Archive of Our Own ^beta

Awareness comes slowly to Derek. There’s a cool trickle of water making its way past his dry lips, and he swallows automatically. He’s lying on something soft, sinking into it. It’s mostly quiet; the only thing he hears is somebody breathing. When he opens his eyes, there's a young man standing over him, warm brown eyes, eyebrows drawn slightly in concern. His hand is warm on Derek's cheek, long fingers trailing over his stubble lightly as he pulls away, lowers the glass of water he’d been holding up to Derek’s lips.

"You okay?"

Derek sits up, lets himself feel. He's tired, limbs heavy, like the energy has all been sucked out of him, but otherwise physically fine. His head aches a bit, but it seems to be fading quickly.

He looks around the place, distracted, taking in his surroundings -- a living area, television against one wall, an armchair near the couch he’s lying on -- until a hand snaps in his face.

"Earth to Derek. You okay, man?"

Derek's eyes are drawn back to the guy in front of him, who's starting to look more worried now.

"I --" he starts, then swallows against the dryness. "Who are you?"

The other guy laughs lightly. "Haha, very funny, dude. How's your head?"

Derek frowns. "I don't know you."

“This isn’t funny,” the guy says, and there’s an edge to his voice now.

“I’m not laughing,” Derek snaps. He doesn’t know this guy, and he doesn’t know where he is. He tenses his aching muscles, ready for a fight. The guy doesn’t look dangerous, but you never know.

The smile falls from the guy's face. In fact, his face is turning strangely blank. "You don't remember anything?"

There's something about the guy's voice as he asks that question, a slight hitch to his breath, but it's there and gone and Derek doesn't know if he imagined it.

He tries to think, but it's like there's a fog in his head, like it's all filled with cotton balls. He has vague flashes, more like feelings, but when he tries to remember how he came to be on this couch, in this apartment, he has no idea.

His heart starts to beat faster now. Why can't he remember?

"Who are you?" he asks, more insistently.

There's a beat, a moment where those brown eyes look right at him, through him, as if he's trying to see into Derek's head, like he knows him.

"No one," the guys says, and he turns away, heading toward the door.

"Wait," Derek starts, standing up. He doesn't know the guy, but the guy knows him. This means he must have some sort of clue about Derek, about how he got here.

Except just then Cora walks into the living room, and Derek feels weak at the knees with relief, because at least his sister is here. He knows her. Something niggles at the back of his brain.

At this moment, she looks worried, a crease forming between her eyebrows.

"Is something wrong?" She looks between him and the guy carefully. "Stiles?"

Derek doesn't know what the hell that means, but the guy seems to hunch over, drawing his shoulders in, as if trying to appear smaller.

"I'm gonna go," he says, and there's no chance for him or Cora to react, because he's already out the door.

Derek turns to his sister. And then it hits him.

“You’re alive,” he whispers.

Cora frowns. She takes a step closer, crosses her arms over her chest. "Why did Stiles leave like that?" she asks. He’d almost say there's a vague tone of judgment in her voice.

Derek frowns. "Is that his name? Stiles?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Cora says.

Derek sits back down on the couch, leans over, rests his elbows on his knees. He sighs and lets his head fall down into his hands, fingers gripping his hair. "I don't know."

He hears Cora make her way over, and she sits down next to him, hand on his back.

"What happened?"

He startles when she touches him, looks into her face, breathes her in. There’s no doubt this is his little sister here, the sister he’d thought was dead all these years. Instinct tells him it’s her, not some impostor. There’s a sharp ache in his chest, and he reaches a hand up to cup her jaw, almost afraid she’d disappear, that this is some cruel trick of his addled brain.

Her skin is smooth and warm, and he lets himself soak that in.

“You’re alive,” he says again.

“Yes,” Cora says slowly.

He pulls her into a hug suddenly, needing to have her in his arms, needing to feel the solidity of her body. She hugs him back, arms strong around his torso, and he buries his face in her hair.

Eventually, she pulls back.

“Derek, you’re really worrying me here,” she says.

“You’re -- I thought you were dead,” he says, and it comes out hoarse. “The fire -- I thought --”

She frowns, looks at his face carefully. “What do you remember?”

He remembers getting the call, meeting Laura at the house, or what was left of it. The red of the embers hadn’t even died down yet by the time they’d gotten there. Police and firefighters were milling about, and there were ambulances and people everywhere and flashing lights.

He doesn’t know where to start.

Cora must sense something of his turmoil, because she wraps a hand around the back of his neck, squeezing. Their mom used to do that when he was upset, and it calms him.

“Do you remember how you got here?” Cora asks.

Derek swallows. His mouth feels dry again. He picks up the glass of water that had been left on the coffee table and takes a drink. "I don't know," he says. He can't look at Cora, doesn't want to know what her face is doing now. He feels guilty all over again, about the fire, about the fact that she’d apparently been alive all this time and he hadn’t known. He speaks to his shoes. "I woke up on the couch. That guy -- Stiles -- was here. And he talked to me, but I. I don't know who he is. I don't know where I am, or how I got here, or what is happening to me, I just know that I can't remember." It's weird, it's like the words are pouring out of him and he can't stop it. His heart is beating faster and faster.

"Hey," Cora says, and there's a hand on his face, turning his head to face her. "Hey, it's okay. We'll figure it out."

Derek can't make any words come out, so he nods. He places his own hand on top of hers. Her touch is grounding him, draining away the panic, calming.

"Just, stay here, okay? I'm gonna make a few calls, and we'll figure everything out."

He nods again, and she stands up, leaves the room. He leans back against the cushions and closes his eyes. He can hear as she takes out her phone.

He doesn't recognize the voice of the person on the other side.

"Scott?" Cora says. "We have a problem."

"Did something happen?" Scott says, and Derek is surprised at the concern in his voice.

"Derek has amnesia."

There is silence on the other end. Then, "Does Stiles know?"

"He was just here, but he left. I didn't get to talk to him, and I don't know what happened. He looked weird though. I think you'd better find him."

"I will," Scott says. "You'd better take Derek to Deaton."

"All right. I'll meet you there?"

Scott says yes and hangs up. Cora comes back into the room, a determined look on her face.

"Come on, we have to go."

"Who’s Deaton?"

Cora rolls her eyes, but doesn't otherwise comment on his eavesdropping.

"If there’s anyone around who can figure out what’s going on, it’s him."

“But who is he?" Derek says, catching the leather jacket she throws at him.

There's a quirk to her lips as she looks over her shoulder at him. "You'll see."

~

Deaton turns out to be a veterinarian.

Well, he's more than that. He takes Derek and Cora to his back room, a large, dark, brick-faced room with X-rays hanging on the walls. After Cora explains what's going on, Deaton turns to Derek.

"What do you remember?"

Derek fidgets. He doesn't want to tell this stranger about his condition, this weakness, but Cora seems to trust him, so he forces himself to talk, eyes toward the floor. "I know who I am. I know Cora, and. I know my family is dead." He swallows. Then he frowns and looks up at Cora. "Where's Laura?"

Her face falls, and Derek knows he doesn't want to hear the words that will come out of her mouth. "You should be dead too," he realizes.

"Ah," Deaton says. "Derek, do you remember returning to Beacon Hills?"

Derek’s brows furrow as he tries to think. It's like moving through molasses, trying to find the memories in his head. "Laura talked about coming back," he says slowly. "I think she did. I think I did too?"

He glances at Cora again for information, but the look on her face makes his chest tighten up. He knows, suddenly. He knows that Laura is gone. He should have figured it out immediately. He can't feel her along their pack bond, in the same way he can't feel the rest of his family anymore.

Deaton also seems to be looking at Cora. "Would you like me to tell him?" he asks gently. She nods, looking at Derek, her mouth bending into an apologetic smile. She mouths "sorry."

Derek nods in acknowledgment.

Deaton starts speaking then. It turns out he's a druid, and he'd been the adviser to the Hales, to Derek's mother, even though Derek had had no clue. After the Hales died, he'd stayed in Beacon Hills, and he'd been there when Laura came back, and then Derek. He tells Derek of Laura's death, of Peter's comeback, of being an Alpha, of the pack that had formed and broken around him, of another alpha, a true alpha, coming to the fore, of Derek and Cora leaving together. Derek lets the words wash over him. He doesn't speak. He doesn't know what to say. It all sounds like a nightmare, and he almost feels relieved that he doesn't remember it, doesn't remember living that horror.

As Deaton seems to be nearing the end of his story, the front door opens, and there are steps heading their way. A young man steps in, and Derek can instantly tell he's a werewolf. There's something familiar about his presence, something that seems to uncoil inside him at the sight of this person. Some of the tension leaks out of his shoulders.

"Scott," Deaton says.

The true alpha, Derek recalls.

"Derek?" Scott asks, and he walks toward Derek, stops just a foot in front of him, looking at Derek with a worried frown.

Derek just nods. He still can't speak.

"He woke up like this," Cora says, and Scott turns to her.

"Yeah, Stiles told me."

"Did you talk to him?" Cora asks, and Derek doesn't miss the glance she throws his way.

"We ... sort of. He didn't explain much. He didn't want to come. Sorry," he says, turning to Derek.

"For what?" Derek says.

Scott's eyes widen, and then he looks sad. "Nothing." He turns to Deaton. "Is there anything we can do?"

"I'd have to do some research," says Deaton. "Magical amnesia is actually extremely rare. Few creatures have the power to remove another person's memories."

"I thought all alphas could," Scott says.

"They can," Deaton agrees, "but that power is limited. They can only take very few and very specific memories. Something of the magnitude of what Derek is experiencing is almost unheard of."

"Almost?" Cora says.

"There have been a few cases, which is why I need to do further research. In the meantime, I suggest you all carry on as normal."

Easy for you to say, Derek thinks.

~

Scott follows them back to Derek and Cora's apartment. Derek knows it belongs to the two of them, even if the layout and decor are both unfamiliar. It appears well lived in, with a comfy-looking couch and an armchair, soft carpet under their feet, bookshelves lining the walls, a television in one corner.

Derek walks slowly to the couch and sinks down. Cora and Scott are whispering to each other by the doorway, but Derek can't work up the interest to listen in. He almost feels like a stranger to his own body, like he's watching this entire experience from somewhere far away. He tries to think, to remember, but it's like trying to go through an impregnable wall, and it only serves to make him frustrated. He tries to focus on his senses instead: the touch of carpet under his toes, the slight smell of dust and food in the air, the rough feeling of denim under his fingertips where he's rubbing his hands up and down his thighs.

He doesn't notice that he's zoned out until there's a dip in the couch next to him as Cora sits, and then he looks up to see Scott coming out of one of the rooms, stuffing something into his backpack.

"You're my alpha," Derek says, and it feels right. Instinct tells him it's true, and it grounds him, the fact that he has an alpha. The fact that he has a pack. He feels a pang of guilt at this, because even though his instincts tell him the young man in front of him is his alpha, his memories say that Laura should be there.

Scott looks surprised for a second, but then he nods, smiling slightly. "I am," he says. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and moves until he's standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room, fingers fidgeting with the straps. "Do you need anything from me?"

Derek shakes his head.

"Don't worry, he'll be fine. I'll watch over him," says Cora, nudging his shoulder with hers. "Isn't that right, big bro?" She's smiling now, and it's a genuine one. Derek tries to smile back, but he doesn't know if it quite works.

"Right then," Scott says, and he heads toward the front door. "I'll bring the rest of the guys over tomorrow so you can see them. Meet them, I guess."

"That would be good," Derek says. The feeling of pack is there, under his skin, like a balm, telling him he's not alone. It would be good to have them close, have them near him, even though he doesn't remember them.

"See you then," says Scott, and then he's out the door. The dull roar of his motorcycle fades away quickly.

Cora gives him a quick tour of the apartment, shows him his bedroom, and leaves him there to get acquainted. Or reacquainted, he supposes as his eyes scan the bookshelf over on one wall. It's filled with books and knickknacks, but there are a few empty spots where it feels like something's missing. It's a disconcerting feeling, so he turns away, looking at the rest of the room.

The bed is opposite the bookshelf, a nice queen-sized one with blue covers. There are nightstands on either side, and a matching dresser to the right. He opens the drawers, idly looking through the clothes. He doesn't exactly remember them, but they feel familiar and seem to match his tastes. All except for those in the bottom drawer, at least. There are a few shirts and a couple of pairs of pants, and he lifts them out to look at them. They seem a bit small for his size. He sniffs at them, but they only smell of detergent, like the rest of his clothes. Something niggles at the back of his brain, that same feeling he'd had looking at the bookshelf, and he quickly folds the clothes up and shuts the drawer.

There is a desk on one side of the window with a lamp on it and a few papers that he doesn't examine. The closet is large enough, and filled with coats and jackets and shoes. He doesn't spend a lot of time there either.

The room feels both familiar and strange at the same time, and he doesn't like it. It feels like it's his, but he doesn't remember it, doesn't remember buying the furniture or picking out those color linens or choosing where everything goes.

It's too much, so he heads back out to the living room. Cora is stretched out on the couch, watching some movie on low volume. He stands there, watching her, trying to imagine how they came to be together, live together, after years and years of thinking she was dead.

She looks up at him. "Come over here and watch with me," she commands, and it reminds Derek suddenly of being a teenager and being ordered around by his baby sister, doing everything she asked, even when it ended up with him wearing his mom's lipstick and a plastic tiara and pretending he was the princess.

He walks over, picks her feet up, and slides in under them. He loses the plot of the movie quickly, barely paying attention. People move on the screen and he watches them uncaring, focusing more on his sister's breathing, the warm skin of her ankle under his hand, the sounds of cars going by outside.

The whole apartment smells strange, but not unpleasant. There’s more than just his and Cora’s scents there, though theirs seem the strongest. It speaks of a large number of people that come here regularly enough to leave this part of themselves behind.

The movie ends, and Cora switches over to another channel, some late night comedy show. It's dark now, the only light in the room from the television set and the streetlights. The shadows make her face look older than it should be. Or perhaps that's how she looks now, now that years have passed since she was the little girl that Derek remembers. There’s a buzzing sound, and Cora pulls a phone out of her pocket, looks down at the screen. She types a quick reply back and puts the phone on the coffee table, turning her attention back to the TV.

Derek doesn't ask who it was. It probably wouldn't mean anything to him anyway.

He sits there, not paying much attention to anything, and only realizes he's dozed off when Cora turns the TV off and the weight on his legs is gone.

"Bedtime for me," Cora says as she heads to her bedroom. She stops right outside the door to look at him. "You'll be okay?"

Derek nods. "I think so," he says, and Cora gives him a smile before she disappears behind a closed door.

Derek stands up slowly, feeling sluggish. He stretches his arms out over his head, takes a deep breath. He makes his way to the bathroom, turns on the light, and stands for a few minutes looking at his reflection.

He doesn't look very different from how he remembers himself. He has more stubble, almost a beard, and his hair is styled slightly different. He takes his shirt off. His chest is lightly covered with hair, and that's new. It was some weird point of vanity, to wax his chest. It was some sort of control, and some sort of punishment at the same time. He tries not to think too hard about it.

He puts his shirt back on and turns on the tap. There are three toothbrushes in the cup on the sink, and he stares at them. One of them must be an old one he or Cora hadn't thrown out yet. He has no idea which one is his. His hand hovers over them, feeling like he should know, like he’d known his room is his own. It’s probably best not to take chances, though.

Cora answers the door almost immediately when he knocks, dressed in pajamas. "What's up?" she asks.

"I don't know which toothbrush is mine," he says. It strikes Derek as ridiculous suddenly, that he doesn't know such a simple thing.

Cora blinks, and her face softens. "The red one," she says, and Derek nods at her before heading back to the bathroom.

He brushes his teeth, splashes water over his face, stares at himself a bit more, trying to get used to the person in the mirror and his slight differences. Eventually, he turns off the light and heads to his own room. He sits at the head of the bed, and picks up the book on his nightstand. It's a book of short stories by one of his favorite authors that he’s read several times, and he flips through it as he waits for sleep to claim him. After reading a couple, he places the book on the stand, turns off the lamp, and turns over onto his side, facing the opposite way. He takes a deep breath, the smell of freshly laundered sheets soothing him.

There's another book on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. That same familiar disconcerting feeling creeps up on him again. He shuffles over and picks it up to look at the title. It's a nonfiction book on genocide. Derek doesn't know why it's there, or why he would own such a book. He likes fiction, generally, the classics. He doesn't want to read about death.

He places the book on the nightstand where he'd found it, and rolls onto his back. The ceiling is safe to look at, nothing but the overhead light to see, and he falls asleep with a vague, uneasy feeling.

~

He wakes to the soft sounds of Cora moving around in the kitchen. His room apparently faces east, because the light is bright as it flows in through the blinds. He sits up in bed, feet on the floor, and takes a moment to stretch. He tries again to remember something, anything about his life the last few years, but again it's nothing but a wall of fog, so he gives it up. He heads into the bathroom, calling out a greeting to Cora.

"The black towels are yours!" she shouts in reply. "Duh."

He can just imagine her rolling her eyes and smiles to himself.

He turns on the shower and lets the hot water wash over him. He scans his eyes over the product bottles arranged on the shelf, and he feels confident enough choosing which ones are his. It's something to be happy about, and he lets the contentment wash over him as he runs the soap down his body, as he steps out of the shower into the steam of the bathroom, grabbing the black towel from the rack.

He stares at himself again in the mirror, debates whether to shave. He runs his hands through the hair on his chest. It's still short, which means he's only let it start growing back recently. He wonders why, and decides he must have just wanted a change. It doesn’t feel wrong, exactly, and he considers picking up the shaving cream. His hand lingers over it, but in the end he let’s the thought go. Whatever the reason, it was done. He might change his mind later, but perhaps it’s time to stop punishing himself. At least for now.

There are only two toothbrushes in the cup now, but the red one is still there, and he picks it up and brushes the morning breath out of his mouth. He keeps staring into the mirror after, but it feels less strange now. He's getting used to what his face looks like.

Once he's dried and dressed, he walks into the kitchen, where Cora is sitting at the counter, eating cereal and checking something on her phone.

"You sure took your time," she says.

He scowls at her, but she just smirks back. Instead of replying, he opens the fridge, examines the contents. He decides on eggs, and takes out the carton.

"Where ...?" he starts.

"Pots and pans, plates, utensils, cups," Cora says, pointing to each cupboard respectively.

Derek busies himself making eggs, scrambled, with just a splash of milk. Cora is done with her breakfast by the time he sits down with his own, but she keeps sitting next to him at the counter.

"Scott says he'll be by at around one this afternoon. He told the rest of the pack to show up then too."

Derek grunts to show he heard as he chews his food.

"You gonna be okay?"

He swallows and looks up at his sister. It's weird, a little, how their roles seem to have reversed, how she's the one taking care of him now. He supposes she'd had years to get used to it. Despair and rage at having missed out on that time, of having those memories torn away, hit him at the same time, and he quashes them down quick and hard. He can't go there. Instead, he just nods.

"Feel free to lock yourself in your room if you want," Cora says . "They won't mind, I promise. They know you well enough by now." There's that playful smile on her lips again, teasing.

He should get used to that, he supposes, the fact that strangers seem to know him better than he knows himself. Not strangers, he corrects himself, pack. That makes it a little better.

"I called in to work for you too," Cora continues, "just to let them know you'll be out for a few days."

"Work?" Derek says, looking up. Of course, work. He should have thought of this. It makes sense he'd have a job now. Back in New York he’d been a bouncer at a smallish club in Brooklyn. A memory of throwing out a belligerent drunk guy comes to the forefront of his mind. It feels both like it was yesterday and like it happened years ago. "Where is work now?"

"Gym. You're a personal trainer," Cora explains easily. She seems to have adjusted to the fact that Derek doesn't know anything pretty quickly. "Jack said it's cool. I told him you hit your head, got a concussion."

"And I can miss that much work?" Derek says skeptically. He can't imagine trying to pretend to know people who aren't related to him or pack. There's no way he could go back to work before he gets his memory back. He tries not to think about the fact that it might never return.

"Jack's great," says Cora. "He's known you for years now. Don't worry about it. Anyway, you've got a ton of vacation time. You're such a fucking workaholic."

Language, he wants to say, the way his mom used to say to them when he was younger. But Cora's an adult now, she can do as much swearing as she wants. So he says nothing, just nods, watching her get up, grab a purse from the armchair and put shoes on.

"I've got to run some errands. You'll be okay, right?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Good. Call me if you need anything?"

He waves her away, and she doesn't dote on him, which he appreciates. He listens to the lock on the door, her steady steps as she walks down the stairs. He finishes his eggs, and stands up, gathers his plate and hers. He washes both of them and the pan, places them in the drying rack, wipes down the top of the stove and the counter. It takes disappointingly little time, and he's left with a seemingly huge chunk of time to fill.

He needs distraction. The whole situation is still too strange for him, and he feels like if he lets himself think too much about it, lets himself think about Laura and how’s she’s not where she’s supposed to be, he’ll lose control.

He sits down on the couch and turns on the TV, browsing through the channels, but there's nothing really good on in the mornings. He walks around the apartment, trying to learn it, trying to feel like he's lived here for a while. He glances into the hall closets, takes a quick look into Cora's room, runs his hand over the table in the dining area. There are lots of chairs around it, as if they're used to hosting large groups.

Then he remembers what Cora said about a phone. It makes sense to have a cell phone, and he goes into his room to look for it.

He finds it in the pocket of the jeans he'd been wearing last night. It's some kind of smartphone, and it takes him a little bit to figure out how it works, but he finally manages to press an icon that has contacts. He doesn't get very far down the list before his eyes catch on the name Argent.

He feels frozen in place and he keeps looking at his phone, trying to wrap his mind around the two -- two! -- Argent names he sees there. Chris Argent must be Kate's brother. He has no idea who Allison Argent could be. His wife? But it still doesn't explain why their numbers would be in his phone.

The screen is turning blurry and out of focus, and the phone is digging into his hand where he's holding it tightly. He forces his fingers to relax, lets the phone drop on the bed and walks back out into the living room, stands there helplessly, taking in the sight. It looks harmless. He takes a deep breath, then another, and wills himself to calm down. Kate is dead. Deaton had said that Peter killed her.

He takes a few more breaths, lets himself relax. There must be some explanation. He turns back to his room, grabs the phone, thinks about calling Cora. He's distracted by the screen however, still showing his contacts list. He decides to keep scrolling instead, but he doesn't recognize any other names, other than his sister's and the Jack who must be his boss at the gym. There's Scott too, and then, towards the end, that Stiles name. He recalls the face, those warm brown eyes, the long fingers. He wonders who this Stiles must be. He'd known Derek, that was obvious, and Cora must have trusted him to leave him alone with Derek when he was hurt.

He's suddenly full of questions, questions he can't answer, and he feels the frustration rise up again. He tries to push it down, knowing it would help nothing, only make him angry. He puts the phone down on the nightstand, not ready to find whatever other bits of his life it may hold. A little at a time is probably the best idea.

Instead, he stands, walks to his bookshelf, and pulls out a book, a well worn novel that he's read plenty of times, one of his favorites. He walks back out to the living room, settles himself on the couch, and loses himself in the story of someone else's problems.

Before he knows it, it's almost noon, and Cora's coming in through the door, calling out a greeting. He keeps reading as she moves around the apartment, settling in. Finally, she comes next to him on the couch, holding a laptop.

"Scott should be here in about an hour, and the rest of the guys too. He's told them about what happened, so they know."

Derek nods. He's a little bit apprehensive about meeting so many people he doesn't know but who know him. But mostly he's content, because pack is pack, and he never thought he'd have anyone other than Laura again.

He keeps reading while Cora does something on her laptop, occasionally stopping to glance up at her, drink in her face. The soft curves of youth have hardened now, her face sharper. She looks like their mom. Laura does too. Did, he corrects himself. He turns back to the page in front of him. The hour passes by, and then there's a knock on the door, and Derek stops reading. He puts his book down on the coffee table and sits up on the couch.

Cora gets up to answer the door, and there's Scott again, walking into their apartment holding a plastic bag full of what smells like pizza boxes.

"Hey, I brought some lunch," he says, and moves toward the kitchen. It's weird how he seems more comfortable with their apartment than Derek feels. He listens to Scott and Cora move around, getting out plates and napkins, getting the pizza ready for the people who are about to come in. They seem comfortable with each other, and for a second Derek is jealous. He lets it pass though. They're both pack, his pack.

Cora and Scott come back to the living room, settle down, Cora back on the couch and Scott on the armchair.

"How're you feeling?" Scott asks as he cracks open the Coke in his hand and takes a drink.

"Okay," Derek says. He pauses, but Scott looks at him expectantly, so Derek forces himself to keep talking. "It's ... weird. I don't recognize anything, but I know which things are mine. Some of them."

Scott nods. "Do you remember anything?"

Derek shakes his head. "Nothing new."

Scott sighs and leans back in the armchair, getting more comfortable. "Deaton called this morning. He says he might have some ideas. I told him we'd go see him later this evening."

"Okay," Derek says.

They sit around in silence for another five minutes, Cora on her laptop again, Scott looking content to just sit and take sips of his Coke as he waits.

Maybe five minutes later, Derek hears a large group of people coming up the stairs, the gentle pounding of feet and the sound of several voices speaking. There's a knock on the door seconds later, and Scott gets up to answer.

Derek wipes his hands on his pants and stands up.

The pack all come in, calling out greetings, looking happy and relaxed, comfortable with each other. Two girls walk in first. One of them hugs Scott hello, and after her come two guys holding hands, followed by two more. Only three of them are werewolves, Derek is surprised to note.

Once they're all in, Scott turns to Derek. "These are Danny, Ethan, Aiden, Isaac, Lydia, and Allison," he says, pointing each out as he says their names.

Allison walks toward him, a serious look on her face. "Argent," she says, and Derek looks confused. "Allison Argent." His stomach falls. She looks young. She must be Chris's daughter. He's not sure what to say, but it doesn't matter, because she keeps going. "Kate was my aunt. Scott says you don't remember anything that happened in the past few years, so I just want to tell you that my dad and I don't hunt werewolves. We follow a code, to protect people. And you and I, we're pack." She smiles hopefully at him.

Derek can't quite bring himself to smile back, but he nods, lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Allison seems satisfied, so she heads back to talk to the other girl again.

Cora tells them about pizza in the kitchen, and all of them head that way, except for one of the guys. A werewolf.

"Isaac?" Derek asks, uncertainly, when the guy stops in front of him.

Isaac grins. "Yeah. How you holding up?"

Derek shrugs. "Not bad, I guess." He doesn't really have much to compare it to, honestly.

Isaac nods sympathetically. "Look, I know it's not exactly the same thing or anything, but I've had my memory taken from me. I mean, not as bad as you have, with years and all, but if you wanna talk sometime, I guess. You know." He looks down at his feet then back up at Derek.

"Thanks," Derek says. It comes out hoarse. Isaac gives him another smile and heads to the kitchen.

Derek doesn't feel too hungry. Not yet, anyway. He sits back down on the couch, and waits until the pack makes their way into the living room, holding plates of pizza and cans of soda. They seem comfortable with each other, happy. They arrange themselves around Derek in a way that suggests that they've done this often, just come here to his apartment and hung out.

This is what it means to have a pack.

He leans back on the couch, squeezed in between the arm and Cora, soaking it all in. They're having some kind of debate about which movie to watch, or if they should even watch a movie, loud voices and laughter all around, and Derek just looks around. He doesn't know these people, except for Cora, not really, but they don't feel like strangers. The connection that he hadn't felt since his entire family had been alive is there again, a warm blanket wrapped around his heart.

He looks around at each of them. The redheaded girl, Lydia, and one of the twins are sitting on the other side of Cora on the couch. Scott, Isaac, and Allison seem to have found a way to sprawl together on the armchair. Scott is checking something on his phone, looking worried. He bites his lip, types something back, puts his phone back in his pocket. He looks up to see Derek looking at him and smiles. Then his head whips toward the front door just as there's a knock at it.

"I'll get it," Scott says, jumping up.

Derek can't quite see who it is for a second, as the person and Scott whisper to each other, and then Scott steps aside and it's him. Stiles. The guy who was there when Derek woke up yesterday. Derek's stomach does a flip. The conversations around him suddenly die down.

"Hey, guys," Stiles says, waving awkwardly.

There's a pause, a short moment of silence before everyone waves back and conversation resumes normally again. Derek notices Allison give an intense look toward Scott and Stiles before Lydia pulls her back into whatever topic they were discussing.

Scott and Stiles move to the kitchen, and Derek focuses on tuning out the noise around him, trying to pick up only two voices from a bit further away.

" -- sure about this?" Scott is saying.

"Yeah, it's fine." Stiles. He sounds ... like he's not fine.

"It's not fine," Scott insists.

"Look," Stiles says, and he sounds a bit on edge, "I can handle it. It's okay. He doesn't know, and we'll work it out. Just act normal."

There's a pause then, before Scott says, "Okay."

They walk back into the living room, and Derek tries not to look like he was eavesdropping.

The group seems to have decided on a movie by then, some romantic comedy that came out last year. Derek briefly wonders if he's seen it already, but it doesn't really matter.

Before it starts, Isaac gets up, claims he has to go to work. He'd only been able to get away for lunch. He smiles at Derek, and Derek waves back, feels good about it when Isaac's smile turns into a grin.

The others don't seem to have prior engagements however, so they all settle down to watch the movie. Derek watches Stiles. He's sitting on the floor, by the armchair where Scott and Allison have squeezed in. It seems to Derek like his shoulders look tense, but maybe that's just the way Stiles looks, and Derek doesn't really know him to say otherwise. He breathes in, trying to separate the scent of Stiles from the rest of the pack. He thinks he has it, and it makes something in him untangle.

He tries to concentrate on the movie, but his attention keeps being drawn back to Stiles. The way his fingers drum on his knee, the long line of his neck as he leans back to get the last bit of Coke, the way he runs his hand through his hair, making it stand up every which way, his quiet snort at whatever the characters on screen are doing.

There's a sudden burst of laughter from everyone, and Derek tunes back into the movie. He's not entirely sure what's going on, and spends a couple of minutes trying to remember who is who and what is supposed to be happening.

He spends maybe ten minutes watching the movie before his attention is drawn back to Stiles.

This time, though, when he looks at him, he finds Stiles staring back. His eyes drop quickly when he catches Derek's gaze, and he turns his head toward the TV. There's a sudden loud beating in Derek's ears. He looks around, but no one else seems to hear it, and it's then he realizes it's a heartbeat.

He looks back at Stiles, the way his chest moves as he breathes in and out and realizes it's his heartbeat. He's hearing Stiles's heartbeat. It's slowing down now from the quick drumming it had been doing, and Derek listens closely. He keeps watching Stiles, but Stiles doesn't look back at him, seemingly engrossed in the movie, laughing along at all the right moments, making comments to Scott.

Stiles's heartbeat recedes into the background, but it's still there, a constant, muted beat. Before he knows it, the movie's over, and the rest of the pack is standing up, getting ready to go.

Derek busies himself gathering up plates and napkins, cans and glasses. He comes back to the living room, watches almost all of the others leave, repeats their names in his head so he can memorize them. They each give him a smile or a pat on the back or a "see ya!"

Allison says, "If there's anything my dad or I can do, let us know, okay?" She smiles at him, and this time Derek finds himself smiling back slightly. She seems open and genuine, nothing like her aunt, and all the rest of the pack seem relaxed around her. Scott especially. If his alpha is fine with it, Derek decides he will be too. He reminds himself that this pack has been around for years. They've formed bonds. They're a family.

It still seems a bit weird that he’s a part of this, that he can have it again. It still hits him a little like a punch in the gut when he thinks too hard on it. It’s an unusual pack, but maybe it’s better this way. It’s better to build something new than try to recreate something that was lost.

"So, you okay with coming to Deaton’s tonight?" Scott asks, pulling him back to the here and now. Stiles lingers next to him.

"Sure," Derek says.

"I'll come too," Cora says. "I'm driving." She looks at Derek, giving him no room to argue. He shrugs. He doesn't know the way anyway.

Scott turns to leave, but Stiles is still hanging back, fidgeting with the hem of his flannel shirt.

"Hey, sorry I peaced out yesterday. That wasn't cool."

He's not exactly meeting Derek's eyes. Derek feels dryness in his mouth again, and has a sudden flashback to the way Stiles's hands had felt on his chin as he'd helped Derek drink yesterday.

"It's okay," he says. He clears his throat. "No problem."

Stiles licks his lips. "Okay. Well." He looks up at Derek, finally, his eyelashes long and dark. "See you."

"Bye," Derek says, and stays there until Scott and Stiles leave, staring at the door and hearing the heartbeat fade away entirely.

Cora has moved to the kitchen, busy loading up the dishwasher with all the dirty plates. Derek makes to help her, folding up the pizza boxes so they'll fit in the trash.

After, Cora goes into her room, and Derek sits on the couch, picks up his book, settles in for a few more hours of reading. Except then Cora's there. She sits down on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, looking at him. Derek raises an eyebrow at her.

"So," she starts decisively. "Ask me."

"What?"

"Ask me anything. Whatever you want to know. All the stuff you didn't get from Deaton. Anything you want."

A dozen questions race through Derek's head. What exactly happened with Peter? What does Cora do? Is she happy? Why did they come back to Beacon Hills? Is Kate really dead? Where is his old Camaro?

"What's up with Stiles?" is what finally comes out.

He doesn't miss the way Cora hesitates.

"What do you mean?"

Derek feels heat prickle up the back of his neck, tries to find the words. "He was here, yesterday. When I woke up." He was there, helping Derek drink water. He was there with Derek. Only them. Alone.

"Yeah," Cora says. "Well, he's pack."

"How did that happen?" Humans generally come into a pack of werewolves through marriage. But Scott's pack has four humans, and they're all young. And even though some of them appear to be in relationships, the strongest tie among them seems to be friendship.

"He and Scott are bffs." At Derek's confused look, she rolls her eyes. "It means best friends. They basically grew up together. They're like brothers. Actually, they're like step-brothers now that their parents are dating."

"Their parents. They know?" Derek asks.

"Yeah, and they're pretty cool, too. His dad's the Sheriff, by the way. Stiles, I mean, Scott's dad is a douche." Scott's pack seems to be even larger than Derek had thought. And so many humans too. It gives him slight anxiety, because secrecy had always been a big thing in their family. Their mother had always said it wasn't knowledge to be given out lightly. He and Laura hadn’t told anyone.

"And he's human," Derek says. He knows already, can feel it the way he felt that Scott was his alpha. But he seems to have a pull on Derek that the other people in the pack don't.

Cora shrugs. "Yeah. He's pretty cool. I like him."

"Yeah?" Derek says, and he has a brief moment to wonder if his sister is interested in Stiles. There's a tenseness in his stomach at the thought. But no, she seems to only refer to him as a friend.

"You like him too," she says softly.

"Oh," is all he can say to that. He swallows and decides it's time to switch topics.

"And Allison Argent?"

Cora laughs. "Yeah, that's an interesting story. She and Scott used to date. Well, they might still be dating, I never really know what's going on with them."

"So she's not a hunter?"

"Not of werewolves. She and her dad do good work, Derek." She's serious now, he can tell. And she sounds confident. He can trust her. He's not sure he can trust the Argents, not yet, but he can trust his sister.

"What about you?" he asks, suddenly contrite that that hadn't been his first question. "What happened to you, I mean? After the fire."

Cora looks down at where her hands are resting on top of the coffee table, bites her lip. "I was ... away. I'm sorry, I don't think I can talk about it. It's ... still hard."

Derek doesn't know what to say, a little hurt, but his face must show something, because she rushes to explain. "It's not because I don't trust you, I promise. And you know the whole story anyway, or at least you did." She smiles sheepishly at him. "If you don't get your memories back, I will tell you, I swear. Just ... I'd rather not think about it now."

"It's okay," Derek says. He doesn't know what he's told her about his life after the fire, but he'd at least had Laura. Cora must have been alone.

She jumps up suddenly. "Hold on, I have an idea."

She runs into her room quickly and comes back with her laptop. She sits down next to Derek on the couch, places the laptop on the table in front of them, and looks through a bunch of folders until she find what she wants. She clicks an icon and a picture comes up, of the two of them.

There's tons of pictures of them, it turns out. Some of just Cora, some of just him, some of the both of them, some of the places they've been. Many of them come with stories, and he listens to Cora as she talks about how they traveled all over the country after they found each other, two omegas in their own little pack of two.

They'd apparently spent some time in New York too, and Derek recognizes some of the places.

"I didn't get to see Laura," Cora says quietly.

Derek looks over at her. "I'm sorry," he says.

"It's okay," she says, eyes back on the computer screen. "Well, it's not, but you know."

"Yeah." He knows.

~

He's going through pictures Cora has of the whole pack -- it's weird, seeing himself in situations he has no memory of. He seems happy, even when he's frowning at the camera. He tries not to linger too long on the pictures of Stiles, though he can't help but look at pictures where the two of them are together. Stiles is laughing in a lot of them, sometimes at Derek. They touch a lot, Derek notices. He tries not to dwell on it though. Scott and Stiles also seem to touch a lot. Most of the pack do, if he's being honest.

He's looking at a picture of Stiles -- eyes shut tight, his whole face scrunched up like a kid, and his own face, Derek's face, behind him, hands up and shoulders hunched, like he's sneaking up on Stiles -- when Cora's phone rings.

She checks it, and says, "Scott says to head out. Ready?"

He tears his eyes away from the laptop screen and looks up at Cora. "Yeah, sure." He doesn't want to stop, keeps wanting to see this evidence of the life he's managed to build, an apparently happy one. One he wouldn't have imagined for himself anytime soon, maybe ever. His life with Laura had been all right, for the most part, but there had always been a slight tenseness between them even though they both did their best to ignore it. The spectre of the fire, of Kate, always hung between them, and Derek hadn’t known how to get rid of it then. Nothing like that seems to affect his current pack. They seem whole.

But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He has to see what Deaton says. If anything, the photos Cora has shown him make him want his memories back all the more. He wants to remember this, the happy times.

~

Scott is already there when Cora and Derek arrive. He's helping Deaton finish up some vet stuff, taking care of the animals. It only a takes a few minutes, and then they're all gathered in Deaton's back room once more. It looks the same as the last time.

Derek looks at Deaton expectantly.

"I'm afraid I haven't found much," Deaton starts, and Derek feels his heart sink. "However, Scott here has told me that you were chasing a fairy the night you lost your memory." He glances at Scott, who nods. Deaton continues, "Fairies are known to have some mind-altering powers, although most of them don't have enough power to cause severe memory loss, unless they have an enhancing object. Scott, do you recall seeing the fairy that night?"

Scott shakes his head. "Stiles and Derek were the ones who caught it."

Derek jerks at Stiles's name. Were he and Stiles together that night? That might explain why Stiles was there when he woke up.

"And fairies disintegrate very quickly upon death," Deaton is saying, and Derek pulls his attention back to the present. Deaton turns to Scott again. "Did you find any objects in the area where it died?"

"I didn't see it," Scott replies. He looks at Derek. "We found you and Stiles almost outside the woods. Stiles said you'd passed out on the way."

"It seems to me," Deaton says, "that we need Mr. Stilinski here."

"I'll give him a call," Scott says, pulling out his phone. Stiles answers almost immediately. "Hey man, can you come to Deaton's? It's about Derek."

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "Yeah. I'll be there in ten."

It's only eight minutes later -- according to the clock on Deaton's wall -- that Derek hears the sound of a motor coming close. Then there's the sound of a car door slamming shut, the jingling of keys, then the front door opening and footsteps making their way through to the back.

Stiles's heartbeat is steady as he walks into the room they're all in. His eyes glance in Derek's direction, and then quickly away, roaming the room before settling on Scott.

"What's going on?" Stiles asks.

"We need to know what happened the other night," Scott says.

Stiles lifts up a shoulder. "Uh, we chased the thing, we found the thing, Derek killed it. Then we were walking back and he passed out."

"Stiles," Deaton says, "did you happen to see anything in particular that the fairy was carrying? Any kind of unusual object?"

Stiles frowns. His tongue darts out to lick at his lips, and Derek's eyes zero in on his mouth. It's very nicely shaped.

"I don't think so?" Stiles says uncertainly. "But I was kind of too far away to see. It basically knocked me on my ass before going for Derek." He scratches the back of his neck, then looks up at Derek. "It kind of knocked you back too, I think, and, I don't know, you were on the ground, and it was on top of you, and I could only see it from behind. Then it just flew through the air and then when I looked at it it was dead."

He looks around at all of them. "Did the fairy cause the amnesia?"

"It seems likely," Deaton said. "But I want to make certain before I decide on the next course of action. If the memory loss is magically induced, there are certain remedies that exist."

"So it can be cured?" Stiles says, staring intently at Deaton. Derek may be imagining it, but he thinks there's a note of hope in Stiles's voice.

"It is a possibility," Deaton acknowledges. "But I must be sure. Otherwise, the cure would prove to be anything but that, if administered wrongly."

"Oh," Stiles says, and he seems to deflate all of a sudden. Derek watches his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows, looks down at the floor.

Deaton eyes him speculatively. "I wouldn't start blaming yourself, Mr. Stilinski. There may be a way to regain Derek's memories from that night." He turns to Scott. "But it would require your power."

Scott looks apprehensive. "What do I have to do?"

"As you know, werewolves can take memories. They can also help read memories."

"Oh," Scott says, still looking worried. "I've never done that before though." He looks at Derek, as if waiting for his opinion. Deaton is looking at him too, and Derek realizes it's his decision.

"Will it work?" he asks.

"It might. Or it might not."

Derek frowns. He's starting to suspect Deaton enjoys being mysterious. He looks at Cora, and she gives him an encouraging nod.

"All right," he says. "What do I have to do?"

"You don't have to do anything. The work, in this case, rests on Scott," Deaton says.

"No pressure," Scott murmurs, but he's rolling up his sleeves already.

Derek follows Deaton's suggestion and sits down in a metal chair.

"You two will have to hold him," Deaton says to Stiles and Cora. Cora nods and moves to his side immediately, but Derek can see Stiles hesitate again. Stiles looks at him, and Derek tries to smile. Whatever the deal is with Stiles, he'll sort it out later. Maybe he'll even get his memories back and won't have to worry about it. That's probably too optimistic though.

Stiles moves to his other side, and Derek is extremely aware of his proximity. Stiles is wearing some sort of cologne, but it's very faint, like he put it on this morning and it wore off. It smells really good, and Derek wants to bury his nose in it.

"You have to be careful," Deaton is telling Scott, who is nodding seriously and flexing his fingers. "There is the danger of paralysis." Scott blanches. "I have faith in you, Mr. McCall."

Scott shakes himself, then moves to stand behind Derek, fingers resting at the nape of his neck. Cora and Stiles each grab one of his arms, and for a second Derek can think of nothing but the warm touch of Stiles's skin against his own, the beat of his pulse, fast and loud in Derek's ears.

Then the pain hits and everything else fades away.

~

He's in the woods. It's twilight, the sun's dying rays filtering in through the trees. There's the smell of rot in the air. He turns, and the creature is several feet in front of him. Blue-gray, sagging skin, stringy, black hair, scraps of black fabric floating around it.

Seconds later. The creature right in front of him. There is another presence, human, nearby. It might be calling his name, but he can't be sure.

The creature is on top of him now. It's grinning, mouth wide, razor sharp teeth jutting out of bleeding black gums. Something around it’s neck catches the fading light, a bright ring of gold. It points a finger, touches him right in the center of his forehead, between his eyes. It's like a spark of electricity flashes through his brain, a flash of red. He gives a roar, loud, sinks his claws deep into the creature's flesh, throws it as far away from himself as he can.

He's stumbling through the woods, a long, lean body beside his. Holding onto him. He looks up. The sky is turning dark, smells and sounds fading away.

Or, no, that's him. He stumbles.

The shout of his name, fingers grabbing at him.

Everything turns black.

~

He comes back roaring. His eyes snap open, and he struggles forward against his restraints.

"Derek!"

The name is growled out, and he recognizes that. It's his alpha, calling to him. Derek breathes out, and suddenly feels himself go limp. He feels exhausted. He leans back in the chair, and the hands that had been holding on to him gently release their grip.

"Can you tell me what you saw?" Deaton's voice says, and Derek opens his eyes.

"The fairy, it did something, I think," he says, and his voice is hoarse. He lifts a finger up to his forehead, right where the fairy had touched him. "It felt wrong."

"Did you see anything else?"

"It might have had a necklace, a pendant, or something," Derek says. "I'm not sure." He looks at Scott, who's frowning.

"I think I saw one too," Scott says. "Red surrounded by gold."

Deaton nods, and they all seem to be looking at him, holding their breath while he thinks. Then he says, "I believe I might be able to help. But it's dangerous, and it will require time."

Derek is about to ask how long, but Stiles speaks before he can. "How much time?"

"There is a potion, but the ingredients are very rare, and acquiring them is not easy."

"But you can do it," Stiles insists.

Deaton raises an eyebrow. "There is the possibility it may not work."

Stiles opens his mouth, pauses, then snaps it shut. He breathes in through his nose, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. He doesn't say anything else, just folds his arms around himself and stares down at his shoes.

"I will let you know when I'm ready," Deaton says, looking at both Derek and Scott again, and Derek knows they're being dismissed.

~

It's still early when he gets back, but he feels like his limbs are made of lead. He bids Cora goodnight, and goes to lie down in his bed, staring across the expanse of sheets at the book on genocide on top of his dresser.

His thoughts drift back to the memory. It's mostly flashes that he gets, not anything clear. He thinks about Stiles. Stiles, who was there in the forest with him, who'd been hurt himself, who'd helped Derek after the fairy had hurt him. The memories are hazy, but he can still feel Stiles's sharp shoulders under his arm, holding him up, a hand around his waist, strong and sure.

He thinks about Stiles in Deaton's office, the sense of impatience coming from him. His anger and frustration, the way he looked at Derek those rare few times.

Derek falls asleep with the images of strong hands and warm brown eyes behind his eyelids.

~

He wakes up early. There's barely any light out, and by the sound of it, there's hardly anyone on the street. Derek feels restless, full of energy. He needs to go for a run.

Beacon Hills hasn't changed all that much from what he remembers, still the same small town that he grew up in. Their apartment is a little bit on the outskirts, near the preserve, and Derek makes his way there, feeling the need to be surrounded by something familiar. He's been in these woods hundreds, thousands of times, running alone and with his family, going swimming in that hidden little pool under a waterfall, having giant bonfires. The ground is soft under his feet, the trees smell strong and green. He doesn't follow any paths, just runs and runs, feeling his muscles working, the strain on his shins and thighs, the sheen of sweat starting to form on his skin.

He doesn't know how long he's been running, but the sun is completely up now, the birds are loud, and if he concentrates, he can hear the very faint sound of cars from outside the preserve. He starts to slow down, and somehow, he ends up at his old house.

Or rather, where his old house used to be. The clearing is still there, open wide, but the building that had stood there so majestically while Derek was young, and then sad and forlorn and black with soot when he and Laura had been here one last time before taking off, is gone. In its place is a short, rectangular iron fence decorated with curling black vines, and inside are small flowers, blue, surrounding a smooth stone plaque that simply reads "Hale."

Derek's feet bring him just to the edge, toes touching the fence. He breathes deeply, the smell of the flowers nice and sweet, not too strong. The sun is warm on his shoulders.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, gazing down at the stone with his name on it, the only remnant of a horrible tragedy, but somehow, when he starts running back toward the apartment, he feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest.

~

Cora's awake and eating cereal in the kitchen when he gets back, sweaty and comfortably tired from his run.

"Good run?" she asks.

He nods, heading for the bathroom.

"I have work most of the day today," she calls out to him. "Call if you need anything, okay?"

"Yeah," he says, and closes the bathroom door, strips out of his running clothes, and steps into the shower.

When he gets out, towel wrapped securely around his waist, the apartment is empty. He makes his way to his room, but doesn't get dressed. Instead he pushes the covers down, throws his towel on the floor, and lies on the sheets, spread out. There's still some kind of energy flowing underneath his skin, buzzing, even though his muscles are slightly sore. He takes a deep breath, still getting used to the strange familiarity of the scent of his room. It’s not quite his own, but he can’t figure out what’s layered on top of it.

He settles a hand on his stomach, fingers moving back and forth, dipping into his belly button, nails dragging lightly against the skin. He moves further down, brushes through his pubic hair, rough and thick. His dick is soft when he wraps a hand around it, begins pulling, lazy, slow. He closes his eyes and focuses on the sensation, the feeling of blood rushing down, dick hardening. He's not fantasizing about anything in particular, just stroking, slightly faster now, gripping tighter, running his thumb over the tip, dipping down to tug gently at his balls every once in a while.

It's not enough though, and he imagines a mouth instead of his hand, hot and wet, moving up and down, tonguing firmly. Lush lips wrapped around him, spit-slick and bright red. A soft moan as his cock hits the back of a throat, large, sure hands tightening around his thighs, fingers digging in. One of these moves in, holding his balls, pulling gently, then a thumb slips down, behind them, circling his hole.

Derek tightens his hand and moves his hand up and down, up and down, hips pushing up off the mattress. The imaginary mouth is still on him, moving delightfully, maddeningly, and warm brown eyes surrounded by dark eyelashes look up at him and Derek comes.

~

He's browsing the bookshelf, having just finished a book and found nothing of interest on TV, when his phone buzzes. It's a text from Cora, telling him to pick up some groceries, but it comes at the end of a long trail of messages, and he scrolls back up, reading them. Most seem to be the same type, "meet at panera" or "don't forget the cord" or "bring me a shake." Not a lot there.

He hits the back button though, and there's texts there from everybody in the pack, his boss, Jack, and some names he doesn't recognize. He scrolls down and his eyes catch on Stiles's name. He holds his breath as he presses it.

The last text between them is from Stiles and it says simply, "Come on." He scrolls up. It seems that Stiles texts him a lot. A lot. There are replies from Derek dispersed throughout, but he can't make sense of most of what Stiles is saying. There's "i see you" and "went to the bathroom haha" and "better" and "don't be such a tease" and "dinner tonight" and one that just says "5." Derek scrolls and scrolls, and the messages have times and dates and he's only gotten to three days previous and it feels like he's read hundreds.

An idea hits him then, and it's like having the metaphorical bulb light up over his head. He's still in that nice, peaceful place from the morning. He feels almost fearless.

He types out a text and hits send. Then he immediately wants to take it back, erase it, because what kind of idiot just types out, "Hi."

He puts the phone in his pocket, where it sits against his leg, a glaring weight. He grabs a random book off the shelf and goes to sit on the couch, props his feet up on the coffee table. He opens it up to the first page, and reads the first line. And reads it again. And again. After the third time, he huffs, closes the book, and pulls the phone out of his pocket. He opens it up to the text conversation with Stiles. It sits in his hand, sleek and full of promise. He keeps staring at it until the screen grows dark. He puts it on the coffee table, stares at it some more.

He brings up the book again, tries to focus on words, but he has no idea what he's been reading when the phone buzzes.

He picks it up.

It's a message from Cora, telling him to "buy whole milk, NOT 2%!!" He tries not to feel disappointed as he looks at it, and he's about to put the phone down again when it buzzes once more.

The screen says it's a message from Stiles. "Hi to you too :)"

Derek stares at it until the screen goes dark, touches the screen to make it light up again, stares some more. He had no idea what to say now.

"I need to go grocery shopping," he sends.

He doesn't know why he told Stiles that. Stiles probably won't care. Is that a thing they talk about?

The reply comes a second later. "Get whole milk."

Derek looks at the text, taken aback. He checks to make sure it's from Stiles.

"Is Cora with you?" he types.

"lol. I'm at work. But you always get 2% and she always yells at you."

How would Stiles know that? Is he over a lot? Is he close to Cora? Derek doesn't know, and once again it frustrates him.

"Okay," he types back, and sends. He waits for a few minutes, but there's nothing more incoming. He supposes that was the end of that conversation. He might as well go shopping though. He'd passed by a grocery store on his morning run, fairly close to his apartment. Cora hadn't specified any particular one, so he supposes that one will do.

He goes to check in the fridge and cupboards, makes a mental list of things Cora hadn't mentioned. Almost as an afterthought, he grabs the cloth bags on the counter next to the fridge.

He's just grabbed a cart at the store and is getting ready to brave the produce aisle when the phone buzzes in his pocket.

It's Stiles.

"just beat 200 in candy crush!!!!!!!!"

Derek stares at the screen. He has no clue what that means.

"Great. ?" he types back.

"shut up, i know u play," comes when he's looking at apples, trying to decide if he wants to get four or five.

He's in the cereal aisle when the next one comes. "This guy just asked if we sell pagers. who even uses those anymore???"

He places the box of Lucky Charms into the cart. "Doctors?" he types back. Laura used to watch House a lot.

"get out with your logic." Derek can't help the smile that comes at that.

Stiles keeps texting him intermittently, in the meat section, when he's trying to decide on ground pork or turkey, in the dairy section while he's picking out yogurt, in the drinks aisle when he picks up another 12-pack of Coke. He doesn't seem to need Derek's reply, though Derek does try. Mostly it's just about customers. Derek figures Stiles must work at some sort of computer store.

He's shouldering the bags of groceries, trying to settle them in a way that feels at least somewhat comfortable, when a thought strikes him. He pulls his phone out, types the message, and presses send quickly, before he loses his courage.

"Wanna come for dinner?"

He doesn't wait to see if Stiles replies, just throws the phone into one of the bags and starts walking back to his place. It's only after he gets back, gets all the groceries put away, folds up the bags, that he looks. There are two texts. The first one says, "yes," and the second, "I'm off at 6."

It's only about one, which gives Derek five hours. Five hours until Stiles will be in his apartment again. He refuses to get nervous.

He checks and double checks that he has all the ingredients he'll need, and then settles down on the couch again. He has a couple of hours to fill, so he reads.

Cora walks in around five, just when he's getting all set up, pulling out knives and cutting boards and measuring spoons.

"Ooh, you're cooking?" she says as she walks into the kitchen, leans around him to grab a Coke can out of the fridge. He pulls out the eggs and ground pork.

"Spaghetti and meatballs," he says, dumping the meat into a large bowl.

She cracks open the can and takes a sip, leans back against the counter as she watches him. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing," he says, maybe too quickly. So he adds, "We didn't have any food."

"Need any help?" she asks.

Derek considers. "In a bit," he says. He cracks the eggs open, adds them to the meat, then starts adding the spices.

Cora nods, starts walking toward her room.

"Stiles is coming over," Derek says, looking down at what he's doing.

He can hear the way she stops moving. When he finally looks up, she's staring at him, eyebrows raised.

"Just Stiles?" she says.

He can feel the heat rise up into his face and wills himself not to blush. He's not sure if it works. "You want to invite someone else?" he says.

"No, no," she says quickly, raising her hands up, palms toward him. She smirks as she backs away. "Just Stiles is fine."

In a fit of childishness, he sticks his tongue out at her, and she spins around, laughter trailing after her as she enters her bedroom.

He makes her roll the meatballs while he fries them, careful to keep the shape.

"This is gran's old recipe, isn't it?" she asks, taking a deep sniff of the rolled up meat in her hand.

"Yeah," Derek says, as he flips one over in the pan.

"Sweet." Derek can hear the happiness in her voice. He wonders if they do this a lot.

"I went through the preserve on my run this morning," he says, going for casual.

"I thought I smelled woods on you," she says as she drops a meatball into the pan. The oil jumps up and crackles a bit before settling down, and he nudges the meatballs around, making sure they brown properly on all sides.

"The house is gone," he says.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, sorry, I forgot to tell you about that. That happened a few months ago, actually. The county owns the place now, but Stiles got his dad to pull some strings, and they agreed to set up a little memorial."

Derek turns a meatball over, decides it's done, and lifts it out, setting it next to the others on a baking sheet.

"What did you think?" Cora asks softly.

Derek looks at her, meets her eyes. "It was nice," he says.

He doesn't need to say anything else. She nods, and they keep on working until all the meatballs are browned, and then he takes the sheet and sticks it in the oven, checks the time.

He gets started on the rest, boiling the spaghetti, making the sauce. Everything's ready by 6, and it's only then, as he's looking at the time on his phone, that Derek realizes that Stiles saying he's off at 6 doesn't mean that he'll be at Derek's at 6. He makes sure the food stays hot, goes to his room. He picks up the dirty laundry, throws it into the hamper in his closet. He straightens up the bed, smoothing down the covers, puts some books back on the shelf. It's not like Stiles will be coming in here or anything, but it's something to keep him busy.

It only takes about ten minutes, and he still has time to kill. He does the same in the living room, straightening up, putting things away. Cora watches him from the armchair with a raised eyebrow, laptop on her thighs.

"What," he grits out.

"Nothing," she says, all innocence, and goes back to whatever she was doing on the computer.

Derek is in the middle of setting up plates and utensils on the dining area table when he hears footsteps on the stairs outside. He looks over everything, wipes his hands down on his shirt, pulls at his collar.

It could be anyone. It could be one of their neighbors. He needs to stay calm. But no, there's that steady heartbeat that Derek has heard before, and then there's a knock on the door. He takes a deep breath and goes to open it.

Stiles is wearing a grey v-neck shirt, and Derek's eyes are drawn to his collarbones, the way they stand out, the way a little mole peeks out from under the shirt. Derek has a sudden, wild urge to put his mouth there. He lifts up his eyes, sees that Stiles is smiling.

"Hey," he croaks out, clears his throat. He opens the door wider, lets Stiles in.

"Wow, that smells good," Stiles says, moving into the living room, calling out a greeting to Cora.

"Derek cooked," Cora says, and it comes out both gleeful and accusatory, somehow.

Stiles turns to Derek, eyebrows raised, the corners of his mouth turned up. "Really now?"

"Just meatballs," Derek mutters, turning away. "Go sit at the table," he says, and heads into the kitchen to get the food. It looks warm enough still, and he brings it to the dining table.

"Just us?" Stiles says, looking at the place settings before helping himself to some spaghetti.

"Yep," Cora says before Derek can, grinning wide.

"Awesome," Stiles says. "I love your meatballs." He digs into his food with gusto, and Derek is strangely pleased.

"I bet you do," Cora says under her breath, but Derek can still hear her. He casts her a dirty look, but Stiles either didn't hear or is ignoring it, so Derek says nothing.

They eat, and Stiles and Cora talk about their days, their jobs. They seem to get along, easy friendship, comfortable with each other. Derek mostly listens, chipping in here and there, but otherwise just content to enjoy his food and watch the other two.

When they're done, Cora tells them both to go do something else, that she'll take care of the cleanup.

Derek and Stiles move into the living room, standing around a bit awkwardly. Stiles cast a look toward the front door, and Derek doesn't want him to leave, not yet.

"Wanna watch a movie?" he blurts out.

"Sure," Stiles says easily, and moves to sit on the couch. "Whatcha got?"

Derek picks up the remote and throws it at Stiles. "You get to choose."

"How generous of you," Stiles says, his eyes bright with laughter. He turns on the TV, browses through the channels, and Derek settles himself on the other end of the couch, eyes flitting to the side, trying not to be too obvious as he looks at Stiles.

Stiles finally settles on Shaun of the Dead, turns to sit sideways on the couch, knees pulled up so his feet are on the middle cushion. Only inches from Derek's hand. Stiles's toes are long and thin, like his fingers, a few dark hairs rising up from the skin. Derek moves his hand up, links his fingers together and settles them on his stomach, slouching back into the cushions.

The movie is actually pretty good, even makes Derek laugh a couple of times. He still steals glances at Stiles though, especially during commercials. He looks relaxed now, none of that weird tension he'd shown when the pack had all gathered the day before.

Stiles gets up to use the bathroom during one break. Derek listens to him stop to talk to Cora on the way, asking if she wants to join them, but apparently she's happy to stay in her room.

When Stiles gets back, sits down, this time with his feet folded up underneath him, Derek turns to him.

"Are we friends?"

He doesn't know why he asked that, but now that it's out there, he doesn't want to take it back.

Stiles stares at him, surprised, before looking down at his hands. "Yeah," he says, and when he looks up at Derek, his face is soft, eyes gentle. "We're friends."

Derek nods. It feels like he should say something else, but the words seem to be stuck in his throat, so he turns to look at the TV instead, and lucky for him, the break is over and the movie starts up again. He can still feel Stiles's eyes on him for a while, a heavy presence that makes his skin prickle.

Eventually, Stiles turns away. The movie ends a short while later.

Stiles stands up as the credits start rolling. Derek follows his example, standing a bit awkwardly, waiting. He wishes he'd worn shorts with pockets.

"Well," Stiles says, running a hand through his hair, "I should probably go. It's late and all."

"Okay," Derek says, and they stand there for a second longer, staring at anything but each other.

Finally, Stiles moves, putting his shoes back on and heading toward the front door. Derek follows along behind him.

"Thanks for coming," he says finally, when Stiles is standing in the open doorway, hand on the doorknob.

Stiles smiles. "I had a good time."

He gives a little wave of his fingers before heading down the stairs, steps echoing in the hallway.

~

The next day Cora leaves for work early again. Derek goes for a run again to warm up, does a proper workout when he gets back to the apartment, push-ups, sit-ups, and weights that he finds on the floor of his closet.

After showering, he finds a shirt with a gym logo on it, decides to google it on the laptop Cora left him. He pulls up the page, looks around for a bit before finding the employee section, and there is his face, staring back at himself from the screen, with a little blurb about what he teaches. That out-of-body feeling comes over him again. He feels like he fell out of the sky into some stranger's life and took it over. Still, the website makes it feel more real, more concrete. He has a nice, stable job. Even after living in New York for several years with Laura, he hadn't had that.

It's not exactly surprising that he'd choose to work at a gym, although Derek can't decide how he feels about the fact that he apparently interacts with other people -- strangers -- on a daily basis. What he'd liked about being a bouncer in New York City was that he mostly didn't have to chat with people, no making small talk or talking about trivial stuff. Plus, it meant people didn't try to talk to him.

He checks out the rest of the gym's website. It's owned and run by someone local, that Jack guy who's his boss, but it seems to have pretty decent equipment. He kind of wishes he could go check it out, but he'd probably be expected to recognize people, and he's not ready to deal with that yet.

He's not really sure what to do for the rest of the day. He feels restless. He wants to go out, wants to do something that's more than just sitting around the house, but he has no idea where he can go or what he can do that doesn't run the risk of running into people he might know. Or, more like people who might know him.

The buzzing of his phone tears him from his thoughts, and he smiles when he sees a text from Stiles.

"so bored help :( :("

It's quickly followed by an image, a picture of Stiles face on his screen, mouth turned down into an exaggerated pout. He's wearing a blue polo shirt. Derek's eyes catch on his bottom lip, sticking out, plump and red.

"I don't know what you expect me to do," Derek types back.

"entertain me!!!" comes the reply seconds later. While Derek tries to think of something to say, another message flashes up. "customer spotted! gonna go work my magic ;)"

That probably means that Stiles is busy, at least for the next few minutes. Derek sighs.

He looks back at the picture of Stiles and his pout, tracing his finger over it. He's surprised when an option pops up, asking if he wants to save it. He presses yes, and the phone tells him that the image was saved to gallery. Curious, he goes to his main menu, looks around until he finds the gallery icon, and presses it.

The most recent picture appears to have been taken at a grocery store and is of a carrot that is vaguely penis-shaped.

There's a pause and then a loud sound escapes Derek's throat. Why in the world does he have this picture? That is clearly his hand holding it.

He scrolls back, passing a few pictures of vistas before getting to a picture of Stiles. It's a photo from the waist up, and Stiles is baring his teeth and holding his arms up, fingers curled as if imitating claws. Derek doesn't recognize the background. Following that is a series of pictures that appear to have been taken on a hiking trip. The only person that shows up is Cora. He keeps going. There's another picture of Stiles, this time of him sitting on the armchair in Derek's living room, looking intently down at some object in his hands that's out of frame. He's biting his lip, his hair looks messy, and the collar of his shirt is slipping down, revealing a little bit of his shoulder.

Derek scrolls. There's another picture of Stiles, outside, his back to Derek. The Stiles photos keep coming, interspersed with some of Cora, some of other things, a couple of other pack members, but Stiles seems to make up a large portion or Derek's gallery: Stiles reading, Stiles eating, Stiles sitting in a meadow, Stiles attempting to eat cotton candy and failing, Stiles pointing at a wolf at a zoo and making a stupid face, Stiles laughing. Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.

He comes to one that makes his mouth go dry, makes him stop breathing. It's of Stiles, except it's different from the others. It's of Stiles in bed, on his stomach, face invisible as it's buried in a pillow, but his arms are splayed out and his back is bare, the sheet only covering up to the small of his back. His skin is pale and dotted with moles and freckles. When Derek looks closer, there's a mark at the nape of his neck, round and dark. It's definitely not a mole.

The picture appears to have been taken in the early morning. The sun is coming in from somewhere to the left, hitting Stiles's skin and almost making it glow.

The phone is shaking, and Derek realizes it's because he's trembling. He breathes in through his nose, lets the air flow through him before releasing it, nice and slow.

All of a sudden, the thoughts start running through his head, each of them clamoring to come to the forefront. Questions and more questions appear. Did he take this picture? He must have, it's his phone. That's not his bedspread, so where is it? Is there someone else on the other side of the bed? The picture only seems to capture Stiles, the rest of the bed hidden just outside the edge. When was it taken? Does this mean he and Stiles were -- ? Did they -- ? Are they -- ?

He's sweating, Derek realizes. He's starting to feel warm everywhere, his grip on the phone getting slippery. He wipes his hands off against his shirt, runs it against the phone.

He decides to keep looking. Maybe there will be other pictures, more clues. Stiles keeps showing up, but nothing more to suggest the sort of intimacy of the bedroom picture, though he does show up shirtless in a few that appear to be from a pack trip to the beach. He's dripping wet in several of those, and Derek licks his lips, swallows. He needs a glass of water.

Water can wait. He keeps scrolling.

There's not too many left after that. There's a few more of Stiles there, Cora, the pack, one of Derek himself, scowling. The very first one is not even a photo. It appears to be a video, and Derek hits the little play icon in the middle of the screen.

The video is of Stiles, appears to have been taken by him. It's a little bit shaky, but Stiles's face is clear. "Hello, Derek's new phone," he's saying with a smile on his face. He purses his lips up, leans in close to the camera, and goes "Mwah!" before pulling back and grinning wide.

The video stops there. Derek makes it play again.

Stiles looks happy, pleased with himself. There's something weird happening in Derek's chest then; it feels both like it's tightening and like there's something there just waiting to break free.

He's not sure what this means. He knows what he wants it to mean. Doesn't he? Does he want this? He's known Stiles for two days. Technically, years, according to Scott and Deaton and Cora, but to him, in the state he is now, it's only been two days. How is it that this kid, this one person, has managed to work his way under Derek's skin, take up space in his mind and set up house there, draw Derek's attention every time he's around?

He doesn't know. It's too much, too much information. He feels it thrum through his veins, making him restless.

He ends up going for another run, a nice, long one, going all through the preserve, up and down, jumping over roots and fallen branches, pushing through underbrush, barely noticing the sting. He stops at the old pool with the waterfall, strips his clothes off and dives in. The water is cool, and it feels good on his overheated skin. He dries off on a large, flat rock in the early afternoon sun.

When he gets home, he jumps in the shower and doesn't hesitate to wrap a hand around his cock. His thoughts fly immediately to Stiles, and he imagines kissing him, touching him everywhere, and it doesn't take long before he's coming in the spray, letting the water wash the evidence down the drain.

It seems to help. The exercise, laying in the sun, jerking off. He feels a little calmer now, more relaxed. He takes up his book again, lies down naked on his bed, and reads until Cora comes home.

They eat dinner on the couch, heat up last night's leftovers, while Cora watches some show on TV.

Finally, when it's over, Cora turns to him and says, "What?"

Derek startles. "What?"

Cora rolls her eyes. "You've looked over at me like a billion times this past hour. Plus you have that look on your face."

"I don't have a look," Derek says. It comes out petulant, but he doesn't care.

"Yes, you do. Now spill."

Derek sighs, looks down at his knees, frowns, trying to figure out what the best way to form his question is. There's a tiny, brown stain on the carpet by his foot, and he rubs it with his toe. He runs his thumb over his left eyebrow.

"Oh my god, Derek," Cora bursts out.

"It's about Stiles," he says. He looks up to see her face, and is surprised to see her look guilty. He narrows his eyes. "There's something you haven't told me about him."

Cora fidgets. "Well," she says, dragging the word out. "I mean, there's a lot I haven't told you about all of us."

"Yes, but there's something about Stiles."

She sighs. "Look, I really wish I could explain, but it's really best to talk to Stiles himself." Derek starts to protest, but she cuts him off. "Trust me on this one, okay?" She's looking right at him, sincere.

Finally, he nods. It probably would be best to talk to Stiles, but the thought makes him nervous. She shifts over on the couch, slings an arm around his shoulders in a half hug.

"Good," she says decisively, "now shut up. I want to watch SVU."

Another episode of the same show has started up on the TV. It appears to be a marathon. Derek leans back in the couch, rearranges them so that he's leaning against the side, arm around Cora as she leans into his side, her feet folded up on the cushion.

He'll talk to Stiles, he promises himself. Not right now, not yet. But tomorrow. It'll give him time to pull his thoughts together, fortify himself. Tomorrow, he'll find out about Stiles.

~

The next day he wakes up, goes for his usual run through the woods. It helps, and by the time he gets back, he's come up with some sort of plan. He'll ask Stiles to dinner. Proper dinner this time, out at a restaurant, somewhere nice, just the two of them. And then he'll ask Stiles. He will be calm and mature, and he won't take it badly if what he thinks turns out to not be true. He'll try to be a good friend to Stiles. Stiles had said they were friends, and Derek can live with that. Really.

His plans are dashed when Scott calls him that afternoon.

"Deaton says we need to find that pendant."

"What pendant?" Derek says, and then it hits him. The fairy. "Oh, that pendant." He'd almost forgotten about the cure Deaton had been working on, and he can't believe that Stiles had taken up so much of his headspace lately that such an important thing could be so easily pushed out of his mind.

"Meet up at the Preserve entrance at 7," Scott is saying, "while there's still light out. I'll see who else is free."

It's okay, Derek tells himself after hanging up. He can wait another day. He spends the rest of the day cleaning, rearranging stuff on his shelves, vacuuming in his room and the living area, scrubbing the toilet. It's something to do, and it keeps his mind from obsessing over other things.

He's cleaning out the microwave oven when Cora comes in. She pauses, looks around.

"Having fun?" she smirks.

He shrugs and keeps working. He hears her come up behind him, wraps her arms around his waist in a quick hug.

"Thanks for cleaning, bro," she says.

He finishes drying off the glass tray, places it carefully back in the microwave.

"Did Scott talk to you today?" he asks Cora when's she's come back out of her room, having changed out of her work clothes and into more comfortable attire.

"Yup," she says. "I'm all ready to go treasure hunting."

They have a quick dinner and sit around for a bit before it's time to go out.

Cora drives, and they pull up to the entrance to the preserve about five minutes after seven. There's already a motorbike and an SUV there, and as he gets out of the car he notices Scott, Isaac, and Allison gathered together near the tree line.

Scott waves and smiles when he sees them. "Just waiting on Stiles then," he says, and Derek's breath catches in his throat. He clears his throat quickly, hoping none of the werewolves noticed anything. Thankfully, they don't seem to be paying that close attention, and it's only a couple of minutes later that the roar of another car is audible and becomes louder.

A light blue jeep pulls up behind the SUV, and Stiles jumps out, all long legs and slender torso and pale skin. Derek tries not to stare too much as he walks over.

"Okay," Scott says when they're all together, "here's the plan." He pulls out a map of the preserve and area surrounding it. "Here's where I think the fairy was killed-- " he points to an area of the map -- "and so we're going to be looking around it. Deaton said the pendant should be like an echo of the fairy, so just feel around for that. We'll split up into three groups, and you text or call the rest of us if you find something. Okay?"

Everyone nods, and they start to walk in different directions. Cora and Isaac head off somewhere to the left. Allison and Scott are about to walk off to the right when Scott stops and turns uncertainly, looking at Stiles.

"Maybe we should --" he starts, but Stiles waves him off.

"This is good," he says, and he and Scott exchange what appears to be a quick eyebrow conversation, before Scott shrugs and goes back to Allison, the two of them disappearing into the trees.

Derek is left alone with Stiles.

"You and me, buddy," Stiles says. "Ready to search for a needle in a haystack?"

Derek shrugs. It seems like his words have abandoned him, but Stiles doesn't seem offended by his silence, just smiles and starts walking. Derek follows after him, carefully making his way through the underbrush.

The sun is low in the sky, and it casts a golden glow on everything around them. Derek breathes in the smell of the forest, the trees, the dirt, wildflowers. Every once in a while, if the wind blows right, he'll catch Stiles's scent too, faint but sweet, and he'll pull it in, keep it in his lungs for as long as he can before letting it go.

They walk in silence at first.

Stiles is the one to break it. "Feeling any fairy echoes?" he says with a small smile, looking over his shoulder at Derek.

Derek stops, stands still. He closes his eyes, tries to feel out for magic. He's not exactly a magic detector, but he can feel it a little, like the bond with his pack, a steady, comforting feeling deep in his chest. He thinks back to his memory of the fairy, the way it had smelled of decay, how it had felt wrong, like dead things exposed from the ground.

He opens his eyes. "Nothing," he says.

Stiles nods, and they keep going.

A few minutes later, Stiles speaks again. "Have you remembered anything else? Besides the thing with the fairy?" He's not looking at Derek, taking care to step over a thick tree trunk covered with moss.

"No," Derek says. He might say that Stiles's shoulders slump at that, but he can't be sure. Still, it gives him a bit of a push, some confidence to say his next words. "I was hoping you might help me with that, actually."

Stiles is still in front of him, and his steps don't falter, but Derek can hear the way his heartbeat picks up.

"Sure," Stiles says, easy. "What exactly did you want to know?"

They're pretty deep into the woods now. He can't hear either of the other searching couples anymore, and the sounds of civilization are nonexistent. It feels like they're the only two people in the world right now.

"I was looking at my phone," Derek says. He pauses, trying to pick out his next words.

"Okay?" Stiles says uncertainly. He's stopped walking now, has turned so he's facing Derek. Derek stops too, a couple of feet away. He sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

"There's some-- there are these photos," he says. Heat is flooding his face despite his best efforts.

When he looks up at Stiles, his face is flushed. There is color high on his cheeks. It makes his eyes stand out, shine brighter, and Derek is transfixed.

"Look," Stiles starts, then stops. "It's -- I didn't want to make you -- " He seems to be having as much trouble with words as Derek had been, and it gives him a bit of hope. He steps closer.

"I can't remember a thing of what happened for years apparently, but you. You're different. I keep wanting -- You're always present. You're always there, even when you're not." Once the words are out, he's not entirely sure they've made sense, but Stiles is looking right at him then, mouth slightly open. His heart is thudding inside his chest.

Derek moves in slowly, steps right up into Stiles's space, until Stiles's face is the only thing in his line of sight. He lifts a hand up, brings it to Stiles's cheek, barely touching it with the tips of his fingers.

Stiles's eyes flutter closed, and he breathes out heavily, licks his lips. When he opens his eyes, he looks straight at Derek.

"I didn't want to make you do anything you might not want," he whispers.

Derek's not sure which of them leans in first, but their mouths connect, softly, still unsure. His lets his hand cup Stiles's cheek, move down to stroke along his jawline, the other hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. He's not sure how much to touch, how much he's allowed. His heart is thundering in his chest, and he feels heat flood him everywhere, all the way to the tips of his fingers.

Stiles takes a step closer, brings his hands to Derek's sides, his touch feather light. It makes goosebumps rise on his skin, and he lets the kiss get deeper, runs his tongue along Stiles's bottom lip, moves it in when Stiles lets his mouth open.

A sound escapes Stiles then, a desperate sort of noise, and Derek swallows it down.

It's a little bit overwhelming, the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him. It's almost too much for Derek's senses, but it's like the good kind of hurt when you stretch your muscles after a workout.

He doesn't know how long they've been standing there, kissing, when there's a little jingle at the same time as a buzzing noise.

Derek doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to stop kissing Stiles, touching him, but Stiles pulls back gently, slowly, leans his forehead against Derek's and breathes out. His hands are grabbing Derek's shirt, bunching the cloth tightly in his fists.

"We should probably see what that is," Stiles says. He licks his lips, and Derek traces the movement of his tongue, aching to put his mouth back where it had been a moment before.

He strokes his thumb over Stiles's cheekbone, feeling the smooth, soft skin. His other hand has migrated to the back of Stiles's neck, and he runs his fingers through the short, spiky hair at his nape.

"Could be important," Stiles says.

Neither of them move.

The ringing starts up again, and Stiles breathes out a laugh. He lets go of Derek's shirt, pulls back a few inches, and Derek lets him go, takes his hands back and puts them in his pockets to keep from reaching out again and grabbing. Stiles breathes out loudly, runs his hands down the front of his shirt, up through his hair.

He looks up at Derek, grins. "Wow, yeah. That was, uh -- that was good."

Derek can't do anything but nod. Stiles's lips are red and shiny and Derek can't make himself look away.

Stiles laughs again, quick and soft, then pulls out his phone. He looks at the screen before dialing.

"You okay?" Scott asks.

"Fine, yeah," Stiles says. He still sounds a bit breathless. "Phone was on silent, that's all."

"Okay," Scott says. He sounds skeptical, but apparently chooses not to press it. "I think I might have something, but it's probably best if Derek comes over."

"Yeah," says Stiles. He glances over at Derek. "We can head over. Um, where are you again?"

"Somewhere to the east, I think," Scott replies. "Derek should be able to hear us when you guys get close enough."

Once Scott hangs up, Stiles turns to Derek. "You get to lead the way."

"Okay," Derek says. He doesn't want to. He wants to put his hands and mouth back on Stiles. Finding the fairy's ring suddenly seems like a minor problem, something that can be put off.

Stiles gestures at him then, and Derek realizes he's waiting for him. He starts walking reluctantly, overly aware of Stiles at his back, the rhythm of his breathing, the way his heartbeat is still slightly elevated, the slight scent of arousal coming off him.

Derek's lips are still tingling slightly.

It probably doesn't take all that long for them to come upon Scott and Allison, although it feels like an eternity to Derek. He's hyper-aware of Stiles the entire time, and it's hard to concentrate on anything else. They don't speak, don't even touch, with the notable exception of Derek catching Stiles once when he trips on an exposed tree root. Derek grabs him by his upper arm, steadies him. His hand moves down to Stiles's elbow, and he's stepping closer, but Stiles pulls away, looking slightly embarrassed. Derek lets him go, starts walking again when Stiles gestures.

He's starts becoming aware of something being out of place, wrong, not belonging in the woods, the closer he gets to Scott. It makes his skin crawl, like the sound of nails scraping on chalkboard.

"You feel it?" Scott asks, when they finally reach him.

Derek nods. "It feels wrong. Like decay."

"It should be somewhere around here," Scott says.

The four of them start looking around, joined by Cora and Isaac a couple of minutes later.

"Ugh, this is awful," Cora says. "It smells like a dead cow that's been lying in the sun too long."

"I don't smell anything," Stiles says.

"Duh," Cora says, sticking her tongue out at him.

Stiles makes a face back.

Derek tries to focus on the feeling of the magic around him, pinpoint where it's strongest. It's familiar too, and almost suffocating. It makes him sweat, he realizes as he wipes his hand across his forehead. He wants to get away from here, from this place that reminds him of death, but he forces himself to get closer, feel it out, follow the magic string that will lead him to the center.

The sun is setting now, the light fading. He's a bit away from the rest of the group, although he can still hear them shuffling around. There's a glint out of the corner of his eye, and he turns, squints. He approaches the spot warily, bends down to brush the leaves and dirt aside. And there it is. It's dark red pendant, almost black, in a gold setting. It's almost an inch wide, and he reaches out to touch it. It feels slimy to the touch. When he lifts it up, he feels something stuck on the back, and he turns it over too look. It’s something dark and rotting. He realizes it's flesh.

"I got it," he calls out, and crouches there, looking carefully at the pandant while the others make their way to him.

Scott stands beside him, and Derek hands it to him, standing up.

"Ew," Scott says. "Gross."

"Let me see," Stiles says, pushing forward, gingerly lifting the pendant from Scott's palm. He turns it over, pokes at the flesh. "Oh, man, gross." He sounds delighted.

Scott shakes his head. "Bet you wouldn't say that if you could smell it."

"Advantages of not turning into a furry creature once a month," Stiles says, smirking. Then he leans closer, takes a whiff, and pulls back with a disgusted look on his face. "Ugh."

Derek can't help but laugh. Stiles's head whips around at the sound, staring at him. Then he grins.

"Still pretty cool," he says.

"I'll take this to Deaton," Scott says, taking the pendant back from Stiles and pulling a small plastic bag out of his pocket, slipping the pendant into it.

The six of them make their way back to the entrance of the preserve. Derek hangs in the back of the group, with Stiles, letting the others get a bit of distance on them. Allison and Isaac are already in Allison's car when they get there, and Scott is putting his helmet on. Cora leans against the side of their car, looking at something on her phone.

"So," Derek says, "do you want to ..." He trails off, not sure what exactly he's asking for.

"I have early shift tomorrow," Stiles says, and he actually looks really disappointed. Derek tries not to let the gloom wash over him. "I can come over after though?" Stiles continues.

"Yes," Derek says firmly. "That would be -- good. That would be good."

Stiles gives him a smile, lips stretching wide. He reaches out a hand, but stops midway like he's not sure what he wants to do next. He pulls his hand back, puts it in his pocket.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," he says with another smile, then turns and gets into his Jeep.

"You talk to Stiles?" Cora asks when Derek's putting on his seat belt in their car.

"We talked," Derek says.

"Good," Cora says.

Derek looks over at her. She's smiling, though her eyes are still on the road. He leans back. It's getting truly dark now, and he closes his eyes, recalls the feeling of Stiles's lips against his, his skin under Derek's fingers. He got to kiss Stiles. He'll get to do it again, tomorrow. And again the day after that, and the day after that too. He hopes he never gets used to it.

~

He sleeps in as long as he can to make the day go faster, but his body is too used to waking up early. He goes for a long run, then a shower and jerking off, and it's not even noon yet. He tries to read, but he gives up after reading the same page at least five times, throws the book on the table. He's already cleaned the apartment this week. His room is neat. Laundry, he thinks, peering into his closet. He can do laundry.

They don't have a washer.

He texts Cora, who replies quickly. There's a laundry room in the basement of the building, so he grabs his hamper, detergent, scrounges around for coins, and heads down.

Once the clothes are spinning away, he sits down in the single chair in the room, a rather rickety wooden thing. He should have brought something to do, he thinks, listening to the rumble of the machine. Then he remembers he'd slipped his phone into his pocket, pulls it out. He thinks about texting Stiles, but he's not sure what to say. A wave of nerves washes over him, doubts and anxieties cropping up. He accepts that there had been something between himself and Stiles, some sort of relationship. But he doesn't know the ins and outs of it. How long had it been going on? Was it just sex? Did Stiles have feelings? Derek can't imagine entering a relationship without having something there. He's done the anonymous hookups and one night stands enough times to know that it's not for him. And Stiles is pack. Derek wouldn't just enter into that kind of ... arrangement with a pack member. No, it had to be something more serious.

But the person Stiles might have had feelings for and the person Derek is right now are different. He doesn't know what he was like, what drew Stiles to him. He looks down at his phone, opens up the photo gallery. He scrolls through the pictures again, looking at the ones of Stiles. He seems, in general, like a happy person. He laughs freely and often.

Derek is not a happy person. At least, he hasn't been, not really, not since the fire. There had been moments of mild contentment, living with Laura, but there had always been that thing that was missing, that pack connection.

Maybe that's changed though. After all, the past few days have been pretty ... nice, in spite of his memory problem. He'd felt stable. He remembers being at his family's memorial, that sense of peace he'd gotten, something he hadn't experienced in long enough that he'd forgotten what it was like.

Except then he can't help but think about what would happen if Deaton's solution doesn't work. Will Stiles still want him, even if he's not the same? Even if Stiles has all these apparent memories of the two of them, of this other Derek, and all Derek has is a big black hole?

The sudden silence startles him out of his thoughts. Apparently he'd been so lost in his thoughts that the laundry had gone through its entire washing cycle.

He gets up, moves the wet clothes into the dryer, and sits back down again to wait.

He follows the movement of the clothes as they spin for a few minutes, tries to keep his mind blank. Eventually he pulls out the phone again, goes through the pictures once more. He plays the short video of Stiles over and over. Maybe he'll get his memories back or maybe he won't, but for now he needs to show Stiles that he's a person Stiles would want to be with. Maybe take him out on dates, treat him nice, special.

He tries to come up with date ideas, but the last time he'd been on an actual date had been in high school, when he'd taken a girl to his basketball game. In retrospect, that was probably not the best idea, but back then, Derek was a different person.

Stiles, though. What can he do for Stiles? He doesn't even know Stiles all that well. All he has to go on are photos and the fact that he's attractive, that Derek feels drawn to him in a way he can't really explain. He considers taking Stiles out somewhere, but he's not sure what's good around the area, and taking Stiles to a movie kind of defeats the purpose of letting him get to know Derek. Maybe making him a cake will help. Everybody likes cake, right?

What if Stiles is allergic to something? What if he's not a cake person? (Not an unforgivable offense, but a big one nonetheless. Derek hopes Stiles likes cake.)

The answer that comes to him is embarrassing, but he doesn't have many other options.

He calls Cora.

"What's up, bro?" she says.

"I need to know what Stiles likes."

"What he likes? Like, music, movies, what?"

"I don't know," Derek says. "Anything. Everything."

"Are you planning something?" Cora sounds suspicious.

Derek sighs. He's going to have to tell her everything. It's for the best, he reminds himself. "We kissed last night, and he's coming over after work this evening, and I want to do something for him," he says, getting the words out as fast as he can so that he doesn't have a chance to second guess himself.

"Oh my god," Cora says. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Oh my god."

"Cora," he grits out.

"That's great. I'm glad you got the balls to go for it." She laughs.

Derek makes a face. It doesn't matter that she can't see him. "You haven't answered my question."

"What question? Oh! What he likes. Well, be more specific. What did you have in mind."

"I was thinking of making him a cake," he says.

Cora laughs for a completely unreasonable amount of time. "Oh wow. Wow, that's awesome. No, he'll definitely love that." He can hear the smirk in her voice, and he doesn't appreciate it.

"Well?" he says.

"Well what?"

"What. Does. He. Like."

"Oh, right. Um, he seems to like coconut a lot if I remember correctly." He can still hear her grinning.

"Fine. That's good. Thanks," he says.

"Sounds like a nice date you've got for yourself. You need me to be somewhere else tonight?" she asks. If he were there, she would probably be giving him suggestive eyebrows.

"I'm hanging up now," he says.

"Love you, bro. Have fun tonight," she says, and then Derek's back to sitting on the chair waiting for his laundry. This time, he's thinking about the best recipes for coconut cakes. He'll have to do some research.

The cake turns out ... well, it turns out. It doesn't appear to have risen as much as the online photos suggest it should, and he'd almost burned the coconut shavings while toasting them. Still, the frosting he makes is good, and when he's done with the whole thing, it looks all right.

The whole thing takes about an hour and a half, which means Stiles will be there in maybe two hours. He cleans the kitchen, gives the living room another once-over, and finally sits on the couch and turns on the TV. There's a How It's Made marathon on the Science Channel, and it's just interesting enough to keep him distracted.

He's in the middle of watching bubble gum get made when the knock on the door comes.

He stands up quickly, turns the TV off, then quickly changes his mind. Leaving it on will make it appear that he was doing something other than just sitting around waiting for Stiles. Although it's true, he doesn't want to come off desperate.

He opens the door, lets Stiles come in, closes it behind him.

"Hey," Stiles says, smiling. Derek will never get tired of watching Stiles smile, the gentle curve of his mouth as it lifts up, the way it makes his eyes light up.

"Hi," he replies.

Stiles puts his hands in his pockets, lifts his shoulders up. "So," he says, dragging it out. "What's shakin' bacon?"

"What?" Derek says, stupidly.

"Nothing," Stiles says, and he lifts a hand to scratch at his nose. "I just got off work, and I didn't really get a lunch break. You wanna grab some dinner or something?"

"I made you a cake," Derek says, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen.

Stiles's eyebrows shoot up. "You made me a cake," he repeats.

Derek can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. The cake was stupid. He should've just left it alone. "It's coconut?" He hates that it comes out as a question.

"You made me a coconut cake," Stiles says slowly, eyes on Derek's face, not moving.

Derek shrugs, nods. "Cora said--" he starts, but then Stiles grabs his face and pulls him in for a kiss, lips pressing hard against Derek.

Derek's hands automatically rise to grab Stiles's waist, pull him closer. This isn't like the night before, where they'd both been careful, keeping the distance and the kiss from heating up. This time Stiles presses his body against Derek's, touching from thigh to chest. He wraps his arms around Derek's neck, pushes his tongue into Derek's mouth, eager. Derek goes with it, lets Stiles do what he wants, tries to process it all. The scent of Stiles, still sweet, the taste of him, the feel of his body, strong and hard against Derek's own.

He makes a noise when Stiles's hand reaches up into his hair, pulls hard, just this side of painful. The feeling goes straight to his dick, and he makes an abortive thrust, pushing his hips against Stiles's.

He chases Stiles when he pulls away, trying to get his mouth back on Stiles's, but Stiles laughs and holds him at some length.

"Derek," he says, and his voice sounds breathy. Derek opens his eyes, looks at him. Stiles's lips are shiny with spit and very red. