useofcuriosity | PSL Box

Lydia is in the locker room, straddling the bench as she tugs on the medium blue scrubs indicating her status as a surgical intern. She was the first person to arrive for their shift, and having checked the board, she's excited for her line up of surgeries for the day. But she still has some time to kill, so for the moment Dr. Matin is enjoying some peace and quiet.

Stiles? Is late. Stiles is always late, which is why Stiles is always assigned to the surgeries no one wants and research work no one else likes doing. It's almost like he does it on purpose.

He totally does it on purpose. Sort of. Sometimes. Yes.

So of course Dr Stilinski is late today, assigned the surgeries no one wants today and research for doctors who don't particularly want to do their own at this point. (Like Doctor Hale)

"Lydia."

She looks over her shoulder at him as she takes her hair in her hands and begins to coil it into a bun. "Did you fall asleep in the on call room again? You better hurry up or you're going to be late, Stiles."

The thing that frustrated Lydia about Stiles Stilinski is that she's entirely aware of how smart he is. Maybe not as smart as her...or maybe smart in a different way. She doesn't know what's distracting him or maybe not taking the program seriously, but she wants to find out someday.

The thing is, he thinks he is taking it seriously. Just in a completely different way than Lydia Martin. "The on call room? And risk hearing Scott and the lady Argent again?" Whose father is resident director and therefore absolutely terrifying to Stiles. "No thanks. Besides, I'm already late."

And late means research and scut surgeries and trauma. And he wants that.

This gains her attention. She turns around on the bench, unabashedly staring at him regardless of whether he's changing into his scrubs or not. "It's like you want to be stuck with the scut work." she observes curiously. "Is that what you want?"

She's well aware of the trouble Allison and Scott have been known to get into in the on call room. But Lydia's got her own niche in the program; she's the intern all the residents want to lure into their specialty. Whatever she's considering, she's keeping it close to her chest for the moment.

He's about halfway into them, at least he's fast at that. He's pretty deliberately slow at other things. "Who would want that, Lydia?" Him, apparently.

She seems oddly relaxed as she studies him. "Slow down. We've got a little bit before rounds today." There's a puzzled tilt of the head as she regards him. "And that's a good question. You, it would seem, since you're always winding up in the pit. Ever hear the phrase 'first time coincidence, second time happenstance, third time enemy action'?"

She purses her lips. "Why don't you just tell the head of trauma that's where you want to specialize? If you like getting your hands dirty I'm sure you can be up to your elbows in viscera and GSWs in no time." She can't help it, the corner of her mouth quirks into a smile. She has your number, Stiles.

"Enemy action, huh." He sits down, digging through his locker for a candy bar to eat before rounds. "I could do that. Sure, I could do that. Or I could not do that, and I could drive Doctor Hale up a wall."

Guess which sounds more appealing to him.

Her brows lift. "You're smarter than that." she says flatly. "Do you really want to wreck your career just so you can put a bug up Doctor Hale's ass?" She is visibly baffled, getting up from the bench and walking over, arms crossing over her chest so she can peer at him critically. "I know you love surgery, so if I'm wrong, why are you making yourself into the program scut monkey?"

"I'm not wrecking my career, but even if I were...why does that bother you? You're the program genius, you'll probably have a Harper Avery before anyone else in this class."

"Because you're smart." she says, pursing her lips in that way she has when she's peeved or thoughtful or uneasy. "It's like watching a Lipazzaner stallion pull a donkey cart. I find it frustrating." There's a tilt of her head. "Would you rather I not bother? I could if you want, Doctor Stilinski."

"Not as smart as you. No one is as smart as you." He gives her a look. "I didn't say that at all."

Edited 2014-03-23 08:23 (UTC)

"You're better with patients than I am." she counters. "And you think outside the box. You might be erratic, but when you decide you want to focus, you're on point, without fail. So what's your deal, then? What's the agenda aside from pissing off Dr. Hale? Because the only thing you're doing is building a reputation from being unreliable. If you were actually a slacker who skated into the program I wouldn't care at all. But you're not."

