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The first time he wakes, it’s almost surreal. Like having an out of body experience without actually leaving his body. Which is weird and totally uncool. Because if Dean Winchester could do it, then surely he can – leave his body, that is.
But one minute there’s nothing and then the next his eyes are sliding open, just a sliver, his mind battling a heavy cloud as he tries to regain consciousness.
He hears a voice, thinks someone is calling him, thinks maybe it’s his dad. But he can’t quite grab hold of where it’s coming from or why he can’t hear it clearly. Still, he wills his mouth to answer, to reach out to whomever is there, calling him. But before he can get a word out, he feels himself being pulled back into the darkness.
He drifts in and out a few times more before he finally emerges into groggy consciousness. During one of those times his dad is hovering over him, looking tired and worried. He tries to tell him that he’s okay, even though he has no idea if it’s even true. Another time he sees a man he doesn’t recognize, one with dark hair and stubble, wearing a worn leather jacket. The man sits in a chair at his bedside and he looks as tired and as worried as his dad.
He fights to keep his eyes open this time, fights to stay conscious, desperate to gain a sense of his surroundings. He has no idea where he is, though he guesses it must be a hospital. He blinks, taking in the white walls and white sheets, the metal bars on both sides of the bed. Definitely not home, he thinks. Although he can’t really remember what home looks like.
For a minute he panics and tries to call out. But his throat is dry and all that comes out is a squeaky kind of croak.
“Stiles?”
The man with the stubble and leather jacket gets up from the chair where he must have been dozing and looks down at him. He must look slightly panicked because the man immediately says, “ I’ll get the doctor.”
Doctor? So he is in hospital then.
He feels sleepy and wants to close his eyes again. But he needs to stay conscious. He needs to understand what is happening.
So he waits for the man to return with the doctor.
“Do you know where you are?” the doctor – Dr. Evans according to the name plaque on his white coat – asks, now pressing a stethoscope to his chest.
“Hos-hospital?” he manages. His throat is still incredibly dry despite the water they allowed him to sip two minutes earlier.
The doctor nods. “Can you tell me your name?”
“S-Stiles.”
“Good,” Dr. Evans says. He inclines his head toward Stiles’ dad. “And do you know who this man is?”
Stiles nods. “My d-dad.”
His dad smiles at Stiles and the doctor, his face showing relief.
“Can you remember what happened?” the doctor asks next.
Stiles shakes his head. He tries really hard but he can’t remember anything that would explain why he was in the hospital. The last thing he does remember is being in the field behind the high school with Scott, doing some practice exercises for lacrosse. But the memory is foggy, as if it happened in another life.
They tell him he was in a coma for three days and that he had an ‘accident’. They don’t elaborate, though, which makes Stiles a little suspicious.
“It’s not unusual for those who have been in a coma or who have suffered head trauma to feel disoriented and to forget some things,” Dr. Evans says and Stiles thinks this is meant to reassure him. He directs his attention to Stiles’ dad and says, “He may not remember the accident or the events immediately surrounding it.” His dad nods with understanding and gives Stiles another reassuring smile.
Dr. Evans tells Stiles he’ll be kept in hospital until his injuries heal – Stiles realizes only now that there is a bandage wrapped around his head and that his face is swollen and bruised – and that they will monitor his recovery process.
“I know it seems strange because you just woke from a coma,” the doctor says with a gentle smile. “But the best thing for you to do right now is to get some rest.”
As the doctor goes to leave, his dad catches him by the sleeve, leans in and whispers something that Stiles can’t quite hear. But he thinks he hears the name ‘Derek’ and wonders.
“Wait,” he says, curious. “Is-s that the g-guy who was in here earlier? Had on a...a leather jacket?” He waves a shaky hand at his chin. “S-stubble.”
His dad exchanges a look with the doctor and his brows pinch together in a way that suggests he’s been thrown off by Stiles’ question. Then he says very carefully, “Son, are you telling me you don’t know who Derek is?”
Stiles blinks. He’s not sure he understands the question.
“The man that was here earlier,” his dad elaborates, slowly. “With the stubble and leather jacket.”
Stiles swallows, suddenly feeling anxious. “Are you—are you asking me if I’ve seen him before?”
His dad nods.
He swallows again around the building anxiety, shaking his head.
“No,” he answers. “I’ve never seen him before.”
He remembers some details of his life quite vividly. Stiles remembers his dad, Scott, Scott’s mom. He knows he’s a junior at Beacon Hills High School and that his dad is the sheriff of the town, has been the sheriff for over seven years now. He remembers having a pet guinea pig called ‘Bacon’ when he was six, and that he got suspended when he was in middle school when he threw a punch at a classmate who was bullying Scott. He knows Scott is his best friend and that they have been best friends since the first grade. He remembers that his mom died when he was eight and that both he and his dad had taken her death pretty hard.
He doesn’t remember the man called Derek.
Dr. Evans sits with Stiles and his dad and explains something called psychogenic amnesia – selective memory loss that results from severe stress or psychological trauma, in which part of the brain represses certain memories.
“So, this accident I had,” Stiles says, trying to grasp what the doctor is telling them. He still feels somewhat disoriented, like he’s in a daze. Lingering effects of the coma, they say. “It...it was traumatic enough to....to make me repress some of my memories?”
The doctor nods. “It varies with people,” he says, “but a serious accident involving head trauma can evoke psychogenic amnesia, yes.”
Stiles considers this. They still haven’t told him what kind of accident he’d had. Had it been a car accident? Some kind of accident while he was playing lacrosse? He wants to ask but, for some reason, he is afraid to.
At first, Stiles thinks it is just this Derek he can’t remember, which bothers him a lot, even though he doesn’t tell his dad or the doctor this. Somebody who sat watch at his bedside while he was in a coma must be important to him and Stiles can’t understand why he wouldn’t remember him, psychogenic amnesia or not.
But one time Scott visits, he brings a pretty dark-haired girl with dimples with him – Allison – whom Stiles does not remember. He definitely does not remember Scott having a girlfriend or even any friends who are girls. Actually, Stiles doesn’t remember Scott having any friends who aren’t Stiles. He definitely doesn’t tell Scott – mostly because he can’t really explain it – that the anxiety starts to build almost immediately with Allison around, even though she seems very nice and very sweet and is quite obviously happy to see him.
They don’t let the man called Derek visit him. But while he sleeps at night, Stiles is aware of a presence in the room and he’s certain that the man with the stubble and leather jacket is there, watching over him. And while he should think it’s creepy and cause his anxiety level to spike, Stiles actually finds it to be a comfort, to know that he’s there, even if Derek doesn’t say anything or try to reach out to him at all.
He sees a blue Jeep in the driveway. He definitely remembers his Jeep. He’s had good times and bad in that perseverant hunk of metal. And the fact that it’s still in one piece, looking every bit as beat-up and junky as Stiles remembers, tells him that if a car accident is what had landed him in the hospital, his Jeep definitely hadn’t been involved in it. The inside of the house is also familiar. He knows the layout and Stiles immediately has flashes of memories that are linked to the familiar spaces. Like how his mom used to read to him at night before bed while sitting in the worn-out armchair in the living room. His dad pouring over case files at the kitchen table, standing at the stove making pancakes every Sunday without fail even when he worked nights. The ass-grooves in the couch in the den that represent countless marathon movie nights he and Scott had had since they were twelve.
His bedroom, too, is almost like he never left it, except it looks somewhat tidier, the floor clean and the bed made, the top of his desk immaculate. Stiles is sure someone has been in to clean it before he came home. He knows he was never this neat. His drawers contain his favourite screen-print t-shirts and his closet is filled with a rainbow selection of plaid. The posters on his walls are also familiar.
The blind is pulled on the window facing the backyard. For a second, something tugs at his memory but Stiles has difficulty bringing it into focus. He shrugs it off, glancing at his dad and Scott, who are wearing twin looks of fond concern.
“Everything looks familiar,” he tells them. Scott lets out a whooshing breath and his dad gives him a relieved smile. Stiles really hopes they stop walking on eggshells soon. It’s making him nervous.
They have a quiet dinner together. Stiles thinks he must have really been near the brink of death because his dad cooks broccoli to go with the baked chicken and actually eats most of it. Afterwards, his dad cleans up while he and Scott sit in front of the television in the den, butts in usual grooves. It feels comfortably familiar yet somewhat awkward. Stiles’ memory isn’t the best right now but he’s almost positive he and Scott haven’t spent an evening like this in a while. Probably not since his best friend got a girlfriend, Stiles guesses.
When he starts to yawn, Scott and his dad shoo him up to his bedroom. Stiles thinks he should probably protest (it’s barely nine o’clock) but, in all honesty, he’s tired. Dr. Evans had said he’d probably experience fatigue for a little while and that he should continue to get as much rest as possible over the next few weeks, as it would help his recovery process. Stiles really wants to remember the things he can’t right now, so he plans on doing exactly what the doctor has advised. Plus, trying to remember turns out to be exhausting.
He’s already in his pyjamas and in his bed when he hears voices coming from the landing on the other side of his bedroom door.
“I just want to see him,” a deep, rough voice says. It’s a voice he’s not familiar with like he is with Scott’s, but instinctively, Stiles knows it belongs to the man he can’t remember, belongs to Derek. “I need to know he’s okay.”
“He’s fine, Derek,” he hears Scott reply and Stiles doesn’t miss the note of protectiveness that comes through in his best friend’s voice. “But he doesn’t remember you right now, okay? It might freak him out a little if you just go barging in there.”
“I’m not going to barge—I just--” There’s an audible sigh accompanied by a brief pause then, “I just want to see him.”
There’s pain there, in Derek’s voice, and for some reason, it makes Stiles’ heart ache. He slides a leg off the bed, intending to get up and open the door, to let Derek in so that the man could see Stiles is okay, but then he hears his dad saying, “Look, I know you don’t want to leave his side for a minute, but Scott is right. We need to let Stiles work through this at his own pace. He’s going to remember you, Derek. But we’re just going to have to wait until he does it in his own time.”
Stiles is struck by how gentle and kind his dad’s tone is as he speaks to Derek and almost immediately he knows that Derek is someone special. Someone special to Stiles. His dad is not the kind of man who trusts easily (he’s been a cop for too long) but Stiles can tell he trusts Derek.
“Come on, son,” his dad says, the sound of his voice getting softer, more distant, as they move away from Stiles’ door now. “Let Stiles get some sleep and you and me, let’s go have a beer and a chat.”
Stiles thinks he hears Scott snort but he’s already being pulled off to sleep and can’t really be bothered to wonder about it.
Someone screaming.
He wakes three times during the night, his heart beating frantically, his body drenched with sweat. Each time it takes him over an hour to fall back asleep and, even then, he feels himself actively resisting, afraid of what his sleep subconscious will bring if he does.
Ink on his left shoulder blade.
A tattoo.
He towels himself dry then wraps the terry cloth around his waist. He turns his back to the vanity mirror, twisting his head to peer over his shoulder so he can see the tattoo more fully.
Stiles doesn’t remember having a tattoo or getting one. The mark on his shoulder blade is black, about two inches in diameter, a set of three interconnecting spirals. He recognizes the symbol – it’s Celtic, a triskelion – but Stiles can’t for the life of him remember why he would have gotten it tattooed on his shoulder.
He asks Scott about it first thing when he pops by for his self-imposed daily Stiles visit.
“So when did I get the tat?”
Scott raises an eyebrow. It’s a momentary delay tactic, Stiles knows. “Uh, a couple of months ago,” his best friend answers, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. It’s Scott’s tell for when he’s feeling put on the spot or a tad uncomfortable with the direction of a conversation.
Stiles presses on anyway. “What’s it mean?”
“Mean?” Another eyebrow raise. More neck rubbing.
“Yeah, like what does it mean to me?” Stiles asks. He is pretty sure he doesn’t like needles and thinks he’d probably faint at the sight of a big one projecting from a tattoo gun, piercing skin – his skin especially - so he guesses there had to be some special meaning behind this tattoo if he had actually found the balls to get inked.
Scott looks at him with a weird intensity for a moment then tells him, “You said it represents unity, strength, and family.”
“Oh.”
Unity. Strength. Family.
Stiles considers this for a bit. There’s something deep in his mind that tells him he’d chosen this particular tattoo for the reason Scott has given him but the memory is buried, just out of his reach. It’s incredibly frustrating.
“Wait,” Stiles says, his focus suddenly drawn to the ‘family’ part. “My dad know about this?” Stiles is pretty much certain his dad never would have given permission for Stiles to mark his skin. Not while he was still under the age of eighteen.
“Yeah,” says Scott. “But he wasn’t too happy when he found out you’d gotten it.” Scott gives a wry grin. “Trust me, that’s a conversation you’re lucky you can’t remember.”
He knows Scott is trying to keep things light-hearted and Stiles dutifully huffs out a laugh.
Scott grins in response. “He only gave up yelling about it after he found out I’d gotten one six months before you.”
Stiles goggles. “What? You got a tat?” Next to Stiles, Scott is the most squeamish person he knows. Stiles would not have guessed his best friend would have ever gotten a tattoo, much less before Stiles had. “Dude, let me see it.”
Scott pushes up the sleeve of his Henley on his left arm to reveal two black parallel bands, one slightly wider than the other. Stiles doesn’t know what he had expected – some elaborate dragon tattoo maybe? – but it isn’t this. He gives the simple design – the part of his brain that’s working thinks it’s maybe a Polynesian symbol of some kind – due appreciation. He decides the tattoo fits Scott, even if Stiles has no idea why he feels this way.
“Definitely makes you look more bad ass,” Stiles remarks.
Scott laughs. “Yeah, Allison thinks so too.” He clamps his mouth shut and starts rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly hit with the realization that Allison is someone Stiles doesn’t seem to remember.
Stiles punches Scott’s arm to deflect his friend’s discomfort because the whole eggshell thing is getting old by the minute. “Hey, you gonna help me level up on Mass Effect 3?” He waggles his eyebrows at Scott then scrunches them together. “It’s still ME3, right? They didn’t, like, release an ME4 while I was in a coma, did they?”
“Dude, you were only in a coma for three days,” Scott says with a roll of his eyes. “Besides, you know ME3 is the final one.”
Stiles grins then moves to push the power button on the XBOX.
When Stiles jokes that Scott just wants someone to keep him company while he’s warming the bench, he is surprised to find that Scott is now first line.
“Really?” Stiles says. “When did that happen?”
“Uh, start of sophomore year,” Scott tells him. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again.
“Oh,” Stiles returns, thinking it’s odd that he doesn’t remember this. He remembered that he and Scott were juniors now. “Don’t suppose I forgot that I’m first line too?” he asks hopefully.
Scott makes a face that’s a cross between a grin and a grimace. “Sorry, dude. You’re still mostly warming the bench.”
Mostly? Huh. Well, that was something, Stiles thinks. Still, Scott – Stiles’ wheezy, awkward best friend - is first line? This is quite the revelation.
“Doesn’t your asthma bother you?” Stiles asks. He knows he should probably just let it go, but he’s curious. Good thing he’s not a cat.
Scott actually squirms this time. “Um, my asthma’s gotten better over the past year,” he tells Stiles and Stiles is sure Scott’s going to rub the skin right off the back of his neck. “It hardly bothers me anymore. I don’t even need an inhaler.”
“Oh. That’s good.” Stiles doesn’t question it. He supposes it’s not unusual for those with asthma – even really bad asthma like Scott had had – to eventually grow out of it.
In any event, Scott’s invitation is what leads Stiles to be sitting in the bleachers in the field behind the high school Friday evening next to Lydia freaking Martin, the girl Stiles has had a crush on since the third grade.
It’s weird, though. It doesn’t feel like he still has that same crush. At least not at the obsessive level he does remember. Lydia and Allison – he’s still getting used to the fact that Scott has a girlfriend, especially one as pretty as Allison – had climbed up the bleachers to sit with him. Stiles isn’t going to lie, it surprises the heck out of him. Still, he tries to play it cool. Like the strawberry blonde goddess choosing to sit with him is everyday normal.
Stiles looks out at the players gathered on the field, his mind still boggling over the fact that Scott is now apparently first line. And team captain. He recognizes Danny Mahealani and Greenberg and a few others but there are a couple of new players Stiles doesn’t know. He doesn’t see Jackson Whittemore on the field.
“How come Jackson’s not playing?” Stiles wonders out loud.
He catches a sad look pass over Lydia’s face. It’s Allison who answers.
“Jackson left Beacon Hills a year ago,” she tells Stiles.
“Oh.” He wants to ask why but thinks it might hurt Lydia so he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry. I guess I don’t remember.”
Lydia’s mouth pulls upward into a forced smile. Then she hooks her arm through Stiles’ and squeezes him tight. “I know,” she says softly.
Stiles tries not to express surprise. He guesses he and Lydia are friends now. Good friends. At least good enough friends that she would sit close to him and actually touch him – hug him. It’s a little bit mind-blowing.
