New Teen Wolf Fic: Except What Has Been Forgotten, Rated R, 16/?
Except What Has Been Forgotten, Part 16
by Suz
Thank you to the wonderful rhiannonhero :) Feedback would be wonderful :)
Sorry for the delay. RL has become a huge pain in my behind so when I do get time to myself, it's much less stressful for me to do something light and easy instead of delving into this complicated monster ;) Am still working on it whenever I'm able.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15.
*
Stiles had no idea how Derek did it - he still wasn't quite with it despite Derek's 'help', trapped in the memories of the suckfest that his life had obviously become - but it felt like he blinked, and everyone else was gone. When he tried to concentrate, tried to think back on it, he vaguely remembered hearing Dad protesting but there was no sign of any of them now.
Just him and Derek, sitting on the sofa.
Stiles was ridiculously grateful for it. He'd just lost it in front of Derek again, and everyone else for the first time. He'd asked for this, asked for these memories but as he'd suspected they weren't actually something he wanted. Not when they made him feel like...that. Not when it ended up showing everyone just how broken he really was, when it gave him no more secrets left to keep.
Closing his eyes, Stiles let out a long, slow breath because at least he had this for the moment, he could breathe and the reason for it was sitting to his left, not touching. But watching.
Always watching.
Stiles was beginning to realise just how much he - and Previous Stiles - had come to rely on that. Even if neither of them had realised it at the time.
Opening his eyes, Stiles tried to focus on anything but the image of Dad falling to the ground, Gerard's face as he grinned down at him, staring at Dad's bedroom door as he listened to him snore (breathe. Breathe breathe breathe). His body felt wrung-out and exhausted when, in reality, only a few minutes had passed.
Wrapping his arms around himself, hands slotting underneath his armpits, Stiles kept his head tipped down. Thought about what Derek had done - again, apparently. "How does..." He started, then stopped. Licked his lips. "I...remembered being surprised that it worked. On me. A human. The first time you did it. That thing you did with your hand," he thought to explain, in case he wasn't making sense. It seemed entirely possible because right now Stiles wasn't even making sense to himself. "Does it not normally? Is it supposed to be a...werewolf-only deal, or something?" Talking. Talking was good. The more he talked, the more normal he was starting to feel. The more time he spent talking, the less time he had to think.
"It doesn't work on other werewolves," Derek explained and Stiles appreciated the hell out of the fact that Derek wasn't trying to get him to talk about what'd set him off in the first place. And Stiles supposed the healing thing - or whatever the hell it was - shouldn't work on werewolves, as they already had their own freaky healing powers. Having both would just be overkill. Totally made sense, in the way that it didn't make any sense at all. "It does work on animals," Derek continued. "And it can work on humans." He paused, the weight of the silence heavy in the air. "Sometimes."
Obviously, Stiles fell somewhere in that sometimes bracket. "Sometimes?"
Stiles felt, more than saw, Derek shift next to him. "There has to be a...very specific set of circumstances."
Okay. Stiles could kind of see that, otherwise it'd be public knowledge among the Werewolf Aware, who'd be hunting down werewolves not to kill them, but to take advantage of their amazing healing abilities. "So you weren't even sure it was going to work."
"It was worth a try," Derek told him, which gave Stiles all the answer he needed.
He nodded slowly, head still bent over. "And it does...what, exactly? Takes pain away? Including...emotional pain or something?" Stiles had remembered that, too, being surprised that it was having an effect on a panic attack.
"Physical pain is straight-forward - it takes the pain away. We can't actual heal anyone, can't fix what's wrong with them."
Stiles was beginning to understand. "But it hurts less."
"Pain that isn't strictly physical is...more complicated," Derek continued. "It's not permanent. But the effect is much the same."
Licking his lips, Stiles nodded tightly. "Well...thanks," he said awkwardly. "Guess I owe you one. Twice over," he chuckled mirthlessly. God, his life.
"Stiles-"
"Tell me the rest," he instructed, suddenly sure. "All of it. All of it since..." He swallowed. "All of it since Gerard." He still didn't want to know but he had to, ironically had to protect himself by exposing himself to everything that could tear him apart emotionally.
God, the things Allison had done. Stiles didn't even know how to deal with it, and didn't even try. They'd obviously all worked it out, or she wouldn't have been part of the pack.
At least he was pretty sure there was nothing even worse than what he'd remembered already. His memories were still a mess sometimes - made even more confusing now by all the things he'd been told, all the things he knew but couldn't actually remember experiencing - but he was fairly sure he'd experienced the worst his memories had to give him.
Derek didn't ask if he was sure. Didn't ask if he thought he'd be able to cope. He just did exactly what Stiles asked.
There was a surprising amount that Stiles had remembered or figured out already; it was just some of the details missing. Like, he knew about the Alpha Pack coming to town and doing nothing for a long time, simply observing Derek - but he didn't know that they'd literally watched Derek, turning up most places he went, staring at him, dialling his paranoia up to 1000%. This only proved to Stiles that this 'talent' was a werewolf characteristic, although the Alphas had clearly been using the tactic as some kind of psychological warfare.
He knew that they'd ended up working with Peter, not that they didn't really have a choice about it. Derek had taken Stiles' advice in the end, unbeknownst to all of them but Peter who'd been creeping around, as always. Derek had gone in the middle of the night, alone, without telling anyone. He tried to tell the Alpha Pack that he was learning, improving, but although Derek was intelligent he wasn't clever with words in the way that Peter was, wasn't good at politics. Peter, unsurprisingly, was a natural at politics and - fortunately, as much as it clearly pained Derek to say so - had followed him that night. He said everything Derek wanted to say in the ways Derek couldn't, while still not stepping over the line of Derek's authority as Alpha. Over the next few weeks, as they negotiated with the Alpha Pack, Derek grudgingly admitted that Peter needed to be there. Which meant Peter at the meetings. Peter at the warehouse. Peter pretty much everywhere they turned.
This, unfortunately, had apparently left Peter feeling like he was indispensible and, thus, like he could do anything he wanted.
Which was why, Derek suspected, Peter had started openly showing an interest in Stiles.
"I cannot tell you how thrilled that makes me," Stiles told him flatly. "Truly."
Huffing out an amused breath, Derek told him about the Alphas finally freeing Erica and Boyd and then he just...stopped.
Surprised, Stiles finally shifted himself, pulling his arms free, sitting back and turning his head to look at Derek. "That's it?" he asked, incredulous. "But that's barely into last summer. You're saying nothing's happened since then?" But then...he had kind of thought that before, hadn't he? That things had started calming down.
"Nothing big," Derek shrugged. "I know a lot happened in a relatively short period of time, but..."
Stiles was beginning to get it. "That's life." The more he thought about it, the more true he knew it was. You could go through shitty times - sometimes really long, shitty times - but life was usually the day-in day-out regular stuff. School. Work. Friends. Family. Grocery shopping. Chores. Bills. Life. Love. The first eleven years of Stiles' life had been astoundingly normal, considering, only taking a nosedive into horrific when Mom died. Life wasn't always one constant drama after another and that was actually reassurring because it helped convince Stiles that as awful as those memories had been, at least there really was nothing else horrifying waiting in the wings.
"Your Dad got...hurt," Derek admitted carefully, "but I'm assuming you remember-"
"Yeah," Stiles interrupted, glancing away again, goosebumps popping up on his skin. "I do."
Derek nodded. "There was a ghoul, at some point," he blurted out awkwardly. "Took an interest in Boyd. That's about it."
"So since then it's just been...life? Like, actual, normal, regular life stuff?"
"For the most part," Derek agreed. "You've been focusing on lacrosse and school. And I've been trying to focus on the pack. Trying to make it the way it...should be." There was an edge of guilt to his voice, like he knew he'd screwed up and was still trying to find ways to fix it.
Stiles thought of the rest of the pack, especially of how protective Isaac, Boyd and Erica were of him. "I think you've done a good job, Dad," he teased, thinking of Derek being like a parent to three new cubs, which he actually kind of was.
Derek's reaction wasn't eye rolling or subtle amusment, however. All he said was, "For your own sake, don't ever call me that in front of Erica." Stiles was definitely about to ask exactly what that meant when Derek spoke again. "You want me to go get your dad?"
He seriously thought the question over. All this talking and listening to non-horrific things had made him feel...not better, exactly, but a little more sturdy. Like he might actually be able to get somewhere un-aided. If he were honest with himself, mostly what he wanted to do was rest, even if he was afraid of what might be waiting for him when he closed his eyes.
"Is he...?" He gestured up towards the offices. When Derek nodded, so did Stiles. "I'll go up to him. I think...I should go."
Not judging, in fact not saying anything at all, Derek simply stood and held a hand out to him.
Stiles stared at it. Thought about it resting against the side of his neck, today and in his memory. Reached out and took it, bracing his weight against Derek, standing up. Deliberately didn't let go.
"Thank you," he said, really looking at Derek so he'd know he meant it.
Nodding tightly, Derek pulled his hand free and walked away.
Leaving the warehouse was yet another painfully awkward experience - he'd had a lot of them. Dad desperately wanted to know how he was doing but didn't seem to know how to ask. Scott kept trying to hug him the entire time Stiles was trying to leave, and most of the rest of them just looked at him sadly and if pity could be measured physically, they would've been standing in gallons of the stuff.
Yeah, he needed to get the hell out of there.
It was Jackson of all people who actually moved to intercept him before he got out the door. "Stilinski," he said, sounding the way he had before they'd ever become friends, "as soon as you're cleared for lacrosse again, I'm gonna kick your ass all over that field, you understand me? Amnesia is not an excuse."
Stiles literally had to stop himself from hugging him.
He let Dad drive the jeep home, mostly because he knew he'd never be able to concentrate. He spent the whole journey shooting looks to Dad, reminding himself that it was okay, Dad was okay, what'd happened was a long time ago even though it was fresh in his memory, that he could vividly remember it happening. Dad kept shooting him worried looks, too, and Stiles honestly had no idea how they got all the way home without crashing.
Once in the house, Stiles stood at the foot of the stairs, watching Dad put the keys on the entryway table. They were his keys this time, true, but it was such a familiar action, one he'd seen thousands of times before and he couldn't imagine not seeing Dad doing it again, Dad not being there to do it at all. Before he really knew what he was doing, he'd moved and had his arms around Dad in a fierce hug.
Clearly startled, it took Dad a few moments before squeezing tight in return, a hand rubbing up and down Stiles' back. For all their issues, they'd always been good at hugging.
