Title: Boots Aren't Made For Walking
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Lydia
Rating: G
Length: 490 words
Content notes: No spoilers.
Summary: Lydia does own sensible footwear, but it doesn't mean much if she doesn't know she'll be needing it.


They need to hurry. Scott asked Derek to take Lydia and swing by the site where they’d found rocks a few days ago stacked in an obvious pattern of runes, see if she sensed anything deadly about the formations. Whatever had been out there, Scott understandably doesn’t want to wait until they start attacking innocents to figure out what the hell they are and why they’re in Beacon Hills.

The problem is that Lydia’s scowling at the ground, picking her way over the forest floor at a glacial pace. Wobbling delicately as she walks, and Derek kind of wants to snap, but Lydia looks even more annoyed than he is by how damn slow she’s moving.

“You couldn’t have picked something more appropriate?” he asks, nodding towards the towering heels on her boots.

Lydia’s a Banshee, she doesn’t have Derek’s enhanced strength or speed, his fangs or his claws. But the icy glare she shoots him still makes him want to instinctively take a step back. It’s impressive, really.

He stands his ground, though, even when Lydia crosses her arms and narrows her eyes.

“I didn’t exactly have any warning,” she reminds him, voice that blend of falsely sweet and jagged steel she does so well. “Maybe next time you could try calling me first, instead of accosting me when I’m trying to shop.”

Okay, fair point, and Derek would snap something sarcastic at anyone else, to avoid admitting that he probably should have thought this through. But that’s not an option with Lydia, she’d just bite back with even more venomous words, and she’s right, he could have called, he has her number.

So instead he steps closer, ducks down a little, and she makes this high-pitched yelping sound when he gets an arm under her knees and scoops her up against his chest.

“Better?” he asks a little gruffly, as she stares at him with wide eyes, and then she’s sighing, like this is the sort of thing she’s come to expect from her life, being carried by a werewolf so she won’t ruin her shoes.

At least they make good time, with him jogging, and her arm snug around his neck. He does his best not to jostle her, and he’s gentle as he sets her back on her feet once they reach the rocks.

She gives him a sardonic, close-lipped smile, eyes looking at him in this way that makes him wary, like she can’t decide whether to yell at him or not. She reaches out, pats his shoulder condescendingly, says, “Good boy.”

She kind of drives Derek crazy. He wouldn’t take that crap from anyone else.

But then she’s pushing up on the toes of her ridiculous boots, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, and her eyes aren’t so dangerous anymore.

Derek pretends to study the runes diligently so she won’t see the heat rising in his face. He’s pretty sure she notices anyway.