He clears his throat and focuses his attention on the field, acutely aware that Lydia still has her arm hooked through his. Finstock is giving the team what looks to be a pep talk and the way he’s gesturing – almost lewdly – tells Stiles that at least Coach is the same as he remembers. Scott shoots him two thumbs up when the team breaks at the start of the game – or, maybe it’s meant for Allison, Stiles isn’t sure – but he waves back anyway.
Scott is good. No, scratch that. Scott is really freaking awesome. Stiles is struck stupid by how freaking awesome his best friend is. He’s better than Jackson. Way better than Jackson. Or at least way better than Stiles remembers Jackson being. And Jackson had been pretty phenomenal (although Stiles will never admit this out loud). In fact, the entire first line is really freaking good, even Greenberg.
“Numbers 14 and 2, Lahey and Boyd,” Stiles comments after the second quarter. “They newbies?”
Allison and Lydia exchange a glance.
“They’re really good,” he continues cheerfully. Because the Beacon Hills Beavers are kicking ass. “Not as good as Scott, who is freaking amazing, by the way. Seriously. When did he get so good?”
Allison grins at him, her dimples popping out in high def. Stiles grins back, starting to feel more comfortable around her. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that she hangs with Lydia and because Lydia still hasn’t let go of his arm.
He catches sight of Derek standing next to the bleachers at the start of the third quarter.
“So,” Stiles says nonchalantly, giving a nod to where Derek is standing, gaze fixed on the playing field. “Is he always such a creeper?” Stiles doesn’t know how old Derek is, but he’s pretty sure he’s not a high school student – at Beacon Hills or elsewhere. Stiles finds this intriguing.
“Yes,” Lydia replies automatically. “But you love that about him. Which is multiple-level disturbing, Stilinski.”
“Lydia,” Allison whisper-hisses.
Stiles can’t help but raise an eyebrow and maybe gape a little. He shouldn’t be surprised. The Lydia he remembers was never one to pull punches. Still, he’s gotten so used to his dad and Scott walking on eggshells around him because of the whole memory thing, that it’s a little overwhelming to hear Lydia just blurt out something that is supposedly familiar to him. Like Derek being a creeper and Stiles loving said creeper-ness.
Fuck. He doesn’t even know Derek’s last name.
He must have said this last bit out loud because Lydia pats him on the arm and says, “Hale.”
Hale. Derek Hale.
Stiles runs the name through his mind with the hope that it will jog his memory, but there’s nothing. Neither Derek nor Hale rings a memory bell.
He watches the game for a bit – okay, so he kind of watches the game while he sneaks glances at Derek. Derek is without the leather jacket this time. He’s wearing a snug navy Henley that accentuates a fit, athletic frame, and his impressive bulging biceps are made even more impressive by arms crossed over his chest. The man’s stubble is a little heavier than Stiles remembers it being when he saw him at the hospital, but it’s neatly trimmed and groomed. Stiles lets himself ogle for a minute or two (the man is unfairly attractive) before he decides the hell with it. He climbs down the bleachers, ignoring Allison’s frown and Lydia’s arched eyebrow, and crosses to join Derek at the side of the field. He sees Derek shift his body a little, like he knows Stiles is approaching, even though his eyes haven’t left the field.
“Hi,” Stiles says, crossing his own arms as he takes up point next to Derek.
“Hi,” Derek returns, glancing sidelong at Stiles now, his expression carefully guarded.
Stiles lets a few beats go by. Then, “Look, I know Scott and my dad have been trying to keep you away from me because they think I’m going to freak out or something on account of I don’t remember you even though I think you’re important to me and I guess I probably should remember you,” he says in one breath.
Derek’s expression is soft as his hazel eyes meet Stiles’ brown ones. “Stiles…”
“But you don’t have to,” Stiles continues quickly before Derek can shut him down. “Stay away, I mean. I’m not going to freak out or have a breakdown or anything.”
Derek regards him for a moment. Then he says, “They think it’s best if I stay away until you start getting some of your memories back. I agree.”
The way he says it, Stiles is pretty sure Derek doesn’t totally agree but is simply going along with Stiles’ dad and Scott for the sake of avoiding argument.
Stiles breathes out a sigh. “I know,” he says. “But I feel like we should—like I--” He rakes a hand through his hair. “What I’m trying to say is that I want to get to know you, er, re-know you.”
Derek gives him a long look then finally nods, which Stiles takes to mean he’s not adverse to Stiles getting to re-know him. He doesn’t know for sure, though, because even if Stiles is convinced Derek is important to him, it doesn’t make the man any less of an enigma.
He remains standing next to Derek until the game ends – with Beach Hills winning – then makes his way over to Scott to congratulate him on a game well played.
“Dude, you’re freaking awesome,” Stiles tells his best friend. “No wonder you’re first line and team captain. Jackson totally would’ve been shown up by all of your amazing awesomeness.” Scott quirks an eyebrow at him and Stiles says, “Yeah, Allison kind of filled me in on Jackson leaving.”
In his periphery, Stiles sees Derek moving toward one of the other players. He watches as Derek claps a hand on Number 14’s shoulder and is surprised when he feels a pang of something sharp twist inside of him. Jealousy. Stiles remembers the feeling but he doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly feeling it now.
Scott follows his gaze then says, “Isaac lives with Derek” as though it makes some kind of sense to Stiles. He doesn’t even know Isaac. He doesn’t even remember Derek.
He’s abruptly pulled from these thoughts by Finstock who assesses him cursorily then says, “McCall said you cracked your noggin.”
“Uh,” Stiles replies, feeling caught off guard. “I guess I did?”
“You guess?”
Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “Some of my memories kind of got lost,” he tells Coach.
Finstock narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Stiles further. “You remember me promoting you to first line?” he asks.
“What?! I’m first line?” Stiles whoops. Scott frowns.
“Ha! No,” Coach says, shaking his head. “You’re still warming the bench, Stilinski.” Stiles scowls and Finstock now turns to Scott. “Does this mean he’s gonna be more or less chatty?”
Coach doesn’t wait for Scott to answer. Just stalks off to terrorize some other unsuspecting poor soul. By the looks of it, the next poor soul is Greenberg.
“Yeah. So Coach is just as evil as I remember,” Stiles remarks wryly. “Someone should tell him it’s not nice to play with the emotions of a formerly-in-a-coma-for-three-days, trauma-induced amnesiac.”
Scott’s lips twitch and Stiles kind of wants to smack him.
When he turns back to where Derek and Isaac were standing, Stiles sees that they’re gone.
“So. Me and Derek. You gonna tell me what’s going on between us?”
Scott shifts his gaze away from Stiles, scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, what do you mean?” his best friend asks.
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Stiles returns. “I want to know who Derek is to me.” It’s been niggling at him since last night. He knows Derek is someone special to him, has known this since the man had sat vigil at his hospital bedside while he was in a coma. But the flare of sudden jealousy that had sparked when Stiles had seen Derek affectionately clap a hand on Isaac’s shoulder…He swallows and says firmly, “I need to know, Scott.
Scott still looks hesitant. “The doctor said you need to take it slow--”
“I know what the doctor said,” Stiles huffs, frustrated. “But I need to know. So just tell me. Are Derek and I a couple?”
Scott seems to hedge for a few seconds. Finally, he says, “Yes.”
Okay. “How long?” Stiles asks. “How long have we been together?”
“Almost a year,” Scott answers, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Almost a year?” Stiles expresses. “Oh my God.” He sits down on his bed. He feels the anxiety rising. He and Derek have been a couple for nearly a year? “How come I can’t remember him?”
Scott shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”
Stiles thinks Scott does know. He just isn’t going to tell Stiles.
He wants to ask Scott a hundred more questions. Like, how did he and Derek meet? He knows Derek is older than him, but how much older is he than Stiles? And what could have possibly drawn the older, very attractive man with the leather jacket and stubble to a high school student, especially one as ordinary as Stiles? But he doubts Scott will give him the answers he needs. Not right now anyway.
So what he says is, “It must be hurting him. That I can’t remember him.” It would hurt Stiles if the man he’d been dating for almost a year suddenly couldn’t remember him. He knows it would. It would hurt him terribly.
Scott shrugs. “Derek’s had to deal with a lot,” he says. “He can handle it.”
Stiles can’t help it. He goggles at him. “He can handle it? That’s your answer?”
Scott frowns and Stiles hasn’t forgotten the way his friend’s jaw goes more crooked when he does. “What do you want me to say, Stiles?”
