things.

"Day trips," she mutters. She could solve cases in under a week, and come back to Beacon Hills for a couple days. That's almost like normal dating. Kind of.

It wouldn't work, she thinks. There's no way. She wants it to, so she's fooling herself into believing it's possible. But Lydia will get involved with her math stuff, and she still has to manage her fashion empire, and eventually Allison will have to travel for longer than a week. Lydia won't want to go with her. It won't work.

But - she wants to try.

In the end, she gives herself a night to sleep on it. When she wakes up the next day, from a fuzzy dream involving more kissing Lydia than Allison's really comfortable with, it's to the same feeling she had the night before. It won't work, there's no way. But Allison wants to try.

She thinks about making a powerpoint or something else that Lydia would digest easily. But in the end, she just tosses her travel bags in her car and drives over to Lydia's.

Lydia opens the door before Allison makes it all the way up the walk. "Hey," Allison says. "How's, um, the math?"

"Going swimmingly," Lydia says. "I'll be a Fields medalist before I'm 40."

"Cool," Allison says. "I'm headed out."

"Clearly," Lydia says. "Where to this time? Maryland? France? Far away from here, I assume."

"Portland, actually," Allison says. "I should be gone for a week, maybe a week and a half. Not long."

Lydia blinks.

"Then I figured I could stay for awhile," Allison says. "A few weeks, anyway. I can earn some extra money at the twins' studio."

"I see."

"I'm saying we should try to date," Allison says. "Then maybe when you're a Fields medalist, we can travel again."

Lydia studies her, looking her up and down in a way that's uncomfortably reminiscent of a high school movie. "Hmm," she says. "Well, this isn't the best sales pitch a girl's ever given me."

That's a clear enough answer. "I'll go, then," Allison says. She turns around.

Lydia's hand shoots out and catches Allison's wrist. Allison turns around. "I wasn't done," Lydia says. "The answer's yes. Obviously."

"Oh," Allison says. "Well. That's good."

Lydia smirks at her. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes," Allison says, and steps forward, kissing Lydia.

It doesn't feel like magic. It just feels good.

"Wow," Allison says when they pull apart.

Lydia plays with a lock of her hair. "Sure you don't want to put your trip off?"

"I need to go," Allison says. "But I'll be back."

"You'd better be," Lydia says. She smiles, then, sharp and knowing. "I'll be thinking about you."

Allison laughs. "You'd better be," she says, and kisses Lydia one more time. "See you in a week."

This time, driving out of Beacon Hills doesn't feel like she's running away from something. She has a chance to come back. She has a chance at having a girlfriend, of all things.

Allison blasts the Spice Girls all the way to Oregon.