[ Please, Stiles - even if you stuck to your lie, do not demean her intelligence to think she would not see through it. Yes, Jackson had died on the field, and Jackson had had her full attention, but she'd have to be downright deaf not to have heard Sheriff Stilinski screaming for his son. The blackout had been all of five seconds, and when lights had returned, that was not near enough time for anyone to beat him up or drag him off and still have the time to mill about looking as confused as the rest of their team. ]

[ So no. ]

[ Lydia doesn't even begin to believe that, and shakes her head accordingly. Her head stills so as to better fix her gaze on his face at the mention of Allison's grandfather (the more and more she heard about him, learned about him, and guessed about him - the more she hated him) and the subsequent reasoning behind the beating he'd doled out. He even has her full attention through the glaringly obvious emotional defense, which she won't even call him on because in this moment she pities him too much. ]

Alright.

[ And it's a special brand of pity. Not to be confused with the demeaning, cruel you're pathetic sort of pity she more than willingly extended to him on a daily basis. ]

I guess old men can still be pretty underhanded.

[ It's more of a pity the people who have to die for us to appreciate them sort of pity. Or in this case, pity the people who have to get beat up and scarred forever for us to deem them worthy of a few rounds of thanks pity. Either way, there's a lump of commiseration in her throat that has to be swallowed before she can speak again. ]

You know, I have a cream at my house that will help the swelling go down.