“How about actually telling me what’s going on? You, my dad, Derek – you’re all trying to protect me. I get it. But I don’t need to be protected. I need to remember.” He puts his hands to his head, rubbing at his temples. He was so fucking tired. “I need to remember.”
Scott sits on the bed next to him, slings an arm around his shoulder, and pulls Stiles into him. “I know, Stiles,” he says soothingly. “But not until it’s safe.”
God, Stiles thinks. What the hell kind of trauma had he gone through that everybody thought it was dangerous for him to remember, that he’d break if he knew the truth?
He lets Scott hug him, comfort him, and tells himself he’s not going to cry.
He cries anyway and only feels a little bit embarrassed by it.
Most of his teachers are sympathetic, except for Harris, who gives Stiles a stern, almost suspicious look, as though the chemistry teacher is certain Stiles is going to make trouble at any moment and Harris is just waiting to hand out detention. Now this is familiar. Stiles definitely remembers Harris not liking him much (he also remembers making trouble on occasion for which detention had been duly warranted). Still, Stiles thinks he should get a pass, really, even from Harris, because he was in a coma for three days and, well, psychogenic amnesia and all.
At lunch, he gets a jolt of surprise when Lydia and Danny sit down at the table where he, Scott and Allison have their lunches spread out.
Stiles nudges Scott in the ribs and whispers, “Since when do Lydia Martin and Danny Mahealani sit with us at lunch?”
Scott’s brows pinch together. “Um,” he says, looking thoughtful, “For a while now, I guess.”
Stiles wonders if this has something to do with Scott dating Allison, although Lydia had been pretty cozy with Stiles at the game so. But Danny? Maybe now with Jackson gone, Danny’s just chosen to go along wherever Lydia goes? Stiles has a hard time believing Danny would choose to sit with him and Scott (well, at least Stiles anyway) by his own free will.
He gets another surprise when the two lacrosse team newbies - Lahey and Boyd - sit down with them. Stiles raises an eyebrow at Scott, who rubs the back of his neck and says, “Boyd and Isaac are friends.”
Friends, Stiles thinks. Whose friends? Scott’s? Lydia’s and Danny’s? Allison’s? For sure, Stiles doesn’t know them. Or he doesn’t remember them. But why wouldn’t he remember them if he does actually know them? He remembers Lydia and Danny. And apparently Isaac and Boyd (he wonders if the guy has a first name) are juniors just like the rest of them so Stiles must know them, even if they’re not friends. Except they apparently are friends. Of someone’s. Maybe Stiles’?
Fuck, his head hurts.
“You okay?” Scott asks when he sees Stiles scrub a hand over his face.
“Yeah,” Stiles responds, although he’s not okay. His head hurts and he’s anxious.
He barely makes it through the next class. Lydia’s watching him and seems to notice he’s not doing so well. She leaves her desk and says something to Ms. Roberts and then Stiles is being led out of the classroom by the strawberry blonde he once had a crush on.
“Ms. Roberts will notify the office that you’re going home,” Lydia tells him, patting him on the arm almost maternally. It’s weird but comforting. “Do you need a ride?”
“No,” Stiles says, smiling weakly. “I have my Jeep.”
“Make sure you text your dad,” Lydia says. “I’ll let Scott know you’ve gone home.” They’re at Stiles’ locker and Lydia helps him gather his stuff. “And you’d better text Derek,” she says as she hands Stiles his hoodie. “He worries about you.”
Stiles nods numbly, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He can’t remember Lydia Martin ever saying more than three words to him and here she was being completely understanding, helping him, like she was one of his best friends.
He sends a text to his dad once he’s sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep. He shoots one to Scott too, even though Lydia had said she would talk to him. Then he thumbs through his contacts, finger hovering over Derek’s name.
His dad had handed Stiles a cell phone last week, telling him it was new, implying without saying that Stiles’ old cell phone had been lost in the ‘accident’. When he had scrolled through the new phone, he had found three contacts had already been programmed in: his dad, Scott, and Derek.
It makes sense that Derek would be a pre-programmed contact, seeing as he and Stiles are apparently a couple. Still, the fact that his dad had included Derek tells Stiles something, though it doesn’t tell him nearly enough.
He worries about you.
Stiles waits until he’s home before he calls Derek.
“Stiles?” Derek answers almost immediately and Stiles can hear the worry in his voice.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says.
“Are you okay?”
“I was, uh, feeling a little off in school so I came home early.”
“Okay.” There’s a pause then, “Did—did you want…did you need…?”
There’s hesitancy in Derek’s voice, like he’s not sure why Stiles is calling him, not sure what Stiles wants. He rubs the back of his neck. “I was thinking maybe you could come over?” Stiles ventures. “Keep me company until my dad gets off work?”
There’s a longer pause this time. “Okay,” Derek finally replies. “I can be there in ten minutes.”
It only takes Derek seven minutes.
Stiles leads Derek into the den, watching as the man shrugs out of his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the recliner. There’s something familiar in the gesture. Stiles has a sense that he has seen Derek do it a hundred times before but he can’t quite call up the memory. He rakes a surreptitious eye over his guest, appreciating the way Derek looks in the tight burgundy t-shirt, the way his biceps bulge at the cuff line, the way the material clings to his sculpted pecs and perfect abs.
Stiles decides he has very good taste in men.
“So, you want to watch TV or something?” Stiles asks. “Or we can, like, play a game, or just sit and chat?” He scratches along his jaw. He really should have thought this through more so it wasn’t so awkward.
“Whatever you want to do,” Derek says with a shrug. “We can play that video game you like. Massive Effect? Or that Kart game.”
Stiles hides a grin behind his hand. It’s obvious that Derek is not really into video games. Stiles thinks it’s kind of adorable that Derek is making the effort despite that fact. He bets it’s why he fell for him.
“Okay,” he says easily, the awkwardness now slipping away. “You want something to drink? A Coke or, er, a beer?” Stiles is pretty sure Derek is of legal age to drink.
“A Coke is fine,” Derek replies as he sits down on the coach – in Scott’s groove, Stiles notices. Maybe it’s a Scott/Derek groove now.
He collects two Cokes from the fridge in the kitchen and then sets up the XBOX for Mario Kart. It turns out that Derek is actually not half bad. Stiles wins all the races but Derek is somehow able to anticipate Stiles’ moves so that he doesn’t win by too much. It’s obvious Derek has played this game with Stiles before, probably a lot of times Stiles guesses.
“How old are you?” Stiles asks boldly. They’ve set aside the controllers and are now sipping from their second cans of Coke.
“Twenty-four,” Derek answers.
Wow. Stiles had guessed Derek was more than twenty-one but he hadn’t really expected him to be much older than that.
“Have you always lived in Beacon Hills?”
Derek shifts on the coach to face him. “I lived here until I was sixteen, then spent six years in New York. I came back two years ago.”
Stiles nods, taking this information in. “Why did you leave?”
“I lost most of my family and my sister thought we should have a fresh start.”
“Oh.” He wonders what Derek means by ‘lost most of my family’ but Stiles doesn’t question it further. Instead, he asks, “Why did you come back?”
Derek shrugs. “That’s a bit more complicated, but I guess I’ve always considered Beacon Hills my home.”
Stiles considers what Derek has told him. So basically, Stiles is dating a man - a very attractive man, gorgeous really – who is seven years older than him, who returned to his hometown in the last two years, despite having lost most of his family.
He has to ask. “So how did we meet?”
Derek shuffles forward on the coach, glancing away from Stiles. “Is it okay if we skip that part for now?”
“Okay,” Stiles says. It’s frustrating not to have his questions answered but Stiles figures he can let this one go at least for the time being. “But we are dating, right? Scott says we’ve been dating for almost a year.” He figures he might as well lay it out that he knows this.
“Yes,” Derek says, his gaze coming back to settle on Stiles. “We’re dating. Or, we were dating. Before the…accident. Before you lost your memory.”
Before you forgot me, Stiles fills in. Because Stiles remembers Scott, his best friend, and Lydia and Danny too, who are also friends. But he doesn’t remember Derek, his boyfriend of a year.
Stiles wants to remember Derek so that he isn’t hurting him anymore but he needs answers. He needs answers to questions that those around him seem to have decided he’s not ready for.
Erica!
He bolts up, looks around frantically, and tries to gain his bearings.
He’s on the couch in the den. The TV is on, channel set to Syfy, an old episode of The Twilight Zone playing.
Stiles takes a few deep breaths. He must have fallen asleep.
He sees the empty Coke cans on the coffee table and wonders if Derek is still here or whether he left when Stiles had fallen asleep. He gets up from the couch and makes his way down the hall to see if maybe Derek had wandered into another room or if his dad had come home already. He stops in the hallway, though, when he hears voices coming from kitchen.
“I know you think it’s still too soon but maybe it would be better if we told him,” Derek is saying. “Told him about Erica. About us.”
“No,” Scott hisses and Stiles wonders when Scott had shown up. “Deaton said it could damage him if he remembers too soon. He could have a total psychotic breakdown.”
Deaton? Stiles thinks, puzzled. Didn’t Scott mean Dr. Evans? He is sure Deaton is the name of the vet at the animal clinic where Scott works.
“He wanted to know how we met,” Derek says. “I didn’t know what to tell him.”
He hears Scott let out a sigh. “Look, I know you want Stiles to remember you, Derek. Believe me, I understand. It’s just--it’s too risky.”
There’s a pause before Derek says, “Yeah. Okay.”
Stiles hates the way Derek sounds so resigned. Like giving in is hurting him but he knows it’s what has to be done. He wonders if Derek has had to hurt a lot just because something had to be done. It makes Stiles’ heart ache to think so.
He creeps back to the den before Scott or Derek notice he’s listening in, sparing a moment to wonder why he feels the need to be so stealthy.
“Where’s Derek?” Stiles asks.
“He went home,” Scott tells him. “I told him I’d keep you company until your dad gets home.” Scott grins. “I’m way better at Mario Kart than Derek. And I won’t let you win either.”
Stiles wonders briefly where Derek lives – he must have his own place, he decides – but forgoes asking in favour of another question.
“Who’s Erica?”
Stiles is not sure if he’s hoping or dreading that Scott will give in and tell him.
Scott looks at him, surprise showing on his face, then shakes his head and Stiles knows that’s all he’s going to get from him.
“I don’t know what’s been going on the last couple of years,” Stiles comments, “but you” – he points a finger at his dad – “have clearly been sloughing off on your dad duties.”
His dad cocks an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have a tattoo,” Stiles says simply.
“Scott has a tattoo,” his dad returns.
Stiles gives a brow raise that is clearly meant to convey ‘That’s what you’re going with?’ This elicits a shrug from his dad.
“And I’m dating an older man,” Stiles continues. “Seven years older to be exact.”
“Okay,” his dad seems to concede. “But the thing with Derek is complicated,” he further defends.
“How complicated?”
His dad blows out a breath. “Very.”
“Do you like him?” Stiles is curious.
His dad makes a show of tilting his head and says very much in Stiles fashion, “Depends on how you define ‘like’.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay. Do you trust him?”
His dad’s expression turns sober as he tells Stiles, “I trust him with your life, Stiles.”
Wow. Even if his dad honestly doesn’t like Derek, this is something, a huge something really. There was a time when his dad wouldn’t have trusted anyone with Stiles’ life. Not even Scott.
He decides to try his dad.
“Who’s Erica?”
His dad shuts down even quicker than Scott. He gives Stiles a long look before getting up from the table, leaving Stiles to wonder what it is about this Erica that had everyone clamming up like she was some kind of dirty secret.
Stiles doesn’t know what to expect but he hopes Deaton can give him some answers, starting with why he’s apparently dishing out mental health advice that is not animal-related.
“So I’m guessing you’re not going to tell me why a vet would be giving psychiatric advice to the family and friends of a recent amnesiac,” Stiles starts off with, direct and to the point.
Deaton’s zen-like state doesn’t waver even a flick. “I’ll admit it’s a little unconventional,” he says.
“A little?” Stiles returns, not at all surprised that Deaton doesn’t deny giving such advice.
The vet shrugs then gestures for Stiles to sit down on the bench in the examination room they’re in. Stiles is glad Deaton hadn’t asked him to hop up onto the examination table, like some house pet.
“Something happened to you, Stiles,” Deaton begins to explain. “You suffered trauma to the head which has damaged your mind and memory. The physical injury is one thing but the circumstances under which you received it is another. You experienced a highly traumatic event and your psyche went into protection mode, repressing some things.”
“Dr. Evans called it psychogenic amnesia.”
“Yes,” Deaton confirms then says, “There’s a part of you that’s not ready to remember, so your brain is keeping those memories tucked safely away. We need to work slowly to pull out those memories or risk further damage.”
“That’s why no one will tell me how I got hurt or what happened?”
Deaton nods.
“But wouldn’t just telling me help speed things up? Make me remember more quickly?”
Stiles tries not to think how bizarre it is that he’s asking a veterinarian these questions instead of a people doctor. But somehow it seems right.
“It’s hard to say,” Deaton says. “The human mind is a fragile thing. It could speed things up. Or, it could cause you to have a complete mental breakdown.” He gives Stiles a considering look. “You’ll have to trust me when I say your mind is very special. We think the best thing is for you to recover these memories slowly.”
Stiles cocks an eyebrow. “We?”
“Your father, Scott,” Deaton tells him. “Derek.”
Stiles lets out a sigh. “Okay, so you’re saying I’m blocking out bits of memory that are traumatizing to me for some reason? In order to protect myself?”
“Yes.”
“Does this mean I’m blocking Derek out because he’s somehow related to the trauma?” Stiles has to ask. It is the only thing that makes sense to explain why he can’t remember the guy he’s been dating for nearly a year.
Deaton seems to chose his words carefully. “Derek is related in a peripheral way only,” he says then adds, “He would never hurt you.”
“Scott says he’s gone through a lot.”
“He has.”
“I just don’t want to hurt him by not remembering him,” Stiles admits. He’s not even sure why he feels the need to share this. “Please,” he says. “Please just help me remember him.”
Deaton gives him a sympathetic smile. “We’ll get there, Stiles. You just need to be patient. Derek understands this will take time. He’s willing to wait it out.”
“Why?” It’s frustrating. Derek is still such a mystery to Stiles.
Deaton smiles. “Because he loves you.”
He finds the usual stuff – document files that are obviously schoolwork, essays and lab reports. There are a bunch of animated GIFs that he must have downloaded and what looks like drafts for a supernatural comic series he doesn’t remember drafting. He also finds two folders that are disk image encrypted. He clicks on one of them. A box pops up asking for a password. Stiles types in ‘awkward24’, ‘stilinski1rulz’, ‘batman4ever’, and a couple of other word strings but each time he’s denied access to the folder. He wonders if maybe he hid his porn collection in these folders and password-protected them to keep out nosy friends (Scott) and dads (his dad, specifically). But when he searches his computer files further, he finds an unprotected folder labelled ‘rainbows-and-unicorns’, which he clicks on to reveal a rather impressive library of gay porn. He spares a moment to appreciate the collection before returning his thoughts to the locked folders. Okay, so if he’s not hiding his electronic porn stash in these protected folders, what is he hiding?
Or, maybe he isn’t hiding anything. Maybe somebody else password-protected those folders. Scott? he considers then quickly dismisses. His best friend can barely operate his cell phone. It seems unlikely Scott would be able to encrypt a computer file. The same goes for his dad, although the sheriff is considerably more computer savvy than Scott. Derek then? Stiles can’t even remember Derek much less what his supposed boyfriend might or might not be able to do, but instinct tells him that Derek’s computer skills are not of the calibre needed to pull something like this off. So who then?
It hits him. Danny. Danny Mahealani had the skills to password-protect files and folders. Danny, who had a sealed juvie record for some pretty impressive hacking activities at age thirteen.
But why would Danny encrypt a couple of folders on Stiles’ computer? What don’t they want Stiles to see?
He pounds his fist on the desk, suddenly frustrated. They want him to recover his memories slowly. But Stiles is ready. He wants to remember now.
Stiles doesn’t even bother with idle chit-chat, just shoves his Mac Book at the other kid, points to the box prompting for a password and says, “So, you gonna type that in for me, or what?”
Danny gives him a quick sidelong glance then darts his gaze away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles. And, really, that’s as good as saying he does know what Stiles is talking about, at least as far as Stiles is concerned.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Come on, Danny. I come out of a coma and find two folders on my laptop password-protected. Now I know I’m not hiding my porn stash here,” he says. “Because I found that in all its glory, very much unprotected, I might add--”
“Will you keep it down?” Danny hisses at him, glancing over at the students sitting at the table next to them. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because he’s accusing Danny of computer hijinks or because he’s talking about porn. Either way, Danny looks uncomfortable.
Stiles points at the box again, this time mouthing ‘password’ at him.
Danny shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? All you have to do is type it in.” He mimes typing action for the guy.
“I can’t,” Danny says again.
Stiles huffs out a sigh of frustration and leans in closer to Danny. “I didn’t forget that you have a juvie record for hacking. You’re the only one I know who could have password-protected these files. I’m asking you buddy-to-buddy.” Were he and Danny buddies? “Please type it in.”
But Danny shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry, Stiles. I can’t. I promised your dad.” He looks down at the table, averting his gaze from Stiles once again. “And Derek.”
And Derek? Danny Mahealani promised his dad and Derek that he wouldn’t give Stiles the password to the locked folders on his laptop? What the hell. Stiles hadn’t known Danny even knew Derek or that he and Danny were close enough friends that Danny felt comfortable making promises to Stiles’ dad and boyfriend. Before the accident – and why is he even calling it that anyway because he is damn sure whatever happened to him wasn’t an accident – Stiles remembers Danny as the good-looking guy with dimples who poked fun at Stiles with his best friend Jackson Whittemore any chance he got. Since when had he and Danny become chummy enough that he would make promises to people Stiles can’t even remember?
He rubs his thumbs into his temples to ease the frustration then snaps his Mac Book shut.
“I’m sorry,” Danny apologizes again.
Stiles just nods, tucking his laptop into his backpack, and leaves the library.
She’s screaming and all he can do is listen to her scream.
He sobs.
‘Help me!’ she wails.
Stiles tries to reach out to her but there’s something black hovering over him. He cries out when the black thing strikes against his skull. His head explodes in excruciating pain.
She screams again. This time, ‘Stiles!’
He tries to yell back, to let her know he’s okay, but he’s already slipping under…
Stiles wakes with a start, sweat-soaked and shaking, gasping to draw breath.
Suddenly Derek is there, cradling his face between his hands, saying, “Look at me, Stiles. Just focus on me and breathe.”
Stiles does what Derek tells him and feels the tendrils of panic slowly ebbing away. It’s obvious Derek has done this before, has helped Stiles through a panic attack. He wasn’t even aware he still got panic attacks. The last panic attack he could remember having was in the months after his mom had passed away.
“How did you--?” Stiles starts to ask once his breathing begins to even out. His eyes dart toward his now open window. He supposes he should probably think it’s creepy that Derek had come through his window in the middle of the night but Stiles is unfazed by it.
Derek starts to move away, as though intending to go back out into the night through Stiles’ window, but Stiles glides his hand over Derek’s and holds on.
“Stay. Please.”
Derek looks at him with intense consideration for a moment or two then he sheds his leather jacket and pulls the Henley up and over his head, dropping both to the floor beside Stiles’ bed. He sinks down onto the mattress next to Stiles, expressing a murmur of surprise when Stiles scoots over and snuggles into him.
“There was a boot,” Stiles whispers. “I remember a black boot.”
It comes as a surprise when Derek says, “They kicked you in the head. Repeatedly.” The words sound as though they were coming through gritted teeth.
He wants to ask Derek ‘who?’ Who had kicked him but he knows Derek won’t tell him. Not yet anyway. Stiles wonders if it had been some kind of hate crime. Who beats a seventeen year old kid into a coma?
But what he says is, “I think I tried to save her.”
Derek doesn’t say anything but his arms tighten around Stiles, pulling him closer. Stiles snuggles further into him.
He feels safe with Derek. Stiles can’t explain it, but he knows he can trust Derek. Even with the memory loss, he knows this.
Stiles falls asleep in a matter of seconds.
He doesn’t have another nightmare.
He wakes to Derek running his thumb over the crest of his cheekbone and just looking at him - the look is tender, so loving - and for a minute Stiles forgets that he doesn’t remember Derek. He’s nestled snugly in Derek’s warm embrace and it seems so familiar. Derek is familiar. The way he looks, the way he smells, the way he feels.
Stiles stares at him for a long moment. They’ve been dating for a year. So they must have kissed before, right? Hell, Stiles is going to bet they’ve probably had sex. And isn’t that an ironic kick that he can’t even remember losing his virginity (assuming he lost it to Derek, that is, but he can’t imagine it having been anyone else).
He gives it no more than a second’s thought before he leans in and presses his lips to Derek’s.
Derek breaks the kiss after a few seconds, gently pulling back.
“Stiles...”
Stiles hears the internal battle that comes through in Derek’s voice, like he’s torn between wanting Stiles to kiss him and thinking it’s not a good idea.
“I want to kiss you,” Stiles says. He really does want to kiss Derek. Has been wanting to kiss Derek for the past week. It’s like his lips remember something his brain can’t. “I mean, we’re like boyfriends, right? I’m guessing we’ve kissed before.”
Derek smiles softly. “Yes, we’ve kissed before.”
“So, why can’t we kiss now?” Stiles asks him. “Or don’t you want to kiss me?”
Derek rubs his thumb over Stiles’ lips. “Of course, I want to kiss you,” he says. “I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Why? Is it because I can’t remember you?”
“Yes,” Derek tells him honestly and Stiles feels a pinch of guilt. He knows it’s not his fault that he can’t remember, but he still feels bad about it, feels bad about hurting Derek. “I feel like it would be taking advantage,” Derek adds.
Stiles wants to tell Derek that it wouldn’t be taking advantage at all because Stiles wants Derek to kiss him. He wants Derek to do all the things he did before Stiles couldn’t remember him.
Derek suddenly rolls over and up, bending to retrieve his shirt from the floor. It’s when he straightens up that Stiles gets a full view of it – the triskelion tattoo, just like the one Stiles has, only bigger, in the middle of his back.
“Your tattoo,” Stiles says, staring at it. “It’s like mine.” Scott said Stiles has had his tattoo for a couple of months. He’s pretty sure Derek’s had his for a lot longer.
Derek twists to look at him, his face soft. “Yes,” he says.
Stiles can’t resist. He reaches out his hand and traces the black spirals with his finger. It’s mesmerizing.
“I got mine to match yours, didn’t I?” It isn’t really a question. “What does yours mean?”
Derek lets Stiles continue tracing the tattoo with his finger. “Each spiral represents something,” Derek tells him. “One is Unity, one is Strength, and one is Pa—Family.”
“Just like mine.”
“Just like yours.”
“Scott says my dad wasn’t too happy when I got mine,” Stiles divulges. “Probably because I’m only seventeen.” And the sheriff’s kid, he adds silently. “What about you? When did you get your tattoo?”
“I was fifteen,” Derek says.
“Wow,” Stiles expresses. “Bet your dad flipped out over that.” He remembers too late that Derek had said he had lost most of his family when he was sixteen.
Grief passes over Derek’s expression. It’s gone quickly, though, replaced with a grin. “Not really,” he tells Stiles. “He was too busy flipping out over the tattoo my sister got.”
Stiles is sure Derek is covering but he grins back anyway.
Derek pulls away from Stiles’ hand and gets up from the bed. He picks up his leather jacket and slips it on.
Stiles wants Derek to stay but he doesn’t say anything to stop him. Derek opens his bedroom door and leaves.
Lydia’s laughing at something Scott has said, which makes Stiles grin because Scott is generally not that funny. He has over ten years of Scott-not-being-funny experience to know this and Stiles definitely remembers most of those years. He thinks Scott must have grown a funny bone at the same time he magically acquired those kick-ass lacrosse skills. Lydia wipes honest-to-goodness tears from her eyes then picks up her apple and bites into it.
A sudden flash of memories assault Stiles.
Lips. Painted red. Biting into an apple. Saying, “You make a good Batman.” Then those lips cracked and bloody, whispering, “Help me.”
Stiles shoots up from the lunch table and runs for the bathroom, ignoring Scott and Allison who are calling after him with concern. He just makes it into a stall before his stomach lurches and he drops to the floor, heaving into the bowl. When he’s done emptying his stomach, he pushes the door shut and slides the bolt to lock it. He sits with his back against the metal door, drawing air into his lungs, desperately trying to breathe.
He hears the main door creak open and Scott’s voice calling tentatively, “Stiles?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps drawing breaths, trying to stave off the panic.
“Stiles?” Scott calls again. “Are you okay?”
He knows he should answer back so as not to make his best friend worry but he can’t make his voice call out.
Stiles doesn’t know how long he sits there – maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour – but he is sure Scott has left. Soon, though, he hears his name being called out again.
“Stiles?”
A different voice this time. Not Scott. Derek.
Stiles slides the lock open and pulls back the stall door. Derek is on the other side sitting on the tiled floor, his legs pulled up, arms around his knees. Stiles sinks back against the open door, pulls his own knees up and rests his forehead on them.
Five minutes go by without either one saying anything. Finally, Stiles lifts his head and says, “Erica. She was my friend.”
“Yes,” Derek confirms.
“They took her,” he says, not really knowing or understanding who “they” are. “I tried to save her.”
“Yes.”
“She said I made a good Batman,” Stiles tells him. There’s a painful memory buried in his head somewhere that wants to surface. “She...she lied.”
“No,” says Derek. “She believed it. Always believed it.”
Stiles doesn’t know what to say to this. He doesn’t understand what the flashes of memories mean. And this fucking terrifies him.
He tries to keep the tears at bay when he says, “I want to remember, Derek. But I’m—I’m just so afraid.”
“I know,” Derek tells him. Stiles hears the empathy in his voice. Derek stands then reaches a hand out to Stiles. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
Stiles lets Derek pull him to his feet. They stop at the office to let the appropriate officials know Derek is taking Stiles home (Stiles is not surprised to find that Derek is listed as one of his emergency contacts) then Derek leads Stiles out to his Jeep. He makes a ‘gimme’ gesture and Stiles hands over the keys without protest. He wonders if Derek drove to the school – he must have – and how the man seems unconcerned about leaving a car behind in the school parking lot.
“I don’t want to go home,” Stiles says as they drive away from the high school toward Stiles’ neighbourhood. “Take me back to your place.”
“I can’t,” Derek says.
“Why not?”
Derek shoots him glance. “I just can’t.”
He wants to see where Derek lives but Stiles can tell Derek won’t budge on this, so he lets it drop.
It’s less than ten minutes before Derek is pulling into the Stilinski’s driveway. He puts the Jeep in park and turns the engine off. Neither of them makes a move to get out of the Jeep.
“So,” Stiles says, blowing out a breath. “Tell me why we’re dating?”
Derek cocks an eyebrow at him.
Stiles clarifies. “I mean, like why are you dating me?”
Derek looks puzzled, as if the question doesn’t make sense, like there is no reason anyone should wonder about this.
Stiles huffs a sigh. “I’m seventeen and in high school. You’re twenty-four and not,” he says to elaborate. “And, well…you look like you--” he waves a hand at Derek to convey the utter perfection that he is, “—and I look like me so…”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” Stiles asks.
“Put yourself down like that,” Derek replies seriously. “Trust me, you’re the much better catch in this duo.”
And there it is again. That overly fond, tender look. The one that tells Stiles that he belongs with Derek, even if he’s momentarily forgotten him.
“Everyone says you love me,” Stiles says blithely. Derek’s expression becomes even more tender but there’s a trace of sadness there too.
“I do.”
“Why?” he asks then quickly qualifies, “I mean, I’m not being self-deprecating here. I just want to know. I want to know why you love me.”
Derek shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says but Stiles refuses to take that as an answer so he presses Derek on with a pointed look and stubborn raise of his eyebrows. He wants to know. He needs to know. Derek sighs. “You talk too much and ask way too many questions,” he tells Stiles. “You’re uncoordinated as hell, you sleep like a clingy octopus, and you’re clearly the poster boy for ‘Borderline Genius Who Flails A Lot’. You’re loyal to a goddamn fault, you put everyone else first before yourself, and you wave off the things you do as unimportant. And you’re stubborn – so, so stubborn. You almost always do the opposite of whatever someone tells you, especially when that someone is me.”
“Gee, way to sweet talk a guy,” Stiles remarks dryly and Derek grins.
“You have the most beautiful soul, Stiles,” he says. “And you make me feel--”
“I make you feel what?” Stiles asks, his voice coming out as barely a whisper.
“Just that,” Derek says. “You make me feel.” The look he gives Stiles is soft. “That’s why I love you.”
Stiles sits in silence for a moment, thinking. Then, “What if my memories don’t come back?”
He feels anxious just asking the question. But Derek smiles at him.
“Then we’ll make new ones,” he tells Stiles.
“We don’t do this--” Stiles waves a hand between them, “—that much anymore, do we? At least not like we used to.”
“No,” Scott answers and Stiles thinks this might be the first direct answer his best friend has given him since Stiles was released from hospital.
“Is it because you’ve got a girlfriend and I’ve got a boyfriend?” Stiles asks.
“Mostly, yeah,” Scott tells him. He smiles. “We’re still best buds, though.”
Stiles nods. “I guess I spend a lot of time with Derek now?”. He knows Scott’s recent daily hanging-out-with-Stiles is born mostly out of worry and concern and that pre-coma/ memory loss, Scott had probably spent most of his time with Allison, just like Stiles had probably spent most of his time with Derek.
Scott laughs. “Yeah. I would say you two were inseparable but it’s really more like you’re… indistinguishable.”
“Indistinguishable?”
“Sure. Like, there’s Stiles and there’s Derek,” Scott says to explain. “But then there’s StilesandDerek. Like--ha!--Sterek.” He chuckles at his own sorry excuse for humour.
“That’s hysterekal,” Stiles comments dryly.
Scott rolls his eyes. “Anyway, it’s StilesandDerek most of the time. We rarely get one of you without the other.” He shrugs. “And we’re all okay with it that way.”
So he and Derek usually spend a lot of time together. Stiles wants to ask who the “we” is that are all okay with he and Derek being practically indistinguishable but he thinks he can guess.
“So I’m guessing it’s Scallison most of the time too?” Stiles throws out slyly.
Scott’s eyebrows pinch together. “Scallison?”
Now Stiles rolls his eyes. “Scott and Allison?” he clarifies. “What? You’re the only one who gets to make up a ridiculous portmanteau?”
“A what?” Stiles can’t help but think Scott looks like a confused puppy right now.
Stiles grins at him. “Never change, dude,” he says fondly.
Derek had said they could make new memories. He’s been thinking about this for a few days now and Stiles has decided he’s very much on board with making new memories with Derek. Preferably memories that involve their lips and maybe their bodies touching.
Stiles knows he has a habit of licking his lips when he talks. He also knows he comes across as a bit of tease when he does it. Derek is staring at his mouth, tracking the movement of his tongue across his lips. Stiles decides that now would be a very good time to commence the making of new memories.
So he leans in and presses his lips to Derek’s. He’s much bolder this time and Derek does not pull away after a few seconds. Instead, he cups Stiles’ jaw, angles his head and deepens the kiss, causing Stiles to whimper a little.
“I miss this,” Derek whispers against his lips. “I miss you. I miss us.”
Stiles wants to give this to Derek. He wants Derek to stop hurting. He wants Derek to kiss him, to touch him, to take whatever he needs from Stiles to feel right again.
He falls back onto the bed, pulling Derek with him, Derek’s lips never leaving Stiles’. Their kiss intensifies, mouths sliding hotly together, tongues touching and tangling. Stiles’ body presses up and into Derek’s and it’s strangely familiar. Like his body remembers, knows how it’s supposed to react to Derek’s body.
Derek growls, grinding his hips down, and Stiles lets out a soft moan. He can feel Derek’s length hardening, straining against the unforgiving denim of his jeans and Stiles finds himself hardening in eager response.
This is familiar, he thinks. The desire. The want. The need. Stiles needs Derek. He needs Derek like he needs nothing else in the world.
Derek is mouthing at his neck now, still grinding his hips down. Stiles hooks his calves around Derek’s and rolls them over to level the playing field, poking Derek in in the ribs, teasing, “Just because you’re the Alpha doesn’t mean you get to top all the time.”
He freezes suddenly, his words slowly sinking in. He watches as Derek’s expression grows tense and somewhat wary.
“What,” Stiles says dully. “Why...why did I say that?”
He blinks a few times then rolls off Derek, sliding over the side of the bed onto the floor, his back against the mattress. He pulls his knees up to his chest, hooking his arms around them, and stares stonily at the bookshelf opposite him.
“Stiles?”
He can hear the apprehension – and guilt? - in Derek’s voice.
Stiles doesn’t answer him. His memories are a jumbled mess right now, pieces slowly clicking together.
Hazel eyes glowing red.
Claws extending.
Fangs.
I’m the Alpha.
His head hurts. Stiles rubs fingers against his temples to ease the pain.
“Stiles?” Derek says again. His hand is warm on the back of Stiles’ neck.
“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles says before he even realizes he’s going to say it.
There’s a moment’s pause before Derek answers. “Yes.”
Stiles thinks this revelation should probably freak him out a little. But it doesn’t.
“Scott too,” Derek says, his tone tentative, like he’s testing the waters carefully. “And Isaac and Boyd.”
“Erica,” Stiles adds for him.
Derek’s voice is shaky when he says, “Yes, Erica. She was pack. My pack. My family. Just like you.”
“I’m not a werewolf.” He knows he’s not.
“You’re still pack, Stiles,” Derek tells him. “My pack. My…” he trails off.
He knows what Derek wants to say. That Stiles is his mate. There are so many things Stiles still can’t remember but he instinctively knows this. He knows he’s part of Derek’s pack, knows he’s Derek’s mate.
“It’s too much to take in right now, though. He needs space. He needs to think.
“I just – I need to be alone right now,” he tells Derek.
He listens to Derek breath for what seems like a long moment. “Okay,” Derek says finally and Stiles wants to cry at how painfully resigned Derek sounds. He reaches back to pat Derek on the arm but Derek’s already moving off the bed. He grabs his jacket and shrugs into it. He gives Stiles a final considering look before pulling open the door and leaving.
He lets the flood of tears come once Derek is gone. Stiles hates that he’s hurting Derek, hates that he’s shutting him out, but he needs time to think, needs time to pick through these muddled memories.
It’s the only way Stiles thinks he’ll be able to feel whole again.
It’s his dad, who must have come home from work early because Stiles is sure he was on the night shift and shouldn’t have been home until six the next morning. Stiles supposes Derek must have called or texted him.
“You okay?” his dad asks, and there’s such softness in his tone that it almost makes Stiles lose it again.
“Yeah,” he replies shakily. He’s not okay. Not yet. But he thinks he will be.
“I talked to Derek and Scott,” his dad says, coming into the room. “And Deaton.”
“Deaton's a vet, dad,” Stiles expresses. But even as he says it, Stiles knows Deaton is more than this.
“We agreed it’s time,” his dad says and hands Stiles a slip of paper.
Stiles takes it. He looks down at the paper and sees a string of letters and numbers. He knows right away what it is. It’s the password for the locked files on his computer.
“Take your time,” his dad tells him then leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Stiles grabs his Mac Book from the desk and settles back down on the floor at the end of his bed. He clicks on the first locked folder and enters the password. The folder contains several documents that detail a variety of supernatural beings from werewolves to pixies to succubi and wendigos. Stiles knows what this is. It’s his journal, his own bestiary.
He sifts through the documents for a while, reading over the entries, allowing the memories to slowly surface. Some of his memories are still out of reach but he knows they’re likely to return with time. He finds documents not only devoted to supernatural beings but to those who hunt them and Stiles immediately thinks: Allison. But along with these memories of Allison being all badass, shooting her crossbow, there are dark, nightmarish ones that cause him to feel very anxious, though he doesn’t know why. He closes the hunter documents and opens the other password-protected folder.
This folder contains photos. All kinds of photos. There are photos of Scott, Allison, Lydia, Danny, Isaac, and Boyd. Even some of Jackson. And Derek, of course.
He’s looking at a photo of him and Derek that he remembers well. Stiles has his arms wrapped around Derek’s shoulders from behind and Derek is laughing, his head tilted slightly to the side to avoid the eye flare that usually gets picked up by cameras. Stiles remembers making Scott take the photo. He also remembers this was the photo he had set as his cell phone background because he loves the way Derek looks when he laughs.
Stiles goes through all of the photos of him and Derek, trying to recall the contexts in which they were taken. He can recall some but not others. Stiles wonders how long it will take for all of his memories to return and worries that some may be lost forever.
He saves the photos of Erica until last.
His favourite is the one he took of her close up, smiling wide like a Cheshire cat, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. Stiles touches the screen, tracing the waves of her golden blonde hair with his finger, running it across her pink-painted lips and smoothing it over the crinkles around her eyes.
Sweet, innocent, beautiful Erica, he thinks.
But Stiles knows this is not completely accurate. Erica had been beautiful, yes. Even before Derek had given her the bite, Erica Reyes had been beautiful, even if she had thought Stiles hadn’t noticed her. But sweet? Innocent? His lips curl into a smile. Erica had bashed him in the face with a part to his Jeep. She had pulled him along by his ear at least twice that he can remember. It had been standard Erica procedure to greet Stiles with a headlock and a hair noogie, and she liked to thrust her very ample bosom in his face whenever she got the chance just because she knew it flustered him and made Derek growl. Sweet and innocent Erica Reyes was not.
But there were other things he remembers. Like the way Erica’s brown eyes lit up mischievously whenever she teased him. How she had told him he made a good Batman after Stiles had acted quickly and had gotten her to Derek when she’d had that seizure. He remembers how she admitted she had once had a crush on him but had told him later that he and Derek were made for each other – she had actually said they deserved each other but Stiles knows what she’d really meant.
Stiles knows something terrible happened to Erica and that it’s too painful for his mind to remember. He wants to remember, though. Needs to remember, even if it terrifies him to have to do so.
So he sits with his laptop, going through every single photo, again and again. It’s past midnight when his dad comes back up. He sits on the floor next to Stiles and watches his son click through the photos, laughing and smiling along with him, and reaching out to hug him whenever tears fall from Stiles’ eyes.
His dad convinces Stiles to go to bed when he’s so tired he can barely keep his eyes open, telling Stiles he’ll sit with him while he sleeps.
He dreams. Some of the dreams are nightmares, filled with visions that he still doesn’t understand, but his dad is right there to quell the fear and to soothe Stiles back to sleep.
“Stiles,” Derek says when he pulls open the door, looking somewhat surprised to see him.
“Hey,” Stiles returns. He follows Derek into the loft, making his way toward the bank of windows that line the wall across the front. It’s his favourite part of Derek’s loft. The light that pours in from the sun during the day and the moon at night is such a contrast to the dark, burnt out shell of the Hale house.
“I remember,” Stiles says. Derek’s face is characteristically schooled but Stiles knows Derek well enough to see the undercurrent of both hope and worry there. “I mean, I still can only remember bits and pieces about us,” he clarifies. “Like, I remember we’ve been dating for about eight months but I can’t remember exactly how or when we met. I remember holding you up in a pool for two hours, but I have absolutely no idea why. I know you hate broccoli as much as my dad but I can’t remember if you like vanilla or chocolate ice cream best. My pet name for you is Sourwolf and you call me Little Red just to annoy me but I have no idea how these names even came about.
“But you know what? None of that really matters,” he tells him. “Because I remember something, Derek. Something really important.”
“What’s that?” Derek asks. Stiles knows he’s trying not to be too hopeful.
Stiles takes a deep breath. He tries to keep his voice steady when he says, “I remember that I love you. I can’t remember a lot of things about you and me, but I remember that.” He moves toward Derek. “I didn’t forget you, Derek.” A tiny sob escapes as he pats a hand to his chest. “You’ve been safe here in my heart all along.”
“God, Stiles,” Derek says and pulls him close.
“I just—I just don’t know if it’s enough, Derek,” Stiles sobs into Derek’s chest. “To make you stop hurting.”
“It’s more than enough,” Derek reassures, and Stiles realizes Derek’s crying. “It’s the only thing that matters.”
“They tortured her,” he sobs. Derek is holding Stiles, rocking him against his chest, trying to soothe him. “They tortured her and then they tore her in pieces. I couldn’t save her, Derek. I couldn’t fucking save her.”
“I know, baby,” Derek sobs with him. “I know.”
They tell him it was Derek who had found him, just barely alive and unconscious. He had wolfed out in rage, slashed the throats of the two hunters who had had the misfortune of hanging around after they had done their dirty work, then had picked up Stiles’ lifeless body and had carried him to the hospital – running the whole way. By Melissa McCall’s account, Derek had rushed into Emergency Care yelling that the sheriff’s son needed help. Most of the hospital staff had been shocked at seeing a crazed-looking and blood-splattered Derek but had moved into action quickly once they had realized he was carrying Stiles who was unconscious and hurt.
Derek had waited until he knew Stiles was out of immediate danger and then he had gone back to the warehouse for Erica.
Derek’s had to deal with a lot.
Stiles now understands what Scott had meant by this. He remembers most of what Derek has had to deal with. He knows it almost killed Derek to have found him like that and that it had nearly destroyed the Alpha when he had had to bury Erica. There are times when Stiles wishes that it had been Derek who had lost his memory instead of him, if only so Derek could have had some respite from the darkness, just for a little while.
Unity. Strength. Family.
He knows why he got the tattoo. He also knows it doesn’t mean the things Scott had told him. Not exactly anyway. The tattoo on Stiles’ left shoulder blade represents what’s most important to him. It represents his everything:
Derek.
Because Derek is his Unity. Derek is his Strength. Derek is his Family.
And Stiles loves him.