“This is bordering on some truly interesting
psychopathy,” Lydia notes, pouting up her lips and idly tapping her
fingers on Stiles’ desk. She muses aloud, half-spinning in his chair, “I
bet I could do a decent thesis on you.”
Stiles shushes her. This is not a laughing matter;
he’s closing in on something here. He glances between the metro map he’s
pinned up and the one he’s drawn on the wall, huge Xs through an admittedly
small percentage of the stops.
“I have no idea where he gets on!” he groans in
frustration, jamming the marker into his other hand. Which is when he
realizes he has ink on the tips of those fingers. He licks them, rubs
them together and frowns when the marks don’t fade in the slightest. He
shakes it off and goes back to the map, jabs the marker cap into his chin and
says deductively, “There are only so many stops he can get on, right?
And yet every time I see him, he’s out freaking cold. If I could
just find my patient zero…”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Lydia interrupts primly, “He’s not a disease.” She pauses for a second. “Though you’re certainly acting as though you’re
sick in the head,” she mutters under her breath.
“Fine,” Stiles concedes. “If I could just find the
nexus point, the start of it all, where his journey begins, then!
Hah, then! Then I could see what color his eyes are,” he trails off
dreamily, snapping out of it at Lydia’s judgmental face. He coughs.
“He has to be awake to step onto the train, right, so all I have
to do is—”
“You’re purposefully ignoring the idea that maybe he
lives there,” Lydia butts in with a sharp smile, like she thinks announcing
that Stiles’ future husband might be homeless is going to shame him into being
less obsessive about him.
As freaking if. This is his soulmate he’s
talking about here.
“I wish he lived there! Do you know how
appealing that would make me look? He’d have to go for me,
then.” Stiles flops down in the armchair he’s turned to face the wall and
frowns. “As it is, he’s probably some kind of prince or heir or god.”
Lydia rolls her eyes. “Each as likely as the one
before it, of course.” She lets out a long breath through her nose and
suggests perkily, “Have you ever considered that maybe he’s faking
so he doesn’t have to talk to you? You said you’ve tried waking him.”
And Stiles had. Sort of. Mostly he’d just
boldly touched his future husband’s knee with the tips of his fingers.
(His skin was warm even through the patch on his jeans and Stiles had
felt like a total creep and gotten off at a stop that wasn’t his in an effort
to flee from his own weird behavior.) He’d also made the odd loud noise
that had gone completely ignored by not just his future husband, but everyone
else on the metro.
“Meaning the options are: he’s a figment of your
imagination – and then I’m definitely using you as the subject of my
thesis, he’s a ghost, or he’s ignoring you.”