Stiles felt his eyes filling up, felt the words wanting to come tumbling from his mouth. He let them. "You were hurt," he got out. "Matt with the gun. At the precinct. That drunk driver who shot you." He couldn't tell Dad about Gerard; didn't know that he'd ever be able to. Stiles tried to take a fortifying breath; didn't get very far. "It was like...two of the worst memories in my whole life, all at once. Like they both happened yesterday. Like they both happened today," he corrected, throat closing up with emotion.
"Hey," Dad told him quietly, the word somehow filled with assurance. "Hey, I'm right here."
Dad's body was warm and familiar and breathing, and Stiles tried to take comfort from it. Eventually Dad cracked a joke about a man his age needing to sit down. It was an obvious ploy but Stiles let him get away with it, the two of them moving to the living room.
"You...want to talk about anything else?" Dad asked, sinking into his chair.
"Not really," Stiles said truthfully, wiping at his face. "We've barely done anything and I'm exhausted."
"Technically you're still recovering," Dad pointed out. "And it's been an emotional humdinger of a morning for me, so I can't even imagine what it's been like for you."
That surprised a laugh out of Stiles. "Humdinger?"
"Perfectly legitimate word," Dad argued, standing back up. "Get some rest on the sofa. I'll get a few chores done and then make something for lunch."
"Are you sure?" Stiles thought to ask, not that he didn't appreciate the offer. "You've kinda been doing everything around the house lately." Dad fixed him with an, Don't be an idiot and let me look after you glare, making Stiles hold his hands up in supplication. "Okay, okay. Go do your indentured servitude thing, I don't mind."
Toeing his sneakers off, he followed Dad's suggestion and settled onto the sofa. He tried to get comfortable but everytime he closed his eyes he saw Matt hitting Dad on the head with the gun or Dad falling to the floor, unconscious. He tried to force himself to visualise something else instead, tried counting numbers in his head, but in the end the thing that worked was picturing cartoon werewolves jumping over fences.
He startled out of sleep right about the time Dream Matt hit Dream Dad with the gun, only this time it was followed up by Gerard shooting Dad in the head. Waking with a choked cry, remembering the imagined sight of blood and brain matter, he froze, panting, when he realised Dad was perched on the far end of the sofa, guilt etched onto every line of his face.
"I tried to wake you," Dad explained, staring at Stiles like he was seeing him for the first time. "You were talking...pleading." He looked horrified. "This isn't the first time you've had nightmares about this stuff."
It wasn't a question because it didn't need to be. Stiles may not have specifically remembered having nightmares during the Amnesia Blackout period, but he was pretty sure he'd remembered thinking about them. "I think so." Frankly, his brain was still traumatised by the dream he'd just had.
Swallowing heavily, Dad nodded his understanding. "I can't believe I didn't know about this." He sounded...destroyed, like he was the worst father on the face of the planet, who'd ever existed anywhere and Stiles couldn't let that stand. He moved, shifting and folding his legs until he was kneeling on the sofa.
"I didn't want you to," he reminded Dad. "And you know what us Stilinski's are like when we want something." He was trying to produce a smile, a reaction, anything that wasn't the guilt weighing on Dad's features.
He was only partially successful, Dad casting his eyes down as the vaguest of vague smiles forced on his lips. "Lunch is done. Soup and sandwiches."
Stiles went with the distraction. "That horrible store-bought crap that's, like, 60% salt?" Starting tomorrow, he was totally taking over cooking duties.
"So you don't want it?"
Sniffing the air, Stiles felt his stomach rumble. "I didn't say that."
*
The rest of the day was a strange, melancholy mix. He finished his homework. Had a shower. Silently watched TV with Dad (because he could, because Dad was still there to watch TV with). Ignored the multiple texts from the rest of the pack that were variations of Let us know if you need anything. He appreciated the sentiment but it was just too much right now. At 1am, when he should've been asleep - he had school the next day - he was instead playing a game he couldn't remember on his laptop, headphones on. He was well-past tired but was trying to make himself so exhausted that he wouldn't have any chance of dreaming at all.
He wondered if he used to do this a lot.
When his phone lit-up on the edge of the computer desk, he frowned and paused the game.
From: Erica
WTF did you do to derek? he's having nightmares and won't wake up. keeps begging gerard not to hit him then begs matt not to kill his dad. I've seen star trek. did you mind-thing him or something?
It took Stiles' brain more than a few seconds to make any sense out of that whatsoever, and then it made an astoundingly horrible kind of sense.
Pain that isn't strictly physical is...more complicated.
Oh, that asshole.
To: Erica
on my way
He didn't even bother changing out of his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, clinging onto his phone as he quietly but quickly moved downstairs, jamming his feet into his sneakers. Having enough presence of mind to leave a note in the kitchen in case it ended up being necessary, Stiles grabbed his keys from the table and flew out of the house towards the jeep.
His phone buzzed once during the now-familiar journey to the warehouse but he ignored it in favour of a) not crashing and b) getting there faster. When he finally did screech to a stop he grabbed the phone, opening the new message.
From: Boyd
He's awake now. He's fine. No need to come.
Ha! "Ha!" Stiles exclaimed, climbing out of the car, barely remembering to lock it as he hurried towards the entrance. Slowly opening the heavy metal door, he eventually got inside, passing through the darkened offices with ease.
Isaac was at the top of the stairs waiting for him. Peering down, Stiles could see Boyd and Erica quietly talking to each other, but Derek was nowhere to be seen.
"This isn't the first time this has happened," Isaac told him quietly but also guiltily, as if betraying a confidence that needed to be betrayed. "About...six months ago?" he shrugged, hands gripping the top of the barrier designed to stop people falling to their inevitable splattery deaths. "They weren't as close to them then and he managed to hide it from them, somehow. It was the same stuff," Isaac explained. "Pleading for his dad not to get shot. For...Gerard to stop..." He swallowed. "Hurting him." Moving again, he turned and faced Stiles. "But they're not his dreams, are they?"
"No."
Isaac nodded, like he'd just had a theory confirmed. "He's in the train."
They must've known he was there but neither Boyd or Erica even looked at him until he was almost at the bottom of the stairs. They both looked at him like they wanted to say something but didn't know what. Stiles barely sent them a glance, throwing his car keys onto the same table as the TV, then heading straight for one of the open doors to the train. Climbing up and inside, he peered into the carriage. Most of the seats had been pulled out, mattresses passing as beds placed throughout the carriage at random intervals. There had been some attempt at making it more than just a place to sleep; colourful cushions and blankets, a few personal belongings and photographs taped to the windows, but still.
Derek really needed to upgrade.
As for Derek himself, he was sitting on one of the seats that was still there, right at the far end of the carriage. He had his head bowed down, his left hand slowly rubbing across his face. "Go away," he ordered in a tone of voice that only proved to Stiles that he knew exactly who was standing there.
Stiles stepped further into the carriage. "You're an idiot," he announced, picking his way through sheets, pillows - was that a teddy bear? - as he kept talking. "You didn't think to mention, 'Oh, this'll also psychologically damage me because that hugely illogical werewolf healing thing that makes no sense whatsoever will pass your crap on to me'."
"I'm already psychologically damaged," Derek spat back, still hunched over.
"I'm serious," Stiles continued, finally coming to a stop a few feet from Derek. "What biological imperative did werewolves actually have to evolve this ability? It makes no sense in terms of evolution! I've read Darwin, okay - well, an online notes version - and there was a lot about birds and technically nothing about werewolves, but I'm pretty sure he'd have my back on this. Than again," he mused, "why did werewolves come into being at all? I'm pretty sure the ability to sprout hair at fifty paces does no one any good-"
"I think I'd actually prefer the nightmares again right now."
"Don't even," Stiles said, because he did have a point here. "You should've told me."
"Right," Derek said sarcastically, finally looking up at him. "You try explaining to a guy who's already having a panic attack exactly what I was about to do and what the consequences would be. I thought it would help."
Okay, point. Stiles blinked. And it did, in fact, help. Stiles just felt really shitty about it. "We agreed you'd tell me everything," he said a little - okay, a lot - petulantly.
Smirking mirthlessly, Derek shook his head. "You're smart enough to know I was never going to tell you everything."
And there was the elephant in the room. Carriage. Whatever.
But Derek had brought it up so as far as Stiles was concerned, that made it fair game. "About exactly where we are in our 'work in progress', right?"
Derek glowered at him. "Don't."
He couldn't seem to stop, taking a step closer. "It's the reason you did it at all. Tried to help me, even knowing what it could do to you."
"Stop it."
Stiles stepped forward again, so close now he was almost standing between Derek's legs. Derek had to tip his head back to look up at him. Stiles only found the bravery to take the last step forward because he'd had a truly, truly shitty day and there was Derek, being annoying and frustrating and amazing and all he wanted to do was take Stiles' pain away.
Placing a hand gently on Derek's shoulder, Stiles looked down at his up-turned face. "Derek," he said quietly, "I don't want to see you suffer any more than you want to see me suffer." Something had been building between them, that much was clear, but just as obviously Derek had been holding back since Stiles had hit his head. Stiles hadn't known him but he knew him now, knew him in all the ways that mattered, the good and the bad.
And quite honestly, after the day he'd had? He deserved this.
He knew without a doubt that Derek - Derek - wanted him and he was suddenly sure. So, so sure as he reached for Derek's wrists, guiding his arms towards him until Derek got the hint, hands grasping either side of Stiles' waist. Derek's face was almost un-readable as he stared up at him, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring. His fingers curled tightly into the material of Stiles' shirt, pulling it down tightly against his shoulders.
A thrill spiked through Stiles' body and yeah, okay, maybe he had issues.
He didn't care.
Derek was still holding back and Stiles felt like he'd already been waiting eighteen months too long, thought of Derek pushing him against his bedroom door, of giving an injured Derek a lift home from Deaton's, Derek facing the kanima while Dad lay unconscious on the floor, Derek climbing into his bedroom looking for help, actually listening to Stiles' advice, helping Stiles through the panic attack and his simple generosity afterwards. All the visits to the DVD and grocery stores, his fumbling, touching offer to 'be there' for Stiles and his dad and all the different ways he had been there for Stiles since he'd woken up in the hospital, by being close but not too close, not when it might freak Stiles out.
Stiles couldn't let him keep doing it anymore.
"Stop protecting me."
It was the right thing to say because Stiles had already made his choice and this had to be Derek's, had to be Derek's and he finally made it, making a noise low in his throat as he surged up, fingers loosening their hold on the shirt as he spread them out against Stiles' side instead, gripping hard enough to bruise, face finally saying everything that his words couldn't.
It was Derek who moved them, turned them until Stiles' back was pressed against the side of the train - but it was Stiles who brought his arms up, grabbed the back of Derek's head and brought their mouths together.
TBC
Next Part
by Suz
Thank you to the wonderful rhiannonhero :) Feedback would be wonderful :)
Sorry for the delay. RL has become a huge pain in my behind so when I do get time to myself, it's much less stressful for me to do something light and easy instead of delving into this complicated monster ;) Am still working on it whenever I'm able.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15.
*
Stiles had no idea how Derek did it - he still wasn't quite with it despite Derek's 'help', trapped in the memories of the suckfest that his life had obviously become - but it felt like he blinked, and everyone else was gone. When he tried to concentrate, tried to think back on it, he vaguely remembered hearing Dad protesting but there was no sign of any of them now.
Just him and Derek, sitting on the sofa.
Stiles was ridiculously grateful for it. He'd just lost it in front of Derek again, and everyone else for the first time. He'd asked for this, asked for these memories but as he'd suspected they weren't actually something he wanted. Not when they made him feel like...that. Not when it ended up showing everyone just how broken he really was, when it gave him no more secrets left to keep.
Closing his eyes, Stiles let out a long, slow breath because at least he had this for the moment, he could breathe and the reason for it was sitting to his left, not touching. But watching.
Always watching.
Stiles was beginning to realise just how much he - and Previous Stiles - had come to rely on that. Even if neither of them had realised it at the time.
Opening his eyes, Stiles tried to focus on anything but the image of Dad falling to the ground, Gerard's face as he grinned down at him, staring at Dad's bedroom door as he listened to him snore (breathe. Breathe breathe breathe). His body felt wrung-out and exhausted when, in reality, only a few minutes had passed.
Wrapping his arms around himself, hands slotting underneath his armpits, Stiles kept his head tipped down. Thought about what Derek had done - again, apparently. "How does..." He started, then stopped. Licked his lips. "I...remembered being surprised that it worked. On me. A human. The first time you did it. That thing you did with your hand," he thought to explain, in case he wasn't making sense. It seemed entirely possible because right now Stiles wasn't even making sense to himself. "Does it not normally? Is it supposed to be a...werewolf-only deal, or something?" Talking. Talking was good. The more he talked, the more normal he was starting to feel. The more time he spent talking, the less time he had to think.
"It doesn't work on other werewolves," Derek explained and Stiles appreciated the hell out of the fact that Derek wasn't trying to get him to talk about what'd set him off in the first place. And Stiles supposed the healing thing - or whatever the hell it was - shouldn't work on werewolves, as they already had their own freaky healing powers. Having both would just be overkill. Totally made sense, in the way that it didn't make any sense at all. "It does work on animals," Derek continued. "And it can work on humans." He paused, the weight of the silence heavy in the air. "Sometimes."
Obviously, Stiles fell somewhere in that sometimes bracket. "Sometimes?"
Stiles felt, more than saw, Derek shift next to him. "There has to be a...very specific set of circumstances."
Okay. Stiles could kind of see that, otherwise it'd be public knowledge among the Werewolf Aware, who'd be hunting down werewolves not to kill them, but to take advantage of their amazing healing abilities. "So you weren't even sure it was going to work."
"It was worth a try," Derek told him, which gave Stiles all the answer he needed.
He nodded slowly, head still bent over. "And it does...what, exactly? Takes pain away? Including...emotional pain or something?" Stiles had remembered that, too, being surprised that it was having an effect on a panic attack.
"Physical pain is straight-forward - it takes the pain away. We can't actual heal anyone, can't fix what's wrong with them."
Stiles was beginning to understand. "But it hurts less."
"Pain that isn't strictly physical is...more complicated," Derek continued. "It's not permanent. But the effect is much the same."
Licking his lips, Stiles nodded tightly. "Well...thanks," he said awkwardly. "Guess I owe you one. Twice over," he chuckled mirthlessly. God, his life.
"Stiles-"
"Tell me the rest," he instructed, suddenly sure. "All of it. All of it since..." He swallowed. "All of it since Gerard." He still didn't want to know but he had to, ironically had to protect himself by exposing himself to everything that could tear him apart emotionally.
God, the things Allison had done. Stiles didn't even know how to deal with it, and didn't even try. They'd obviously all worked it out, or she wouldn't have been part of the pack.
At least he was pretty sure there was nothing even worse than what he'd remembered already. His memories were still a mess sometimes - made even more confusing now by all the things he'd been told, all the things he knew but couldn't actually remember experiencing - but he was fairly sure he'd experienced the worst his memories had to give him.
Derek didn't ask if he was sure. Didn't ask if he thought he'd be able to cope. He just did exactly what Stiles asked.
There was a surprising amount that Stiles had remembered or figured out already; it was just some of the details missing. Like, he knew about the Alpha Pack coming to town and doing nothing for a long time, simply observing Derek - but he didn't know that they'd literally watched Derek, turning up most places he went, staring at him, dialling his paranoia up to 1000%. This only proved to Stiles that this 'talent' was a werewolf characteristic, although the Alphas had clearly been using the tactic as some kind of psychological warfare.
He knew that they'd ended up working with Peter, not that they didn't really have a choice about it. Derek had taken Stiles' advice in the end, unbeknownst to all of them but Peter who'd been creeping around, as always. Derek had gone in the middle of the night, alone, without telling anyone. He tried to tell the Alpha Pack that he was learning, improving, but although Derek was intelligent he wasn't clever with words in the way that Peter was, wasn't good at politics. Peter, unsurprisingly, was a natural at politics and - fortunately, as much as it clearly pained Derek to say so - had followed him that night. He said everything Derek wanted to say in the ways Derek couldn't, while still not stepping over the line of Derek's authority as Alpha. Over the next few weeks, as they negotiated with the Alpha Pack, Derek grudgingly admitted that Peter needed to be there. Which meant Peter at the meetings. Peter at the warehouse. Peter pretty much everywhere they turned.
This, unfortunately, had apparently left Peter feeling like he was indispensible and, thus, like he could do anything he wanted.
Which was why, Derek suspected, Peter had started openly showing an interest in Stiles.
"I cannot tell you how thrilled that makes me," Stiles told him flatly. "Truly."
Huffing out an amused breath, Derek told him about the Alphas finally freeing Erica and Boyd and then he just...stopped.
Surprised, Stiles finally shifted himself, pulling his arms free, sitting back and turning his head to look at Derek. "That's it?" he asked, incredulous. "But that's barely into last summer. You're saying nothing's happened since then?" But then...he had kind of thought that before, hadn't he? That things had started calming down.
"Nothing big," Derek shrugged. "I know a lot happened in a relatively short period of time, but..."
Stiles was beginning to get it. "That's life." The more he thought about it, the more true he knew it was. You could go through shitty times - sometimes really long, shitty times - but life was usually the day-in day-out regular stuff. School. Work. Friends. Family. Grocery shopping. Chores. Bills. Life. Love. The first eleven years of Stiles' life had been astoundingly normal, considering, only taking a nosedive into horrific when Mom died. Life wasn't always one constant drama after another and that was actually reassurring because it helped convince Stiles that as awful as those memories had been, at least there really was nothing else horrifying waiting in the wings.
"Your Dad got...hurt," Derek admitted carefully, "but I'm assuming you remember-"
"Yeah," Stiles interrupted, glancing away again, goosebumps popping up on his skin. "I do."
Derek nodded. "There was a ghoul, at some point," he blurted out awkwardly. "Took an interest in Boyd. That's about it."
"So since then it's just been...life? Like, actual, normal, regular life stuff?"
"For the most part," Derek agreed. "You've been focusing on lacrosse and school. And I've been trying to focus on the pack. Trying to make it the way it...should be." There was an edge of guilt to his voice, like he knew he'd screwed up and was still trying to find ways to fix it.
Stiles thought of the rest of the pack, especially of how protective Isaac, Boyd and Erica were of him. "I think you've done a good job, Dad," he teased, thinking of Derek being like a parent to three new cubs, which he actually kind of was.
Derek's reaction wasn't eye rolling or subtle amusment, however. All he said was, "For your own sake, don't ever call me that in front of Erica." Stiles was definitely about to ask exactly what that meant when Derek spoke again. "You want me to go get your dad?"
He seriously thought the question over. All this talking and listening to non-horrific things had made him feel...not better, exactly, but a little more sturdy. Like he might actually be able to get somewhere un-aided. If he were honest with himself, mostly what he wanted to do was rest, even if he was afraid of what might be waiting for him when he closed his eyes.
"Is he...?" He gestured up towards the offices. When Derek nodded, so did Stiles. "I'll go up to him. I think...I should go."
Not judging, in fact not saying anything at all, Derek simply stood and held a hand out to him.
Stiles stared at it. Thought about it resting against the side of his neck, today and in his memory. Reached out and took it, bracing his weight against Derek, standing up. Deliberately didn't let go.
"Thank you," he said, really looking at Derek so he'd know he meant it.
Nodding tightly, Derek pulled his hand free and walked away.
Leaving the warehouse was yet another painfully awkward experience - he'd had a lot of them. Dad desperately wanted to know how he was doing but didn't seem to know how to ask. Scott kept trying to hug him the entire time Stiles was trying to leave, and most of the rest of them just looked at him sadly and if pity could be measured physically, they would've been standing in gallons of the stuff.
Yeah, he needed to get the hell out of there.
It was Jackson of all people who actually moved to intercept him before he got out the door. "Stilinski," he said, sounding the way he had before they'd ever become friends, "as soon as you're cleared for lacrosse again, I'm gonna kick your ass all over that field, you understand me? Amnesia is not an excuse."
Stiles literally had to stop himself from hugging him.
He let Dad drive the jeep home, mostly because he knew he'd never be able to concentrate. He spent the whole journey shooting looks to Dad, reminding himself that it was okay, Dad was okay, what'd happened was a long time ago even though it was fresh in his memory, that he could vividly remember it happening. Dad kept shooting him worried looks, too, and Stiles honestly had no idea how they got all the way home without crashing.
Once in the house, Stiles stood at the foot of the stairs, watching Dad put the keys on the entryway table. They were his keys this time, true, but it was such a familiar action, one he'd seen thousands of times before and he couldn't imagine not seeing Dad doing it again, Dad not being there to do it at all. Before he really knew what he was doing, he'd moved and had his arms around Dad in a fierce hug.
Clearly startled, it took Dad a few moments before squeezing tight in return, a hand rubbing up and down Stiles' back. For all their issues, they'd always been good at hugging.
Stiles felt his eyes filling up, felt the words wanting to come tumbling from his mouth. He let them. "You were hurt," he got out. "Matt with the gun. At the precinct. That drunk driver who shot you." He couldn't tell Dad about Gerard; didn't know that he'd ever be able to. Stiles tried to take a fortifying breath; didn't get very far. "It was like...two of the worst memories in my whole life, all at once. Like they both happened yesterday. Like they both happened today," he corrected, throat closing up with emotion.
"Hey," Dad told him quietly, the word somehow filled with assurance. "Hey, I'm right here."
Dad's body was warm and familiar and breathing, and Stiles tried to take comfort from it. Eventually Dad cracked a joke about a man his age needing to sit down. It was an obvious ploy but Stiles let him get away with it, the two of them moving to the living room.
"You...want to talk about anything else?" Dad asked, sinking into his chair.
"Not really," Stiles said truthfully, wiping at his face. "We've barely done anything and I'm exhausted."
"Technically you're still recovering," Dad pointed out. "And it's been an emotional humdinger of a morning for me, so I can't even imagine what it's been like for you."
That surprised a laugh out of Stiles. "Humdinger?"
"Perfectly legitimate word," Dad argued, standing back up. "Get some rest on the sofa. I'll get a few chores done and then make something for lunch."
"Are you sure?" Stiles thought to ask, not that he didn't appreciate the offer. "You've kinda been doing everything around the house lately." Dad fixed him with an, Don't be an idiot and let me look after you glare, making Stiles hold his hands up in supplication. "Okay, okay. Go do your indentured servitude thing, I don't mind."
Toeing his sneakers off, he followed Dad's suggestion and settled onto the sofa. He tried to get comfortable but everytime he closed his eyes he saw Matt hitting Dad on the head with the gun or Dad falling to the floor, unconscious. He tried to force himself to visualise something else instead, tried counting numbers in his head, but in the end the thing that worked was picturing cartoon werewolves jumping over fences.
He startled out of sleep right about the time Dream Matt hit Dream Dad with the gun, only this time it was followed up by Gerard shooting Dad in the head. Waking with a choked cry, remembering the imagined sight of blood and brain matter, he froze, panting, when he realised Dad was perched on the far end of the sofa, guilt etched onto every line of his face.
"I tried to wake you," Dad explained, staring at Stiles like he was seeing him for the first time. "You were talking...pleading." He looked horrified. "This isn't the first time you've had nightmares about this stuff."
It wasn't a question because it didn't need to be. Stiles may not have specifically remembered having nightmares during the Amnesia Blackout period, but he was pretty sure he'd remembered thinking about them. "I think so." Frankly, his brain was still traumatised by the dream he'd just had.
Swallowing heavily, Dad nodded his understanding. "I can't believe I didn't know about this." He sounded...destroyed, like he was the worst father on the face of the planet, who'd ever existed anywhere and Stiles couldn't let that stand. He moved, shifting and folding his legs until he was kneeling on the sofa.
"I didn't want you to," he reminded Dad. "And you know what us Stilinski's are like when we want something." He was trying to produce a smile, a reaction, anything that wasn't the guilt weighing on Dad's features.
He was only partially successful, Dad casting his eyes down as the vaguest of vague smiles forced on his lips. "Lunch is done. Soup and sandwiches."
Stiles went with the distraction. "That horrible store-bought crap that's, like, 60% salt?" Starting tomorrow, he was totally taking over cooking duties.
"So you don't want it?"
Sniffing the air, Stiles felt his stomach rumble. "I didn't say that."
*
The rest of the day was a strange, melancholy mix. He finished his homework. Had a shower. Silently watched TV with Dad (because he could, because Dad was still there to watch TV with). Ignored the multiple texts from the rest of the pack that were variations of Let us know if you need anything. He appreciated the sentiment but it was just too much right now. At 1am, when he should've been asleep - he had school the next day - he was instead playing a game he couldn't remember on his laptop, headphones on. He was well-past tired but was trying to make himself so exhausted that he wouldn't have any chance of dreaming at all.
He wondered if he used to do this a lot.
When his phone lit-up on the edge of the computer desk, he frowned and paused the game.
From: Erica
WTF did you do to derek? he's having nightmares and won't wake up. keeps begging gerard not to hit him then begs matt not to kill his dad. I've seen star trek. did you mind-thing him or something?
It took Stiles' brain more than a few seconds to make any sense out of that whatsoever, and then it made an astoundingly horrible kind of sense.
Pain that isn't strictly physical is...more complicated.
Oh, that asshole.
To: Erica
on my way
He didn't even bother changing out of his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, clinging onto his phone as he quietly but quickly moved downstairs, jamming his feet into his sneakers. Having enough presence of mind to leave a note in the kitchen in case it ended up being necessary, Stiles grabbed his keys from the table and flew out of the house towards the jeep.
His phone buzzed once during the now-familiar journey to the warehouse but he ignored it in favour of a) not crashing and b) getting there faster. When he finally did screech to a stop he grabbed the phone, opening the new message.
From: Boyd
He's awake now. He's fine. No need to come.
Ha! "Ha!" Stiles exclaimed, climbing out of the car, barely remembering to lock it as he hurried towards the entrance. Slowly opening the heavy metal door, he eventually got inside, passing through the darkened offices with ease.
Isaac was at the top of the stairs waiting for him. Peering down, Stiles could see Boyd and Erica quietly talking to each other, but Derek was nowhere to be seen.
"This isn't the first time this has happened," Isaac told him quietly but also guiltily, as if betraying a confidence that needed to be betrayed. "About...six months ago?" he shrugged, hands gripping the top of the barrier designed to stop people falling to their inevitable splattery deaths. "They weren't as close to them then and he managed to hide it from them, somehow. It was the same stuff," Isaac explained. "Pleading for his dad not to get shot. For...Gerard to stop..." He swallowed. "Hurting him." Moving again, he turned and faced Stiles. "But they're not his dreams, are they?"
"No."
Isaac nodded, like he'd just had a theory confirmed. "He's in the train."
They must've known he was there but neither Boyd or Erica even looked at him until he was almost at the bottom of the stairs. They both looked at him like they wanted to say something but didn't know what. Stiles barely sent them a glance, throwing his car keys onto the same table as the TV, then heading straight for one of the open doors to the train. Climbing up and inside, he peered into the carriage. Most of the seats had been pulled out, mattresses passing as beds placed throughout the carriage at random intervals. There had been some attempt at making it more than just a place to sleep; colourful cushions and blankets, a few personal belongings and photographs taped to the windows, but still.
Derek really needed to upgrade.
As for Derek himself, he was sitting on one of the seats that was still there, right at the far end of the carriage. He had his head bowed down, his left hand slowly rubbing across his face. "Go away," he ordered in a tone of voice that only proved to Stiles that he knew exactly who was standing there.
Stiles stepped further into the carriage. "You're an idiot," he announced, picking his way through sheets, pillows - was that a teddy bear? - as he kept talking. "You didn't think to mention, 'Oh, this'll also psychologically damage me because that hugely illogical werewolf healing thing that makes no sense whatsoever will pass your crap on to me'."
"I'm already psychologically damaged," Derek spat back, still hunched over.
"I'm serious," Stiles continued, finally coming to a stop a few feet from Derek. "What biological imperative did werewolves actually have to evolve this ability? It makes no sense in terms of evolution! I've read Darwin, okay - well, an online notes version - and there was a lot about birds and technically nothing about werewolves, but I'm pretty sure he'd have my back on this. Than again," he mused, "why did werewolves come into being at all? I'm pretty sure the ability to sprout hair at fifty paces does no one any good-"
"I think I'd actually prefer the nightmares again right now."
"Don't even," Stiles said, because he did have a point here. "You should've told me."
"Right," Derek said sarcastically, finally looking up at him. "You try explaining to a guy who's already having a panic attack exactly what I was about to do and what the consequences would be. I thought it would help."
Okay, point. Stiles blinked. And it did, in fact, help. Stiles just felt really shitty about it. "We agreed you'd tell me everything," he said a little - okay, a lot - petulantly.
Smirking mirthlessly, Derek shook his head. "You're smart enough to know I was never going to tell you everything."
And there was the elephant in the room. Carriage. Whatever.
But Derek had brought it up so as far as Stiles was concerned, that made it fair game. "About exactly where we are in our 'work in progress', right?"
Derek glowered at him. "Don't."
He couldn't seem to stop, taking a step closer. "It's the reason you did it at all. Tried to help me, even knowing what it could do to you."
"Stop it."
Stiles stepped forward again, so close now he was almost standing between Derek's legs. Derek had to tip his head back to look up at him. Stiles only found the bravery to take the last step forward because he'd had a truly, truly shitty day and there was Derek, being annoying and frustrating and amazing and all he wanted to do was take Stiles' pain away.
Placing a hand gently on Derek's shoulder, Stiles looked down at his up-turned face. "Derek," he said quietly, "I don't want to see you suffer any more than you want to see me suffer." Something had been building between them, that much was clear, but just as obviously Derek had been holding back since Stiles had hit his head. Stiles hadn't known him but he knew him now, knew him in all the ways that mattered, the good and the bad.
And quite honestly, after the day he'd had? He deserved this.
He knew without a doubt that Derek - Derek - wanted him and he was suddenly sure. So, so sure as he reached for Derek's wrists, guiding his arms towards him until Derek got the hint, hands grasping either side of Stiles' waist. Derek's face was almost un-readable as he stared up at him, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring. His fingers curled tightly into the material of Stiles' shirt, pulling it down tightly against his shoulders.
A thrill spiked through Stiles' body and yeah, okay, maybe he had issues.
He didn't care.
Derek was still holding back and Stiles felt like he'd already been waiting eighteen months too long, thought of Derek pushing him against his bedroom door, of giving an injured Derek a lift home from Deaton's, Derek facing the kanima while Dad lay unconscious on the floor, Derek climbing into his bedroom looking for help, actually listening to Stiles' advice, helping Stiles through the panic attack and his simple generosity afterwards. All the visits to the DVD and grocery stores, his fumbling, touching offer to 'be there' for Stiles and his dad and all the different ways he had been there for Stiles since he'd woken up in the hospital, by being close but not too close, not when it might freak Stiles out.
Stiles couldn't let him keep doing it anymore.
"Stop protecting me."
It was the right thing to say because Stiles had already made his choice and this had to be Derek's, had to be Derek's and he finally made it, making a noise low in his throat as he surged up, fingers loosening their hold on the shirt as he spread them out against Stiles' side instead, gripping hard enough to bruise, face finally saying everything that his words couldn't.
It was Derek who moved them, turned them until Stiles' back was pressed against the side of the train - but it was Stiles who brought his arms up, grabbed the back of Derek's head and brought their mouths together.
TBC
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