Her arms are crossed over her chest now and her foot is practically tapping with a well, I'm waiting! air.

"If people thought I was that unreliable, no one would ask me to help me with their research." Or just plain do it for them. He thinks about this for a moment, watching her. And her tap-tap-tapping foot. "You know what frontotemporal dementia is."

It's not really a question.

Her foot stops tapping immediately.

"I do." she confirms, and then adds in surprise, "You want to go into neuro?"

Because shhh, that's where she wants to go, actually.

"Not exactly?" Though he doesn't doubt that's where he'll end up, one way or another. "My mother had it."

That catches her attention even further, and she steps a bit closer, peering up at him. No Lydia, you are not a walking MRI and no matter how much you peer at him you won't be able to see if there are problems in his brain.

"Weren't you tested?" she demands of him. "The marker has a twenty to fifty percent chance of being passed on to a first generation relation." This isn't good. "You should have been tested when your mother was diagnosed."

Her gaze softens a little. "Is that why you went to med school?"

Jackson hadn't been back in Beacon Hills long. And he certainly wasn't nearly as involved as he'd been before. He'd been content to cut all ties he had with Scott, Stiles and the rest to return to his old life. Being the most popular kid in school. The captain of several teams. Completely ignoring his raging emotional issues in favor of appearing like everything was perfect.

So he was out of the loop. He knew something was wrong with Stiles. A possession of some sort. And he knew that the night before, something awful had happened. He didn't know how he knew. It was just something he could feel. Which is exactly why he was at school so late that day. The halls and cleared. The last rays of daylight were fading through the doors at the end of the corridor. He'd drowned out the world with loud music and testing the limits of his strength in the weight room. But now in the silence, he couldn't ignore it. He needed to find someone. Ask someone. What the hell was going on? Pulling his phone out, his thumb hovered over Lydia's number. He halted. He'd barely even spoken to her since returning.

He hasn't been tested, because he honestly didn't want to know. And yet, the closer he gets to how old his mother was, the more he thinks maybe he should want to know.

And again: yet, he does not get tested.

"Because of my mother? Wouldn't you?"

If Scott and his little werewolf pack were like small snacks of chaos and pain and strife, Jackson was like an entire gourmet meal. He could tell that just by looking at him. Anyone could. And he was distracted, so it was easy enough for Stiles to slip into the weight room and watch him from a bench before speaking up. "You make everything look so exhausting."

Jackson almost dropped his phone. It had been a long time since someone had been able to sneak up on him. "Stiles," he grumbled, pocketing the phone. He could tell, within mere moments, that something was seriously off. Not the minor problems he'd heard McCall talking about. But no one had updated Jackson on Stiles' newly developed issues. Namely the fact that there was more than one running around. "What the hell do you want?" His tone said it plain and clear: he had better things he could be doing.

"Assumption is dangerous, that's why I asked." she points out, letting her arms drop out of the defensive criss-cross across her chest. "And while I see why it would inspire you to get through med school I don't see how it leads to you doing bottom of the heap work, unless someone's doing a project that you find directly relevant." She can't help but add, "And you should get tested. If you think you have the marker you should know and be prepared."

Now she's actually a little worried.

"Do you think she still wants you?" Ignoring the question, it seems, for the time being. He idly tapped his fingers on the bench he was sitting on. A sort of rhythm was there. Two fingers, then one, then two, then three. "Lydia, I mean. That's who you were going to call, right? But she has Aiden now."

"It gives me time to do my own work." Since he's pretty sure he's never going to get that far into his career to make a name for it. "And if I do that, then I know. And if I know, my father knows. And I'm not putting him through that before I have to."

He knows it's not smart, but it's what he has.

His fingers tightened around the phone in his pocket, his jaw clenching visibly. The question was so unexpected, he hadn't braced for it. The full impact of the words showing plainly on his face for just a moment. A glimmer of how much it hurt to be without her. One heartbeat. Two. And it was gone. A mask of indifferent irritation slamming back over it. "One. I don't care. Two. It's none of your business. Don't you have one of your little mysteries to solve or something?" Rolling his eyes he headed for the door.

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