By Any Other Name 1/4
Title: By Any Other Name 1/4
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 32,000
Warnings: Amnesia, violence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He doesn't know his name, he doesn't know who he is, and neither does the werewolf he's on the run with. But he's pretty sure they hunt monsters, because they seem to be really good at it.
AN: Written for the Amnesia (wildcard) square, for hc_bingo
He wakes up staring at the sky, with absolutely no idea who he is. Which he figures is a crappy start to anyone's day.
He can see the flash and dart of sunlight between the leaves overhead, and he can feel the rough, damp press of hard dirt under his back, so he knows he's outside. It's more than just a garden, there's the sense of space, of area, the wet smell of trees and cold air. His head doesn't hurt, so he doesn't think he's suffered any sort of traumatic head injury. Which seems strange because he's pretty sure that's how you get amnesia, isn't it? After a traumatic head injury. You can't hit your head hard enough to forget who you are and not feel it, that's just stupid. The inside of his brain is really just a fog of half-processed thoughts. It's not empty - he knows things, he remembers things, but nothing about him.
He's in the woods, he may or may not have a traumatic head injury, but he doesn't seem to be hurt in any other way. That feels like something of an accomplishment. He's clearly smart enough to make deductions based on evidence.
But he knows absolutely nothing about himself. There's just nothing there.
What he does know right now, is that someone is fighting an animal roughly ten feet away from him. Not the sort of thing he wants to be lying there and staring at the sky for. He rolls, as quickly as his stiff, protesting body can manage, because he really doesn't want to be on the ground, confused and defenceless, if there's some sort of vicious dog on the loose.
The first thing he sees is a dead man, sprawled in the grass next to him. Close enough that he can make out the grisly extent of the man's injuries in a second. His outflung hand is smeared with dirt, leaves clinging to the palm. The fingers are bone-white, his arm leads up to where his throat is a mess of blood and tissue, jaw half torn away, and there's the white flash of bone there that makes his stomach jolt. The smell of it on the wind is unexpectedly sharp, and he's scrambling sideways, trying to get away from the body. From the strange, dead man within touching distance.
He'd almost forgotten the fight. But he jerks his head up when a wet, animal snarl is accompanied by the crash of bodies hitting the ground. A crunch of small stones and dirt skitters past him.
There's a stranger with glowing, sparking blue eyes, and he's trying to wrestle some sort of animal statue away from - holy shit - that's not an animal. That's a guy with claws - that's a guy with claws and fangs, and the low, burning grate of noise is coming out of his throat. He's the animal. He's the - animal?
There's a witch fighting a werewolf right in front of him - and thinking that doesn't help, really doesn't help at all. Because that makes no sense, and when you have no memories the one thing that should be reassuring is what to expect from the rest of the world, for it to make sense, to follow some sort of pattern. Or for it to be, at the very least, normal.
The guy with glowing eyes snaps out something he can't hear - or can't translate - then punches half the statue into Werewolf Dude's chest, it literally drives all the way into it, blood spattering all along the witch's sleeves, droplets arcing up to hit his throat and cheek. But it doesn't kill the werewolf, even though there's far too much blood, and growling, and wet, choking heaves of breath. He's not dead, not dying, doesn't look like he's dying from it any time soon at least. He mostly just looks really, really pissed off. Though the way that Glowing Eyes is twisting the statue - like he's trying to blend Werewolf Dude's heart - makes him roar with pain.
And he's just frozen there on his knees in the dirt, watching it happen. Because he doesn't know what to do. But the fact that his first instinct is to scramble upright, heft a spiky branch off the forest floor, and bring it down with all his strength on the side of Glowing Eyes's head, tells him something about himself. The way he grips the wood tight, watches the witch collapse sideways, head a mess of blood and dirt, it tells him things he doesn't understand. But who is he to second guess himself and his own instincts.
Then he finds himself pulling the fanged monstrosity - werewolf, holy shit, werewolf, werewolves are real - up by the slippery, blood-slick leather of his jacket, and hauling him in the direction of the black, wet-dream of a car, and hoping like hell it's either his, Mr Werewolf's, or that Mr Werewolf knows how to hotwire a car.
The werewolf is heavier than hell, all bones and muscle. He's still snarling wetly, bright red eyes and blood-slick fangs far too close to his face to be anything comforting. His grip keeps slipping on the bloody leather of the other guy's jacket, it's running down his wrists in thin streams. He hopes like hell werewolves are more durable than people. Because he thinks he just killed a man for this one - he just killed a man - and he thinks it'd be nice to know his name, if nothing else. Or y'know his own name, no pressure. One thing at a time.
They stumble past another dead man on the way, chest being eaten out by some sort of crawling blue flame. Then another by the tree line, facedown in the dirt. What exactly is he a part of? What the hell has he woken into?
"Is that your car?" The weight on his shoulder breathes pain, and doesn't answer. He does his best to tug at the jacket, twist his fingers in the leather to get his attention. "Hey - dude, is that your car?"
The guy looks at him, confusion and wariness struggling out through the pain. As if he has no idea what's going on either. No idea who he is. That seems to be a thing that's going around. There is definitely a mutual sense of bewilderment here. He honestly doesn't know whether to find that comforting or not. Or whether to be afraid, because people don't lose their memories in groups. That doesn't happen. Was it magic? Were their memories taken by magic?
"Do you know who you are?" he asks, confirming that it's true, or trying to get an explanation.
There's a headshake, rough and jerky, which works in place of words. The bleeding werewolf's heavier suddenly, coughing blood, and he stumbles, nearly loses his grip on him and has to tighten his hold, much to the snarling displeasure of said werewolf. Though he doesn't get bitten at least. It's always a good day when you don't get bitten by a werewolf.
But he has to say, the werewolf thing totally works for him, it's genuinely terrifying, and on any other day maybe he'd be screaming and begging for his life. But there's a mess of witches decomposing fifty feet away, at least one of which is because of him, and he knows without doubt that they need to get out of here. They need to leave right now, memories or not. This is not a good place to stay. Eventually there'll be police all over this place, eventually there's always police, and right now he doesn't know how to explain werewolves, or self-defence in the face of skin-eating magic.
He's digging through the pockets of the werewolf's incredibly tight jeans, and hoping that he isn't going to get anything punctured for it. He's trying not to be over-familiar but they're kind of in a hurry. Yes, so, keys. Apparently he has keys, and apparently the car really does belong to him. Though the werewolf's in no shape to drive, so it looks like it's up to him. He's just glad he remembers how.
They get the hell out of dodge - or wherever they are.
*****
Werewolf Dude has mostly healed before they reach the nearest motel. He finds that fascinating enough that he almost swerves off the road twice trying to get a look at it. The guy literally just heals the stab wounds over like they were never there. Until the bloody, torn shirt is a red, dripping mess over perfectly healed skin, and he's staring - he probably shouldn't be staring, it's probably rude, or something. But he's had a tough day so far. Considering this is the third, maybe fourth, magical and impossible thing he's seen already.
The motel looks cheap and nasty, and exactly the sort of place that takes cash (they have cash,) doesn't mind the blood stains, (there are a lot of blood stains,) and also doesn't check ID, which he assumes they also have, but he doesn't want to start pulling his stuff out on the side of the road. It's already too dark to see anyway. He doesn't want to lose what identification he might have in a ditch somewhere.
He's shaking when he sits on the end of the bed, and he can't make himself stop, because he killed a man, and drove a bleeding werewolf God knows how many miles. He has no idea what his name is, or anything about himself other than he's apparently the type of person that can do this, who knows how to do this, is willing to do this. He's not sure if that's amazing, or terrifying, or some awful third option. Because he's roughly three hours into his life, and there are already dead bodies, and murder, and witches, and werewolves that heal like Wolverine, and cheap motel rooms that smell like people had sex in them, or died in them, or possibly died while having sex in them, which he really doesn't want to think about or he won't be able to touch anything in the room. Basically what he's saying is, that it's a lot to process. He doesn't know if this is normal for him. Is this normal for him? This shouldn't be normal for anyone. What kind of person would this be normal for?
"It was a stupid idea to just grab me," Werewolf Dude says, from where he's cleaning blood off his face in front of the stupid, full length mirror the room has. It had taken a full minute for him to even care that he was covered in blood, suggesting that he ended up covered in blood a lot, and wasn't that a comforting thought. He'd prowled the motel room like the smell of it offended him.
The guy out front must have noticed the blood, but he hadn't said anything about it. He doesn't know whether to worry about that or not.
"I could have killed you." The angry werewolf is glaring at his reflection now, like he barely notices what he looks like - and how is that even possible? How could you not know you looked like that?
He can see his own reflection from where he's sitting on the bed too - where he'd sank into an exhausted heap the minute the door swung shut - and he looks stupidly, incredibly young, face pale and blotchy, and not half as heroic as he was imagining...hoping for?
"And yet you didn't, so clearly we know each other, right? That makes sense. If we didn't know each other you would have - what, savaged me or something?" He'd seen what happened to the people that had been savaged, and he's fairly certain he isn't going to forget that any time soon. He watches Werewolf Dude's jaw work, and he thinks that's as close to a yes as he's going to get. "Not that I know much about werewolves. Can I just have a moment to let that sink in. I mean, I know I probably know about you and everything already. But - werewolves, I think I deserve a moment to process that there are apparently werewolves, also witches -" He stops and thinks about it. "There were witches at least, because we killed a bunch of them. You noticed that right, the dead bodies. There were dead bodies." He trails off, because he honestly doesn't know what else to say. But his face looks as shocked as he feels, which is something. There's a dried smear of blood on his cheek, which he hadn't noticed before. He rubs at it with his sleeve, harder than he means to, until it's gone.
"You talk a lot," Werewolf Dude says. Though he says it like he's pointing it out, noticing it, rather than judging it, or threatening to make him stop.
"Huh, I guess I do, I'm - my name, what's my name - ?" He can't believe it took him this long to really think about it. He digs into his pockets, looking at every piece of plastic and tossing them aside, until he finds one with his face on it. "Stilinski - no first name. My license has no first name on it. How can I not have a first name? I can't just call myself Stilinski. Also, Jesus that's a horrible photo. I look about twelve. I'm kind of hoping my ID's fake now. If only because that address sounds totally made up."
"Stiles." Werewolf Dude says, voice rough but certain.
"What?"
"The witch, the one I killed, he threatened you, and he called you Stiles."
"My name is Stiles Stilinski?" he says incredulously. "What were my parents drunk or something? Don't they know that alliteration is the easiest route to terrible punishment and eternal mockery." Stiles? Stiles Stilinski? It doesn't so much roll off the tongue as clatter out in pieces. But he supposes it'll do. It's the only name he has right now. And it's definitely better than no name at all. "Ok, Stiles Stilinski it is then. Your turn, because I can't keep calling you 'Werewolf Dude,' in my head. Since that is your one defining characteristic. That and the stubble."
The guy frowns and fishes in his pocket, tosses car keys and cards aside, before flipping one around and squinting at it.
"Derek Hale," he says, brow furrowing as if he doesn't like the sound of it.
"Derek?" Stiles laughs, he can't help it. Because that is just ridiculous. "Your name is Derek? Dude, that's got to be a fake name."
Derek's forehead creases further, eyebrows almost meeting. He really doesn't look like a Derek. He looks like maybe he could have eaten a Derek at some point.
"Whoever made your fake ID clearly hates you," Stiles decides. "Bet it was the same guy who made mine. We should totally get our money back once we remember who that is. Hey, how old are you?"
Derek checks. "My fake ID says twenty four."
"I'm seventeen." That's a little depressing, though still better than Stiles was expecting. He'd honestly expected younger.
"Great, I'm a werewolf with an underage boyfriend." Derek glares at himself in the mirror. He looks like he does that a lot.
"A grumpy, werewolf with an underage boyfriend - " Stiles realises what he's saying, somewhat belatedly. "Hey, whoa, wait, why am I your boyfriend?"
Derek looks at him like he's an idiot.
"You killed the man that was attacking me, before you even knew my name, and then I let you drag me to a car with four puncture wounds in my chest, let you shove me in the passenger seat and drive my car, without ripping your throat out."
That's - that's actually pretty fair, and ok, that's - oh my God, wow. Stiles knows nothing about himself other than the fact his boyfriend is a) a werewolf and b) almost too hot to be a real person. So even if it's all downhill from here, at least he started on an unexpected and confusing high. How the hell did he manage that anyway, seriously? The more he thinks about it, the less he believes it. Which suggests he either has shitty self-esteem, or good instincts.
"Ok, so I can see how someone would end up with you." Stiles gestures in the mirror, towards the very obvious proof of Derek's muscles, and scowly face of improbable hotness. "But there's no way you'd hook up with me. I mean - look at my nose, my nose is ridiculous, and I barely look seventeen, barely. Jesus." He looks away.
Derek stares at him blankly for a second, and Stiles realises belatedly what he just insinuated about Derek's taste.
"Not that I think that's your thing," he offers hurriedly. Then thinks about it for a second. "Though you clearly don't mind if we're...together, and oh my God, I'm just going to stop talking now. I can already tell this is a relationship where I spend a lot of time with my foot in my mouth."
Derek grasps his jaw and turns his face back to look in the mirror.
"Maybe not just your foot," he says, like he's considering it.
Stiles smacks his hand away. "Oh my God, quit casting aspersions on my good name - which, granted, we aren't a hundred percent sure on right now." He can't help looking at the mirror again, where Derek is currently trying to glare his memories back to the surface. Which probably won't work. Though the guy's giving it a damn good go. "I'm probably not your boyfriend," Stiles says. "Have you seen you? You're like - no, you know what, I'm not even going to finish that, because clearly you're a guy who has your ego stroked constantly. You probably can't even say hi to someone without them immediately falling all over themselves to tell you how pretty you are."
Derek's eyebrows just look insulted now. Insulted in his direction.
"Don't even look at me like that, you know it's true." Stiles takes a moment to rub a hand over his hair, and wonder why it's so short. If it's a personal choice, or there was some horrible incident with open flames, or gum. He looks like the sort of person who could have an accident like that.
"I think you are," Derek says grudgingly.
"What?" Stiles stops trying to decide if he likes his ears and looks at him.
"My - " Derek stops and pulls a face. "I think we're together." He shakes his head, as if whatever he's feeling is hard to explain. "You feel almost familiar, everything else - the idea of anyone else coming close to me is - it makes me want to break something. You, you're non-threatening, you're like a vibration under the skin, all tones of motion and enthusiasm, and you're - good." The frown slips away, as if he'd found the word he was struggling for.
Good? Stiles supposes he can live with that.
"So does that mean you - do you find me attractive?" He can't believe he actually asked that, once it's out. But he does genuinely want to know. He's trying to piece together what the hell is going on, and if they're together then Derek must at least find him a little attractive, right? Also, it'll be a huge ego boost if the answer's yes.
Derek throws him a pointed look.
"I did, before I knew you were underage."
Stiles glares at him. "Oh, ouch, way to wound a guy. Clearly your memory-having self didn't care."
"Not surprising," Derek says, mostly to his own reflection. "I look like a fucking criminal."
Stiles wants to point out that if they're having sex then he technically is a criminal. But he's fairly certain that the murder trumps the underage sex anyway.
"You certainly do look dangerous, even when you're not all fanged-out."
Derek pulls a face at him, which he can read perfectly for all that they're mostly strangers.
"That's what I'm calling it, in my head. You're not going to stop me calling it that. It's like the perfect description of what you did, with the teeth and the eyes and the whole -" He waves a hand around Derek's general vicinity. "Sexy Wolverine thing you have going on."
Derek rolls his eyes and tosses his shirt towards the bathroom.
"So, er, what exactly do we know about us?" Stiles asks. "Aside from the elephant in the room that is you being a werewolf. Because I don't remember anything about being me, but I definitely remember that werewolves aren't supposed to be real. I would definitely remember if we lived in a world where werewolves were supposed to be real."
Derek glares at him, as if doubting the truth of his existence is insulting somehow.
"Well, we know you talk too much," he starts, like that was the most obvious thing.
"Hey." Stiles wonders if they have the sort of relationship where friendly shoving is allowed.
"Witches are hunting us," Derek adds. "We probably lost our memories via magic, and I own a Camaro."
"And that is a freakin' beautiful car, by the way, we could probably dig through it later for clues or something - oh." Stiles slides off the bed and scoots across the carpet on his knees. To the chair where Derek threw his jacket, and he fishes through the pockets. "I know you have a phone, I saw it when you were looking for cash when we paid -" He pulls it out with a noise of discovery, then wonders if that's some sort of weird violation, even though neither of them know who they are. Can you violate people's privacy when no one remembers if they want to be private or not? So many questions.
He tosses it to Derek.
"Check your phonebook."
Derek frowns.
"We don't know anything about ourselves, or each other. But you still have your phone, and the people in your phone will know who you are at least," Stiles explains, shuffling close again. "Hell they'll probably know who I am if we're as close as you think we are. Who's in your contact list."
Derek reads out the names as he scrolls through them.
"Boyd, Deaton, Erica, Isaac, Peter, Scott, Stiles."
Stiles makes a frustrated noise.
"Are any of those familiar to you? Except me, obviously, or at least I'm assuming that's me. I have no phone - I think the witch guy broke it. Because none of them sound familiar to me. I guess I should know your friends, or some of them at least."
Derek shakes his head.
"No mom or dad?" Stiles adds. "That's weird right? Unless they're dead, or you don't talk to them. Who calls you the most?" He tries to get a better look over Derek's arm, though he's being very protective of his mysterious numbers.
Derek hits a couple of buttons, and then his eyebrow flicks up.
"You do." He turns the phone so Stiles can see his own name, repeated over and over through the list of names and numbers.
"Well that's not going to be any help, since I don't remember being me. Though I suppose that kind of answers the question of whether we're together. Look how clingy I am." He wonders if he should be embarrassed about that. Not that it really matters because he is a little bit anyway. "Any messages?"
"Deleted," Derek says simply.
"Outgoing messages?" Stiles suggests, after a second's thought. "Have you sent anything in the last twenty four hours?"
Derek's quiet for a second, thumb moving.
"There's one. 'They're tracking you, don't go home, don't tell Scott what we're doing,'" he reads, then turns the phone so Stiles can see again.
"Great, we're being hunted by witches, and - Scott's the guy in your phone right? Why were we not supposed to tell him. Was he one of the people after us? Who's Scott?" If someone betrayed them that makes Derek's entire phone suspect. Judging by Derek's expression he's thinking the same thing.
"Why do you keep asking me?" Derek says stiffly, with that frustrated huff of air through his nose, that Stiles thinks is definitely his thing.
Stiles shrugs, because he genuinely doesn't know. He's mostly thinking aloud, and Derek's the only person around so he's thinking aloud at him.
"So, the Scott from your phone, he was part of this or something? Did he betray us?"
Derek sighs and pointedly shakes the phone.
"Right, right, you know nothing either." Stiles makes reassuring gestures. "I'm sorry, I'm clearly a questioner, I am compelled to ask questions in the face of confusion and bewilderment. Just assume I'm adding 'do you think?' to the end of all my sentences, ok. I think that'll be easier, or at least cut down on the frustration all round."
"The answer's still 'I don't know,'" Derek says, though Stiles's explanation doesn't seem to have softened his tone much.
"Wow, you really are very grumpy," Stiles tells him. "Do you think that's a werewolf thing, or just a you thing?"
Derek looks like he kind of wants to hit him with the phone. So, yes, almost certainly a Derek thing.
"It's totally a you thing, isn't it? Insanely hot and grumpy is your thing, and apparently my thing as well, who knew? Ok, so we're being possibly hunted by witches, whose powers we aren't entirely sure of yet. Can witches track people via cellphones? Can witches track people in general. I feel like I'm running blind here. I don't even know if I knew there were witches yesterday. I mean I could have had some sort of witch-proof plan laid out for us yesterday, and I wouldn't know anything about it." It's frustrating, suddenly, how much he wants to grasp whoever he was, or is. But there's just nothing there.
"It's best to be safe," Derek says stiffly, and then takes hold of his phone in both hands like he's going to snap it in half.
"Wait!" Stiles reaches over and twists it out of Derek's hand, then flips over the pad on the bedside table and snags the pen beside it. "I'm going to take down the numbers first. Who knows if we'll need to get hold of one of them later. It is pretty much the only connection we have with who we are, trustworthy or not." He manages to get them down before Derek starts pulling the phone into pieces. He literally just pulls the thing apart, and the pen goes slack in Stiles's fingers. "Dude, exactly how strong are you?"
Derek looks down at where he's been snapping the plastic and metal, without even thinking about it. Shards of it falling silently to land in the threadbare motel carpet.
"Are you going to, like, dislocate my shoulder giving me a friendly punch or what?" Stiles says, then laughs in a way that only half sounds like it's joking. "Because if that's an option I'm going to veto the friendly punching right now. Oh my God, no, you know what, if we're actually dating then there will be no punches, at all. Because I'm pretty sure that abusive werewolf boyfriend is a Lifetime movie too far for me."
Derek glares at him. "I can control myself."
Stiles raises an eyebrow.
"How do you even know that?"
"You're still in one piece, aren't you," Derek points out.
Which sounds weirdly threatening, or possibly dirty, Stiles doesn't even know. He doesn't know Derek well enough to be able to tell if he's joking.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles demands.
"You're very annoying," Derek says quietly, then tips his head forward in a way that Stiles thinks is supposed to mean something.
"You're the one who decided to date me, and hey, you're not exactly a -" Stiles inhales the end of the sentence, because Derek has stalked his way closer, without Stiles even realising it. All predator smile and warm breath.
Derek takes up space in a way he doesn't even seem to notice, radiating heat and intensity that leaves Stiles's mouth suddenly very dry. Because he thinks Derek's going to kiss him - almost definitely going to kiss him, no matter how insane that seems. The thought shouldn't be so startling. If they're together, if they're in a relationship then they probably do this all the time. But Stiles doesn't remember it, they don't really know each other at all right now. What if they've gotten this horribly wrong. What if they're not together, what if it's all weirdly circumstantial and it's just because Stiles smells completely non-threatening, or Derek knows him because of some other completely non-sexy reason. What if they're related?
He laughs a little, quiet and breathless, and it cracks as it slides down his throat.
"What if it's not true," Stiles says quickly, heart pounding. "We could be related, we could be brothers. How creepy and disturbing would that be?" He's rambling and he knows it, but he can't stop.
"We're not brothers." Derek tries to tug his face close again, and Stiles can't think of a single reason not to let him. He wants Derek to kiss him, and he honestly has no idea why he's pretending that he doesn't. He doesn't know why he's so nervous about just letting it happen.
Derek's mouth is warm, all easy shift and pressure. Stiles lifts his hands and curls his fingertips in Derek's shirt, opens up a little for him. The kiss goes deep, turns into a wet slide of tongues, and a harsh grate of stubble that makes his insides feel tangled and hot. It's really, really good, it's better than Stiles has any frame of reference for. Which makes the fact that Derek pulls away very confusing, and a little upsetting.
"What? Why did you stop?" he says numbly, his mouth is still wet, which is weirdly distracting.
"You're -" Derek stops, frowning.
"What? I'm what?" Stiles isn't quite sure whether he sounds nervous or irritated, adrenaline makes his voice louder than he means.
"Not familiar," Derek says, with a frown of disappointment. "I thought I'd feel something."
"Oh screw you," Stiles says sharply, face colouring, trying to twist his way out of Derek's impossible grip.
"No," Derek eases him back into stillness, gives a frustrated sigh. "I didn't mean it like that, I just meant you feel new, I thought if you were mine I'd know it."
Stiles thinks about objecting to the 'mine' part of that sentence. But he's finding it really hard to think straight after that.
"I think we've already established how memorable I am," Stiles says, trying to make a joke, and feeling kind of shitty, because it's fairly obvious that Derek has gotten it out of his system, and he has no intention of kissing him again.
But then he does, he just sways back in, as if it's that easy for him, slightly too much pressure, and the faint scrape of sharp teeth.
"I never said I didn't want to," Derek says roughly, right into his mouth. Before he's sliding away.
Stiles doesn't know what to say to that. He isn't sure he's supposed to say anything to that.
"It's late," Derek says. "And you're human, you should get some sleep."
Stiles mouth still doesn't work well enough to form words, so he just stupidly watches Derek shut himself in the bathroom.
"It's awesome how you say 'human' like it's an insult," he mutters. Which doesn't get a reply, but he knows Derek can still hear him.
He finds the remote and turns the TV on, just for some noise. Because that's easier than thinking about the fact that he's way too wired to sleep. He feels like he's barely been awake that long. It wasn't long ago at all that he was a completely blank slate, before he murdered a man for his werewolf boyfriend, who kisses him like it's easy. How is he supposed to sleep, how is he supposed to stop thinking about that for long enough to sleep?
As if to prove himself wrong, he falls asleep to the drone of the TV, playing reruns of the Outer Limits, even though the bed is strange and cold, and he still feels like there's a giant hole in his head. He vaguely registers waking up at some point to a completely dark room. Derek has stretched out beside him on the bed. Which is reassuring in a way he doesn't even know how to put into words. He isn't sure why, he isn't sure how to explain that without accepting that Derek is his in some way - or that he's Derek's, but that rankles somehow. The thought of belonging to someone.
He finds a cool space on the pillow and shuts his eyes again.
*****
The second day of Stiles's life, he wakes up being aggressively spooned by the werewolf he met yesterday.
It feels like the sort of thing a person should freak out over. Because this definitely isn't how they ended up last night. But he's still mostly half asleep, so instead there's a vague sort of annoyance that his leg has fallen out of the covers, and a weird absence of tension. Also, he thinks he might have stubble burn on the back of his neck. Which he supposes he's used to, in another life. He can't be bothered to move, even though the light coming through the tatty curtains tells him it's probably close to midday. He doesn't know if he's the sort of person who sleeps until midday, but he feels like he could at least pretend to be one of those people, just this once.
Also Stiles has discovered something which may be of crucial importance later. Werewolves apparently snore, yes they do.
Though Derek must have some sort of sixth sense that Stiles is awake because he stiffens up briefly, and then he's pressing his face against the back of Stiles's neck, before relaxing again. Derek seems to have had the same idea as him, turning his scratchy face into Stiles's easily irritated skin, rather than cope with the glaring and pointed evidence of daytime.
"Er - morning?" Stiles says, with what is probably way too much enthusiasm. But they're pressed really tightly together, which hadn't seemed as awkward when Stiles was half asleep, and Derek was snoring against his shoulder. In fact he should probably get up now. Because he has no idea how someone should behave when you're in bed with the man you lost your memory with yesterday, the man you almost certainly usually have morning sex with. And thinking that doesn't make anything less terrifying, exactly the opposite actually. "I should - do you want the bathroom because I was going to shower?"
Derek's nose does this weird drag up through his hair, like he can't resist, and oh Jesus, there shouldn't be any sort of nerve endings there attached to his dick. But it's already coping with a lot at the moment, so he's going to give it a pass.
"No, I'm good," Derek says smoothly, and doesn't make any attempt to roll away, or move his hand from the curve of Stiles's hip - where it's currently burning some sort of permanent impression.
Stiles gurgles an answer - that may or may not be coherent - and then forces himself out of bed, before he can change his mind, or do something stupid, or register that there's a naked werewolf stretching in a way that could be considered gratuitous on the other side of the bed.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He shuts himself in the bathroom.
He stalls in the shower for as long as he can, and doesn't jerk off, even though he really, really wants to. He uses his finger to get his teeth as clean as possible. Then he stares at himself in the mirror, as hard as he can. But his face is still giving him nothing. He still knows nothing about this pale, baby-faced, lanky, weird-nosed, surprisingly hairy, seventeen year old, who has an underwear-model-hot, werewolf boyfriend, and is being hunted by witches for some unknown reason. He still has the strangest feeling that this is all a misunderstanding. That he has to be someone ordinary, he feels ordinary, everything that's happened to him so far has been completely insane, and, ok, fine the fact that he's mostly dealt with it like it was normal for him says that he might be reaching with 'ordinary.' But he doesn't feel...special.
He puts on yesterday's clothes, because he doesn't have any others. They still look clean enough, for all that he woke up yesterday on a forest floor and then hauled a bleeding werewolf a hundred yards.
When he opens the bathroom door he finds the room empty. He has about ten minutes to panic about that, and wonder if he's been abandoned. The thought of being abandoned in some seedy motel in the middle of nowhere, when he's not even a hundred percent sure of his real name, makes him feel a little bit sick.
But then Derek is standing in the doorway, holding a container with two cups of coffee in it, and a paper bag that smells like breakfast.
Stiles is immediately a mess of relief, and some weird sort of other emotion that hadn't had long enough to decide what it was yet.
"I didn't know whether you wanted sweet or savoury," Derek says, and this is the first time Stiles has seen him look uncertain. "So I got you both."
"Oh my God, I love you," Stiles says, and he's stolen the warm paper bag, and one of the tall cups of coffee before he can even really register the weird look he's getting. "What?"
"Nothing," Derek says quietly. He throws his keys on the table.
Stiles eats everything, before it occurs to him that Derek might have wanted whichever one he didn't pick, and he has a moment to feel horribly guilty, before he realises that Derek's watching him with this weird little half-smile, like witnessing him eat was the most entertaining thing he'd ever seen. Stiles drinks half the cup of coffee, rather than feel embarrassed, and discovers that he's either not a huge coffee drinker, or this is really awful coffee. Or maybe both, because God, that's really awful. Even with the sugar Derek has clearly randomly guessed about. His taste buds are never going to forgive him for this. He drinks it anyway, because Derek's still looking weirdly unsure what he's supposed to do.
"Thanks, I mean, for that - you had something right. I didn't - you weren't going to eat one of those?"
"I'm good," Derek says.
"You have to tell me, dude. I get the feeling I miss things, and I also don't think you should have given me coffee because I think stimulants are probably a really bad idea for me -" Stiles can't talk then, because there's a bitter, coffee flavoured mouth over his own, and he decides that he might change his mind about the taste, because this is so much better. He tries to kiss back, more than he'd managed the first time Derek kissed him. He gets his hands in the soft leather of Derek's collar and does his best to relearn whatever he's forgotten.
He thinks that Derek means to pull away but changes his mind at least twice. Stiles feels pretty awesome about that.
"The car," Derek says, sounding reluctant and distracted. Though it still makes absolutely no sense at all.
"What?"
"You said something yesterday about going through the car, to look for clues."
"Yeah," Stiles says stupidly, because that's an awesome idea, he remembers doing that. But he's already leaning forward and, yeah, kissing again. This is fucking amazing. He has no objection if Derek wants to skip the whole getting their memory back for the day, and just kiss him for the next hour or so. But Derek pulls away, and whatever Stiles's face looks like probably isn't very flattering, because Derek does this half-smiling thing, like he's decided, yeah, Stiles is his. Which is horribly smug, and Stiles should be irritated, or he should punch him on the arm or something. But instead his pulse does this frantic, epileptic thing inside his throat, mouth suddenly dry.
He's half-hard in his jeans.
This is so unfair.
*****
Stiles wasn't lying before, the Camaro is a beautiful car, and he doesn't know whether Derek owns it or whether he stole it, but he clearly knows his way around it, with some sort of awesome muscle-memory or something (which Stiles hasn't experienced yet. But Derek clearly has more muscles to help him with that.)
Derek pops the trunk, while Stiles rifles through the glove compartment, under the seats, under the visors, the darkness of the backseat. He finds a spare phone (with no numbers or call history,) another set of keys to somewhere, car information, what looks like a folded up collection of maps, printed pages, and torn out articles, and a half scribbled-in notepad. He uses a pen he finds in the glove compartment to check and yes, that's Stiles's handwriting on the pad and the maps. So they clearly belong to him. He also finds a book under the passenger seat. Enough to make everything more confusing, until he goes through it, works out what any of it means, if any of it means anything important.
Derek appears by the door. He dumps a bag where Stiles's leg still juts out of the car.
"What did you find?" he asks.
"Phone." Stiles holds it up and shakes it. "No numbers programmed in, car stuff, maps with a couple a places circled - " He goes to unfold them, and then thinks better of it. "Can't see properly, I'll unfold them in the room, there's some print-outs, some articles, a notepad that I have apparently written it." He shows Derek by flicking the pages and waggling the pen. "Oh, and a book about curses and cursed artifacts, which, just so you know, does not fill me with good feelings. What about you? What did we get from the trunk?"
Derek toes the bag at his feet.
"Couple of changes of clothes, money, magazines - probably not mine." Derek tosses them into Stiles's lap, and he has to agree, because one of them is questioning whether he's getting excited about the newest hairstyles, and the other is a science magazine, chemistry by the look of it. "Crowbar, some ammunition but no gun, smells a little like guns in there though. Mostly it smells like blood, human, witch, werewolf, and something else, snakes maybe - I don't know, it's familiar and yet not at the same time." Derek shakes his head roughly, as if he just doesn't know.
"You know, I thought your awesome sense of smell would be more helpful." Stiles offers up a frustrated little frown.
"There's too much," Derek grumbles, and Stiles can't tell if he sounds hurt or pissed. "Most of it's just the way things smell, food, people, animals, some of it's familiar, but I don't know from where, or when, or if we need to know about it. I don't have anything to go on. I don't remember enough to separate out what's important from what isn't."
"I wasn't complaining," Stiles says quietly, because he didn't mean to make it sound like Derek wasn't trying, or he wasn't helping. He didn't mean that at all. "I'm sorry, I just, I don't know how this works."
"I'm kind of winging it too you know." Derek sighs out a breath. "I know how to be...I know how to be what I am, but that's about it." His shoulders roll when he says it, Stiles thinks maybe not all the things he knows how to do are nice. And he's not entirely comfortable with it.
"Y'know," Stiles starts, looking down at the maps, and the notepad, and the dark dashboard. "I was joking when I was mentally referring to us as monster hunters, but I'm starting to think that may be an actual possibility."
Derek still seems to want to assume nothing until proven otherwise. In fact he's looking at Stiles as if maybe he wants to say, 'you watch too much TV,' or 'this is just like you,' but he doesn't know if any of that's true. Because they don't know anything about each other, except that they know each other, and they maybe trust each other? Which makes everything else...not easy, but easier. Trying to pick up clues about your life from your things. It's hard - harder than it should be.
"Look through it while I shower," Derek says with a nod.
"You trust me with all this stuff?" Stuff which he ends up carrying, because Derek is locking the car, and hefting the bag. Forcing Stiles to follow him back to the room.
"I'm thinking you're smarter than you look," Derek says ahead of him.
"Oh my God, I think that was an insult. I can't even believe -" And he's talking to the bathroom door.
Stiles sighs and dumps it all on the bed, sets it all out, maps and torn-out articles, and the notes made in his own handwriting. He shoves the motel pen in his mouth (and only worries later about shoving a motel pen is his mouth because, ugh, fuck. But it's way too late by then.) He sets them all together, scribbles notes down next to the notes he made, while he was still him. Because there are gaps where he clearly thought stuff was too obvious to write down. Some stuff about 'the old house' which means nothing to him, but probably did to past!him. Something about the woods, seriously, which woods? Then there's something that looks like some sort of number code. Which he'll have to look up later, somehow, somewhere.
But after a while he thinks he has something. It's not good, it's kind of messed up, but it's concrete. There's evidence here when you start pushing it all together, and Stiles thinks he kind of rocks at this stuff. He probably would have made an awesome cop, if he wasn't already some monster-hunting werewolf's jailbait boyfriend.
He drops a leg off the bed, and cautiously tests the bathroom door, which Derek hasn't locked.
It opens easily, though probably not silently, because Derek's head tilts, just a little. Stiles can see him perfectly, because he hasn't bothered pulling the curtain, all planes of pale skin, turning slowly into the spray. It's not even like he hasn't already seen Derek naked, at some point, probably, many times. He must have done, unless they have sex in the dark, and seriously if Stiles were Derek he wouldn't do anything in the dark. He'd look at himself all the time.
He knows that Derek knows he's there. His werewolf senses are insane. So the fact that he's just standing there and staring, probably hasn't escaped his notice.
"Umm, I think I might have found something, when you're finished."
Derek shakes his head under the spray, and then turns around and looks at him. He's not even pretending to be embarrassed about his body, and Stiles isn't pretending not to look, because it just doesn't occur to him. How is he supposed to do anything else? Because Derek looks like he's been carved in marble, like someone just went to work on every stupidly perfect line of him, and water streams down his body in a way that seems to want to draw attention to every single one of them.
He really is intimidatingly, nakedly beautiful.
Stiles hates that his face is probably red, and blotchy, and awful right now. He huffs like he can pretend the whole arousal thing is an embarrassing but completely expected consequence, what with Derek flaunting himself like a...like a thing. He exhales shakily, and then quietly pulls the door shut. He leans back against it afterwards and calls himself several unflattering names.
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: 2x12
Word Count: 32,000
Warnings: Amnesia, violence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He doesn't know his name, he doesn't know who he is, and neither does the werewolf he's on the run with. But he's pretty sure they hunt monsters, because they seem to be really good at it.
AN: Written for the Amnesia (wildcard) square, for hc_bingo
He wakes up staring at the sky, with absolutely no idea who he is. Which he figures is a crappy start to anyone's day.
He can see the flash and dart of sunlight between the leaves overhead, and he can feel the rough, damp press of hard dirt under his back, so he knows he's outside. It's more than just a garden, there's the sense of space, of area, the wet smell of trees and cold air. His head doesn't hurt, so he doesn't think he's suffered any sort of traumatic head injury. Which seems strange because he's pretty sure that's how you get amnesia, isn't it? After a traumatic head injury. You can't hit your head hard enough to forget who you are and not feel it, that's just stupid. The inside of his brain is really just a fog of half-processed thoughts. It's not empty - he knows things, he remembers things, but nothing about him.
He's in the woods, he may or may not have a traumatic head injury, but he doesn't seem to be hurt in any other way. That feels like something of an accomplishment. He's clearly smart enough to make deductions based on evidence.
But he knows absolutely nothing about himself. There's just nothing there.
What he does know right now, is that someone is fighting an animal roughly ten feet away from him. Not the sort of thing he wants to be lying there and staring at the sky for. He rolls, as quickly as his stiff, protesting body can manage, because he really doesn't want to be on the ground, confused and defenceless, if there's some sort of vicious dog on the loose.
The first thing he sees is a dead man, sprawled in the grass next to him. Close enough that he can make out the grisly extent of the man's injuries in a second. His outflung hand is smeared with dirt, leaves clinging to the palm. The fingers are bone-white, his arm leads up to where his throat is a mess of blood and tissue, jaw half torn away, and there's the white flash of bone there that makes his stomach jolt. The smell of it on the wind is unexpectedly sharp, and he's scrambling sideways, trying to get away from the body. From the strange, dead man within touching distance.
He'd almost forgotten the fight. But he jerks his head up when a wet, animal snarl is accompanied by the crash of bodies hitting the ground. A crunch of small stones and dirt skitters past him.
There's a stranger with glowing, sparking blue eyes, and he's trying to wrestle some sort of animal statue away from - holy shit - that's not an animal. That's a guy with claws - that's a guy with claws and fangs, and the low, burning grate of noise is coming out of his throat. He's the animal. He's the - animal?
There's a witch fighting a werewolf right in front of him - and thinking that doesn't help, really doesn't help at all. Because that makes no sense, and when you have no memories the one thing that should be reassuring is what to expect from the rest of the world, for it to make sense, to follow some sort of pattern. Or for it to be, at the very least, normal.
The guy with glowing eyes snaps out something he can't hear - or can't translate - then punches half the statue into Werewolf Dude's chest, it literally drives all the way into it, blood spattering all along the witch's sleeves, droplets arcing up to hit his throat and cheek. But it doesn't kill the werewolf, even though there's far too much blood, and growling, and wet, choking heaves of breath. He's not dead, not dying, doesn't look like he's dying from it any time soon at least. He mostly just looks really, really pissed off. Though the way that Glowing Eyes is twisting the statue - like he's trying to blend Werewolf Dude's heart - makes him roar with pain.
And he's just frozen there on his knees in the dirt, watching it happen. Because he doesn't know what to do. But the fact that his first instinct is to scramble upright, heft a spiky branch off the forest floor, and bring it down with all his strength on the side of Glowing Eyes's head, tells him something about himself. The way he grips the wood tight, watches the witch collapse sideways, head a mess of blood and dirt, it tells him things he doesn't understand. But who is he to second guess himself and his own instincts.
Then he finds himself pulling the fanged monstrosity - werewolf, holy shit, werewolf, werewolves are real - up by the slippery, blood-slick leather of his jacket, and hauling him in the direction of the black, wet-dream of a car, and hoping like hell it's either his, Mr Werewolf's, or that Mr Werewolf knows how to hotwire a car.
The werewolf is heavier than hell, all bones and muscle. He's still snarling wetly, bright red eyes and blood-slick fangs far too close to his face to be anything comforting. His grip keeps slipping on the bloody leather of the other guy's jacket, it's running down his wrists in thin streams. He hopes like hell werewolves are more durable than people. Because he thinks he just killed a man for this one - he just killed a man - and he thinks it'd be nice to know his name, if nothing else. Or y'know his own name, no pressure. One thing at a time.
They stumble past another dead man on the way, chest being eaten out by some sort of crawling blue flame. Then another by the tree line, facedown in the dirt. What exactly is he a part of? What the hell has he woken into?
"Is that your car?" The weight on his shoulder breathes pain, and doesn't answer. He does his best to tug at the jacket, twist his fingers in the leather to get his attention. "Hey - dude, is that your car?"
The guy looks at him, confusion and wariness struggling out through the pain. As if he has no idea what's going on either. No idea who he is. That seems to be a thing that's going around. There is definitely a mutual sense of bewilderment here. He honestly doesn't know whether to find that comforting or not. Or whether to be afraid, because people don't lose their memories in groups. That doesn't happen. Was it magic? Were their memories taken by magic?
"Do you know who you are?" he asks, confirming that it's true, or trying to get an explanation.
There's a headshake, rough and jerky, which works in place of words. The bleeding werewolf's heavier suddenly, coughing blood, and he stumbles, nearly loses his grip on him and has to tighten his hold, much to the snarling displeasure of said werewolf. Though he doesn't get bitten at least. It's always a good day when you don't get bitten by a werewolf.
But he has to say, the werewolf thing totally works for him, it's genuinely terrifying, and on any other day maybe he'd be screaming and begging for his life. But there's a mess of witches decomposing fifty feet away, at least one of which is because of him, and he knows without doubt that they need to get out of here. They need to leave right now, memories or not. This is not a good place to stay. Eventually there'll be police all over this place, eventually there's always police, and right now he doesn't know how to explain werewolves, or self-defence in the face of skin-eating magic.
He's digging through the pockets of the werewolf's incredibly tight jeans, and hoping that he isn't going to get anything punctured for it. He's trying not to be over-familiar but they're kind of in a hurry. Yes, so, keys. Apparently he has keys, and apparently the car really does belong to him. Though the werewolf's in no shape to drive, so it looks like it's up to him. He's just glad he remembers how.
They get the hell out of dodge - or wherever they are.
*****
Werewolf Dude has mostly healed before they reach the nearest motel. He finds that fascinating enough that he almost swerves off the road twice trying to get a look at it. The guy literally just heals the stab wounds over like they were never there. Until the bloody, torn shirt is a red, dripping mess over perfectly healed skin, and he's staring - he probably shouldn't be staring, it's probably rude, or something. But he's had a tough day so far. Considering this is the third, maybe fourth, magical and impossible thing he's seen already.
The motel looks cheap and nasty, and exactly the sort of place that takes cash (they have cash,) doesn't mind the blood stains, (there are a lot of blood stains,) and also doesn't check ID, which he assumes they also have, but he doesn't want to start pulling his stuff out on the side of the road. It's already too dark to see anyway. He doesn't want to lose what identification he might have in a ditch somewhere.
He's shaking when he sits on the end of the bed, and he can't make himself stop, because he killed a man, and drove a bleeding werewolf God knows how many miles. He has no idea what his name is, or anything about himself other than he's apparently the type of person that can do this, who knows how to do this, is willing to do this. He's not sure if that's amazing, or terrifying, or some awful third option. Because he's roughly three hours into his life, and there are already dead bodies, and murder, and witches, and werewolves that heal like Wolverine, and cheap motel rooms that smell like people had sex in them, or died in them, or possibly died while having sex in them, which he really doesn't want to think about or he won't be able to touch anything in the room. Basically what he's saying is, that it's a lot to process. He doesn't know if this is normal for him. Is this normal for him? This shouldn't be normal for anyone. What kind of person would this be normal for?
"It was a stupid idea to just grab me," Werewolf Dude says, from where he's cleaning blood off his face in front of the stupid, full length mirror the room has. It had taken a full minute for him to even care that he was covered in blood, suggesting that he ended up covered in blood a lot, and wasn't that a comforting thought. He'd prowled the motel room like the smell of it offended him.
The guy out front must have noticed the blood, but he hadn't said anything about it. He doesn't know whether to worry about that or not.
"I could have killed you." The angry werewolf is glaring at his reflection now, like he barely notices what he looks like - and how is that even possible? How could you not know you looked like that?
He can see his own reflection from where he's sitting on the bed too - where he'd sank into an exhausted heap the minute the door swung shut - and he looks stupidly, incredibly young, face pale and blotchy, and not half as heroic as he was imagining...hoping for?
"And yet you didn't, so clearly we know each other, right? That makes sense. If we didn't know each other you would have - what, savaged me or something?" He'd seen what happened to the people that had been savaged, and he's fairly certain he isn't going to forget that any time soon. He watches Werewolf Dude's jaw work, and he thinks that's as close to a yes as he's going to get. "Not that I know much about werewolves. Can I just have a moment to let that sink in. I mean, I know I probably know about you and everything already. But - werewolves, I think I deserve a moment to process that there are apparently werewolves, also witches -" He stops and thinks about it. "There were witches at least, because we killed a bunch of them. You noticed that right, the dead bodies. There were dead bodies." He trails off, because he honestly doesn't know what else to say. But his face looks as shocked as he feels, which is something. There's a dried smear of blood on his cheek, which he hadn't noticed before. He rubs at it with his sleeve, harder than he means to, until it's gone.
"You talk a lot," Werewolf Dude says. Though he says it like he's pointing it out, noticing it, rather than judging it, or threatening to make him stop.
"Huh, I guess I do, I'm - my name, what's my name - ?" He can't believe it took him this long to really think about it. He digs into his pockets, looking at every piece of plastic and tossing them aside, until he finds one with his face on it. "Stilinski - no first name. My license has no first name on it. How can I not have a first name? I can't just call myself Stilinski. Also, Jesus that's a horrible photo. I look about twelve. I'm kind of hoping my ID's fake now. If only because that address sounds totally made up."
"Stiles." Werewolf Dude says, voice rough but certain.
"What?"
"The witch, the one I killed, he threatened you, and he called you Stiles."
"My name is Stiles Stilinski?" he says incredulously. "What were my parents drunk or something? Don't they know that alliteration is the easiest route to terrible punishment and eternal mockery." Stiles? Stiles Stilinski? It doesn't so much roll off the tongue as clatter out in pieces. But he supposes it'll do. It's the only name he has right now. And it's definitely better than no name at all. "Ok, Stiles Stilinski it is then. Your turn, because I can't keep calling you 'Werewolf Dude,' in my head. Since that is your one defining characteristic. That and the stubble."
The guy frowns and fishes in his pocket, tosses car keys and cards aside, before flipping one around and squinting at it.
"Derek Hale," he says, brow furrowing as if he doesn't like the sound of it.
"Derek?" Stiles laughs, he can't help it. Because that is just ridiculous. "Your name is Derek? Dude, that's got to be a fake name."
Derek's forehead creases further, eyebrows almost meeting. He really doesn't look like a Derek. He looks like maybe he could have eaten a Derek at some point.
"Whoever made your fake ID clearly hates you," Stiles decides. "Bet it was the same guy who made mine. We should totally get our money back once we remember who that is. Hey, how old are you?"
Derek checks. "My fake ID says twenty four."
"I'm seventeen." That's a little depressing, though still better than Stiles was expecting. He'd honestly expected younger.
"Great, I'm a werewolf with an underage boyfriend." Derek glares at himself in the mirror. He looks like he does that a lot.
"A grumpy, werewolf with an underage boyfriend - " Stiles realises what he's saying, somewhat belatedly. "Hey, whoa, wait, why am I your boyfriend?"
Derek looks at him like he's an idiot.
"You killed the man that was attacking me, before you even knew my name, and then I let you drag me to a car with four puncture wounds in my chest, let you shove me in the passenger seat and drive my car, without ripping your throat out."
That's - that's actually pretty fair, and ok, that's - oh my God, wow. Stiles knows nothing about himself other than the fact his boyfriend is a) a werewolf and b) almost too hot to be a real person. So even if it's all downhill from here, at least he started on an unexpected and confusing high. How the hell did he manage that anyway, seriously? The more he thinks about it, the less he believes it. Which suggests he either has shitty self-esteem, or good instincts.
"Ok, so I can see how someone would end up with you." Stiles gestures in the mirror, towards the very obvious proof of Derek's muscles, and scowly face of improbable hotness. "But there's no way you'd hook up with me. I mean - look at my nose, my nose is ridiculous, and I barely look seventeen, barely. Jesus." He looks away.
Derek stares at him blankly for a second, and Stiles realises belatedly what he just insinuated about Derek's taste.
"Not that I think that's your thing," he offers hurriedly. Then thinks about it for a second. "Though you clearly don't mind if we're...together, and oh my God, I'm just going to stop talking now. I can already tell this is a relationship where I spend a lot of time with my foot in my mouth."
Derek grasps his jaw and turns his face back to look in the mirror.
"Maybe not just your foot," he says, like he's considering it.
Stiles smacks his hand away. "Oh my God, quit casting aspersions on my good name - which, granted, we aren't a hundred percent sure on right now." He can't help looking at the mirror again, where Derek is currently trying to glare his memories back to the surface. Which probably won't work. Though the guy's giving it a damn good go. "I'm probably not your boyfriend," Stiles says. "Have you seen you? You're like - no, you know what, I'm not even going to finish that, because clearly you're a guy who has your ego stroked constantly. You probably can't even say hi to someone without them immediately falling all over themselves to tell you how pretty you are."
Derek's eyebrows just look insulted now. Insulted in his direction.
"Don't even look at me like that, you know it's true." Stiles takes a moment to rub a hand over his hair, and wonder why it's so short. If it's a personal choice, or there was some horrible incident with open flames, or gum. He looks like the sort of person who could have an accident like that.
"I think you are," Derek says grudgingly.
"What?" Stiles stops trying to decide if he likes his ears and looks at him.
"My - " Derek stops and pulls a face. "I think we're together." He shakes his head, as if whatever he's feeling is hard to explain. "You feel almost familiar, everything else - the idea of anyone else coming close to me is - it makes me want to break something. You, you're non-threatening, you're like a vibration under the skin, all tones of motion and enthusiasm, and you're - good." The frown slips away, as if he'd found the word he was struggling for.
Good? Stiles supposes he can live with that.
"So does that mean you - do you find me attractive?" He can't believe he actually asked that, once it's out. But he does genuinely want to know. He's trying to piece together what the hell is going on, and if they're together then Derek must at least find him a little attractive, right? Also, it'll be a huge ego boost if the answer's yes.
Derek throws him a pointed look.
"I did, before I knew you were underage."
Stiles glares at him. "Oh, ouch, way to wound a guy. Clearly your memory-having self didn't care."
"Not surprising," Derek says, mostly to his own reflection. "I look like a fucking criminal."
Stiles wants to point out that if they're having sex then he technically is a criminal. But he's fairly certain that the murder trumps the underage sex anyway.
"You certainly do look dangerous, even when you're not all fanged-out."
Derek pulls a face at him, which he can read perfectly for all that they're mostly strangers.
"That's what I'm calling it, in my head. You're not going to stop me calling it that. It's like the perfect description of what you did, with the teeth and the eyes and the whole -" He waves a hand around Derek's general vicinity. "Sexy Wolverine thing you have going on."
Derek rolls his eyes and tosses his shirt towards the bathroom.
"So, er, what exactly do we know about us?" Stiles asks. "Aside from the elephant in the room that is you being a werewolf. Because I don't remember anything about being me, but I definitely remember that werewolves aren't supposed to be real. I would definitely remember if we lived in a world where werewolves were supposed to be real."
Derek glares at him, as if doubting the truth of his existence is insulting somehow.
"Well, we know you talk too much," he starts, like that was the most obvious thing.
"Hey." Stiles wonders if they have the sort of relationship where friendly shoving is allowed.
"Witches are hunting us," Derek adds. "We probably lost our memories via magic, and I own a Camaro."
"And that is a freakin' beautiful car, by the way, we could probably dig through it later for clues or something - oh." Stiles slides off the bed and scoots across the carpet on his knees. To the chair where Derek threw his jacket, and he fishes through the pockets. "I know you have a phone, I saw it when you were looking for cash when we paid -" He pulls it out with a noise of discovery, then wonders if that's some sort of weird violation, even though neither of them know who they are. Can you violate people's privacy when no one remembers if they want to be private or not? So many questions.
He tosses it to Derek.
"Check your phonebook."
Derek frowns.
"We don't know anything about ourselves, or each other. But you still have your phone, and the people in your phone will know who you are at least," Stiles explains, shuffling close again. "Hell they'll probably know who I am if we're as close as you think we are. Who's in your contact list."
Derek reads out the names as he scrolls through them.
"Boyd, Deaton, Erica, Isaac, Peter, Scott, Stiles."
Stiles makes a frustrated noise.
"Are any of those familiar to you? Except me, obviously, or at least I'm assuming that's me. I have no phone - I think the witch guy broke it. Because none of them sound familiar to me. I guess I should know your friends, or some of them at least."
Derek shakes his head.
"No mom or dad?" Stiles adds. "That's weird right? Unless they're dead, or you don't talk to them. Who calls you the most?" He tries to get a better look over Derek's arm, though he's being very protective of his mysterious numbers.
Derek hits a couple of buttons, and then his eyebrow flicks up.
"You do." He turns the phone so Stiles can see his own name, repeated over and over through the list of names and numbers.
"Well that's not going to be any help, since I don't remember being me. Though I suppose that kind of answers the question of whether we're together. Look how clingy I am." He wonders if he should be embarrassed about that. Not that it really matters because he is a little bit anyway. "Any messages?"
"Deleted," Derek says simply.
"Outgoing messages?" Stiles suggests, after a second's thought. "Have you sent anything in the last twenty four hours?"
Derek's quiet for a second, thumb moving.
"There's one. 'They're tracking you, don't go home, don't tell Scott what we're doing,'" he reads, then turns the phone so Stiles can see again.
"Great, we're being hunted by witches, and - Scott's the guy in your phone right? Why were we not supposed to tell him. Was he one of the people after us? Who's Scott?" If someone betrayed them that makes Derek's entire phone suspect. Judging by Derek's expression he's thinking the same thing.
"Why do you keep asking me?" Derek says stiffly, with that frustrated huff of air through his nose, that Stiles thinks is definitely his thing.
Stiles shrugs, because he genuinely doesn't know. He's mostly thinking aloud, and Derek's the only person around so he's thinking aloud at him.
"So, the Scott from your phone, he was part of this or something? Did he betray us?"
Derek sighs and pointedly shakes the phone.
"Right, right, you know nothing either." Stiles makes reassuring gestures. "I'm sorry, I'm clearly a questioner, I am compelled to ask questions in the face of confusion and bewilderment. Just assume I'm adding 'do you think?' to the end of all my sentences, ok. I think that'll be easier, or at least cut down on the frustration all round."
"The answer's still 'I don't know,'" Derek says, though Stiles's explanation doesn't seem to have softened his tone much.
"Wow, you really are very grumpy," Stiles tells him. "Do you think that's a werewolf thing, or just a you thing?"
Derek looks like he kind of wants to hit him with the phone. So, yes, almost certainly a Derek thing.
"It's totally a you thing, isn't it? Insanely hot and grumpy is your thing, and apparently my thing as well, who knew? Ok, so we're being possibly hunted by witches, whose powers we aren't entirely sure of yet. Can witches track people via cellphones? Can witches track people in general. I feel like I'm running blind here. I don't even know if I knew there were witches yesterday. I mean I could have had some sort of witch-proof plan laid out for us yesterday, and I wouldn't know anything about it." It's frustrating, suddenly, how much he wants to grasp whoever he was, or is. But there's just nothing there.
"It's best to be safe," Derek says stiffly, and then takes hold of his phone in both hands like he's going to snap it in half.
"Wait!" Stiles reaches over and twists it out of Derek's hand, then flips over the pad on the bedside table and snags the pen beside it. "I'm going to take down the numbers first. Who knows if we'll need to get hold of one of them later. It is pretty much the only connection we have with who we are, trustworthy or not." He manages to get them down before Derek starts pulling the phone into pieces. He literally just pulls the thing apart, and the pen goes slack in Stiles's fingers. "Dude, exactly how strong are you?"
Derek looks down at where he's been snapping the plastic and metal, without even thinking about it. Shards of it falling silently to land in the threadbare motel carpet.
"Are you going to, like, dislocate my shoulder giving me a friendly punch or what?" Stiles says, then laughs in a way that only half sounds like it's joking. "Because if that's an option I'm going to veto the friendly punching right now. Oh my God, no, you know what, if we're actually dating then there will be no punches, at all. Because I'm pretty sure that abusive werewolf boyfriend is a Lifetime movie too far for me."
Derek glares at him. "I can control myself."
Stiles raises an eyebrow.
"How do you even know that?"
"You're still in one piece, aren't you," Derek points out.
Which sounds weirdly threatening, or possibly dirty, Stiles doesn't even know. He doesn't know Derek well enough to be able to tell if he's joking.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles demands.
"You're very annoying," Derek says quietly, then tips his head forward in a way that Stiles thinks is supposed to mean something.
"You're the one who decided to date me, and hey, you're not exactly a -" Stiles inhales the end of the sentence, because Derek has stalked his way closer, without Stiles even realising it. All predator smile and warm breath.
Derek takes up space in a way he doesn't even seem to notice, radiating heat and intensity that leaves Stiles's mouth suddenly very dry. Because he thinks Derek's going to kiss him - almost definitely going to kiss him, no matter how insane that seems. The thought shouldn't be so startling. If they're together, if they're in a relationship then they probably do this all the time. But Stiles doesn't remember it, they don't really know each other at all right now. What if they've gotten this horribly wrong. What if they're not together, what if it's all weirdly circumstantial and it's just because Stiles smells completely non-threatening, or Derek knows him because of some other completely non-sexy reason. What if they're related?
He laughs a little, quiet and breathless, and it cracks as it slides down his throat.
"What if it's not true," Stiles says quickly, heart pounding. "We could be related, we could be brothers. How creepy and disturbing would that be?" He's rambling and he knows it, but he can't stop.
"We're not brothers." Derek tries to tug his face close again, and Stiles can't think of a single reason not to let him. He wants Derek to kiss him, and he honestly has no idea why he's pretending that he doesn't. He doesn't know why he's so nervous about just letting it happen.
Derek's mouth is warm, all easy shift and pressure. Stiles lifts his hands and curls his fingertips in Derek's shirt, opens up a little for him. The kiss goes deep, turns into a wet slide of tongues, and a harsh grate of stubble that makes his insides feel tangled and hot. It's really, really good, it's better than Stiles has any frame of reference for. Which makes the fact that Derek pulls away very confusing, and a little upsetting.
"What? Why did you stop?" he says numbly, his mouth is still wet, which is weirdly distracting.
"You're -" Derek stops, frowning.
"What? I'm what?" Stiles isn't quite sure whether he sounds nervous or irritated, adrenaline makes his voice louder than he means.
"Not familiar," Derek says, with a frown of disappointment. "I thought I'd feel something."
"Oh screw you," Stiles says sharply, face colouring, trying to twist his way out of Derek's impossible grip.
"No," Derek eases him back into stillness, gives a frustrated sigh. "I didn't mean it like that, I just meant you feel new, I thought if you were mine I'd know it."
Stiles thinks about objecting to the 'mine' part of that sentence. But he's finding it really hard to think straight after that.
"I think we've already established how memorable I am," Stiles says, trying to make a joke, and feeling kind of shitty, because it's fairly obvious that Derek has gotten it out of his system, and he has no intention of kissing him again.
But then he does, he just sways back in, as if it's that easy for him, slightly too much pressure, and the faint scrape of sharp teeth.
"I never said I didn't want to," Derek says roughly, right into his mouth. Before he's sliding away.
Stiles doesn't know what to say to that. He isn't sure he's supposed to say anything to that.
"It's late," Derek says. "And you're human, you should get some sleep."
Stiles mouth still doesn't work well enough to form words, so he just stupidly watches Derek shut himself in the bathroom.
"It's awesome how you say 'human' like it's an insult," he mutters. Which doesn't get a reply, but he knows Derek can still hear him.
He finds the remote and turns the TV on, just for some noise. Because that's easier than thinking about the fact that he's way too wired to sleep. He feels like he's barely been awake that long. It wasn't long ago at all that he was a completely blank slate, before he murdered a man for his werewolf boyfriend, who kisses him like it's easy. How is he supposed to sleep, how is he supposed to stop thinking about that for long enough to sleep?
As if to prove himself wrong, he falls asleep to the drone of the TV, playing reruns of the Outer Limits, even though the bed is strange and cold, and he still feels like there's a giant hole in his head. He vaguely registers waking up at some point to a completely dark room. Derek has stretched out beside him on the bed. Which is reassuring in a way he doesn't even know how to put into words. He isn't sure why, he isn't sure how to explain that without accepting that Derek is his in some way - or that he's Derek's, but that rankles somehow. The thought of belonging to someone.
He finds a cool space on the pillow and shuts his eyes again.
*****
The second day of Stiles's life, he wakes up being aggressively spooned by the werewolf he met yesterday.
It feels like the sort of thing a person should freak out over. Because this definitely isn't how they ended up last night. But he's still mostly half asleep, so instead there's a vague sort of annoyance that his leg has fallen out of the covers, and a weird absence of tension. Also, he thinks he might have stubble burn on the back of his neck. Which he supposes he's used to, in another life. He can't be bothered to move, even though the light coming through the tatty curtains tells him it's probably close to midday. He doesn't know if he's the sort of person who sleeps until midday, but he feels like he could at least pretend to be one of those people, just this once.
Also Stiles has discovered something which may be of crucial importance later. Werewolves apparently snore, yes they do.
Though Derek must have some sort of sixth sense that Stiles is awake because he stiffens up briefly, and then he's pressing his face against the back of Stiles's neck, before relaxing again. Derek seems to have had the same idea as him, turning his scratchy face into Stiles's easily irritated skin, rather than cope with the glaring and pointed evidence of daytime.
"Er - morning?" Stiles says, with what is probably way too much enthusiasm. But they're pressed really tightly together, which hadn't seemed as awkward when Stiles was half asleep, and Derek was snoring against his shoulder. In fact he should probably get up now. Because he has no idea how someone should behave when you're in bed with the man you lost your memory with yesterday, the man you almost certainly usually have morning sex with. And thinking that doesn't make anything less terrifying, exactly the opposite actually. "I should - do you want the bathroom because I was going to shower?"
Derek's nose does this weird drag up through his hair, like he can't resist, and oh Jesus, there shouldn't be any sort of nerve endings there attached to his dick. But it's already coping with a lot at the moment, so he's going to give it a pass.
"No, I'm good," Derek says smoothly, and doesn't make any attempt to roll away, or move his hand from the curve of Stiles's hip - where it's currently burning some sort of permanent impression.
Stiles gurgles an answer - that may or may not be coherent - and then forces himself out of bed, before he can change his mind, or do something stupid, or register that there's a naked werewolf stretching in a way that could be considered gratuitous on the other side of the bed.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He shuts himself in the bathroom.
He stalls in the shower for as long as he can, and doesn't jerk off, even though he really, really wants to. He uses his finger to get his teeth as clean as possible. Then he stares at himself in the mirror, as hard as he can. But his face is still giving him nothing. He still knows nothing about this pale, baby-faced, lanky, weird-nosed, surprisingly hairy, seventeen year old, who has an underwear-model-hot, werewolf boyfriend, and is being hunted by witches for some unknown reason. He still has the strangest feeling that this is all a misunderstanding. That he has to be someone ordinary, he feels ordinary, everything that's happened to him so far has been completely insane, and, ok, fine the fact that he's mostly dealt with it like it was normal for him says that he might be reaching with 'ordinary.' But he doesn't feel...special.
He puts on yesterday's clothes, because he doesn't have any others. They still look clean enough, for all that he woke up yesterday on a forest floor and then hauled a bleeding werewolf a hundred yards.
When he opens the bathroom door he finds the room empty. He has about ten minutes to panic about that, and wonder if he's been abandoned. The thought of being abandoned in some seedy motel in the middle of nowhere, when he's not even a hundred percent sure of his real name, makes him feel a little bit sick.
But then Derek is standing in the doorway, holding a container with two cups of coffee in it, and a paper bag that smells like breakfast.
Stiles is immediately a mess of relief, and some weird sort of other emotion that hadn't had long enough to decide what it was yet.
"I didn't know whether you wanted sweet or savoury," Derek says, and this is the first time Stiles has seen him look uncertain. "So I got you both."
"Oh my God, I love you," Stiles says, and he's stolen the warm paper bag, and one of the tall cups of coffee before he can even really register the weird look he's getting. "What?"
"Nothing," Derek says quietly. He throws his keys on the table.
Stiles eats everything, before it occurs to him that Derek might have wanted whichever one he didn't pick, and he has a moment to feel horribly guilty, before he realises that Derek's watching him with this weird little half-smile, like witnessing him eat was the most entertaining thing he'd ever seen. Stiles drinks half the cup of coffee, rather than feel embarrassed, and discovers that he's either not a huge coffee drinker, or this is really awful coffee. Or maybe both, because God, that's really awful. Even with the sugar Derek has clearly randomly guessed about. His taste buds are never going to forgive him for this. He drinks it anyway, because Derek's still looking weirdly unsure what he's supposed to do.
"Thanks, I mean, for that - you had something right. I didn't - you weren't going to eat one of those?"
"I'm good," Derek says.
"You have to tell me, dude. I get the feeling I miss things, and I also don't think you should have given me coffee because I think stimulants are probably a really bad idea for me -" Stiles can't talk then, because there's a bitter, coffee flavoured mouth over his own, and he decides that he might change his mind about the taste, because this is so much better. He tries to kiss back, more than he'd managed the first time Derek kissed him. He gets his hands in the soft leather of Derek's collar and does his best to relearn whatever he's forgotten.
He thinks that Derek means to pull away but changes his mind at least twice. Stiles feels pretty awesome about that.
"The car," Derek says, sounding reluctant and distracted. Though it still makes absolutely no sense at all.
"What?"
"You said something yesterday about going through the car, to look for clues."
"Yeah," Stiles says stupidly, because that's an awesome idea, he remembers doing that. But he's already leaning forward and, yeah, kissing again. This is fucking amazing. He has no objection if Derek wants to skip the whole getting their memory back for the day, and just kiss him for the next hour or so. But Derek pulls away, and whatever Stiles's face looks like probably isn't very flattering, because Derek does this half-smiling thing, like he's decided, yeah, Stiles is his. Which is horribly smug, and Stiles should be irritated, or he should punch him on the arm or something. But instead his pulse does this frantic, epileptic thing inside his throat, mouth suddenly dry.
He's half-hard in his jeans.
This is so unfair.
*****
Stiles wasn't lying before, the Camaro is a beautiful car, and he doesn't know whether Derek owns it or whether he stole it, but he clearly knows his way around it, with some sort of awesome muscle-memory or something (which Stiles hasn't experienced yet. But Derek clearly has more muscles to help him with that.)
Derek pops the trunk, while Stiles rifles through the glove compartment, under the seats, under the visors, the darkness of the backseat. He finds a spare phone (with no numbers or call history,) another set of keys to somewhere, car information, what looks like a folded up collection of maps, printed pages, and torn out articles, and a half scribbled-in notepad. He uses a pen he finds in the glove compartment to check and yes, that's Stiles's handwriting on the pad and the maps. So they clearly belong to him. He also finds a book under the passenger seat. Enough to make everything more confusing, until he goes through it, works out what any of it means, if any of it means anything important.
Derek appears by the door. He dumps a bag where Stiles's leg still juts out of the car.
"What did you find?" he asks.
"Phone." Stiles holds it up and shakes it. "No numbers programmed in, car stuff, maps with a couple a places circled - " He goes to unfold them, and then thinks better of it. "Can't see properly, I'll unfold them in the room, there's some print-outs, some articles, a notepad that I have apparently written it." He shows Derek by flicking the pages and waggling the pen. "Oh, and a book about curses and cursed artifacts, which, just so you know, does not fill me with good feelings. What about you? What did we get from the trunk?"
Derek toes the bag at his feet.
"Couple of changes of clothes, money, magazines - probably not mine." Derek tosses them into Stiles's lap, and he has to agree, because one of them is questioning whether he's getting excited about the newest hairstyles, and the other is a science magazine, chemistry by the look of it. "Crowbar, some ammunition but no gun, smells a little like guns in there though. Mostly it smells like blood, human, witch, werewolf, and something else, snakes maybe - I don't know, it's familiar and yet not at the same time." Derek shakes his head roughly, as if he just doesn't know.
"You know, I thought your awesome sense of smell would be more helpful." Stiles offers up a frustrated little frown.
"There's too much," Derek grumbles, and Stiles can't tell if he sounds hurt or pissed. "Most of it's just the way things smell, food, people, animals, some of it's familiar, but I don't know from where, or when, or if we need to know about it. I don't have anything to go on. I don't remember enough to separate out what's important from what isn't."
"I wasn't complaining," Stiles says quietly, because he didn't mean to make it sound like Derek wasn't trying, or he wasn't helping. He didn't mean that at all. "I'm sorry, I just, I don't know how this works."
"I'm kind of winging it too you know." Derek sighs out a breath. "I know how to be...I know how to be what I am, but that's about it." His shoulders roll when he says it, Stiles thinks maybe not all the things he knows how to do are nice. And he's not entirely comfortable with it.
"Y'know," Stiles starts, looking down at the maps, and the notepad, and the dark dashboard. "I was joking when I was mentally referring to us as monster hunters, but I'm starting to think that may be an actual possibility."
Derek still seems to want to assume nothing until proven otherwise. In fact he's looking at Stiles as if maybe he wants to say, 'you watch too much TV,' or 'this is just like you,' but he doesn't know if any of that's true. Because they don't know anything about each other, except that they know each other, and they maybe trust each other? Which makes everything else...not easy, but easier. Trying to pick up clues about your life from your things. It's hard - harder than it should be.
"Look through it while I shower," Derek says with a nod.
"You trust me with all this stuff?" Stuff which he ends up carrying, because Derek is locking the car, and hefting the bag. Forcing Stiles to follow him back to the room.
"I'm thinking you're smarter than you look," Derek says ahead of him.
"Oh my God, I think that was an insult. I can't even believe -" And he's talking to the bathroom door.
Stiles sighs and dumps it all on the bed, sets it all out, maps and torn-out articles, and the notes made in his own handwriting. He shoves the motel pen in his mouth (and only worries later about shoving a motel pen is his mouth because, ugh, fuck. But it's way too late by then.) He sets them all together, scribbles notes down next to the notes he made, while he was still him. Because there are gaps where he clearly thought stuff was too obvious to write down. Some stuff about 'the old house' which means nothing to him, but probably did to past!him. Something about the woods, seriously, which woods? Then there's something that looks like some sort of number code. Which he'll have to look up later, somehow, somewhere.
But after a while he thinks he has something. It's not good, it's kind of messed up, but it's concrete. There's evidence here when you start pushing it all together, and Stiles thinks he kind of rocks at this stuff. He probably would have made an awesome cop, if he wasn't already some monster-hunting werewolf's jailbait boyfriend.
He drops a leg off the bed, and cautiously tests the bathroom door, which Derek hasn't locked.
It opens easily, though probably not silently, because Derek's head tilts, just a little. Stiles can see him perfectly, because he hasn't bothered pulling the curtain, all planes of pale skin, turning slowly into the spray. It's not even like he hasn't already seen Derek naked, at some point, probably, many times. He must have done, unless they have sex in the dark, and seriously if Stiles were Derek he wouldn't do anything in the dark. He'd look at himself all the time.
He knows that Derek knows he's there. His werewolf senses are insane. So the fact that he's just standing there and staring, probably hasn't escaped his notice.
"Umm, I think I might have found something, when you're finished."
Derek shakes his head under the spray, and then turns around and looks at him. He's not even pretending to be embarrassed about his body, and Stiles isn't pretending not to look, because it just doesn't occur to him. How is he supposed to do anything else? Because Derek looks like he's been carved in marble, like someone just went to work on every stupidly perfect line of him, and water streams down his body in a way that seems to want to draw attention to every single one of them.
He really is intimidatingly, nakedly beautiful.
Stiles hates that his face is probably red, and blotchy, and awful right now. He huffs like he can pretend the whole arousal thing is an embarrassing but completely expected consequence, what with Derek flaunting himself like a...like a thing. He exhales shakily, and then quietly pulls the door shut. He leans back against it afterwards and calls himself several unflattering names.
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4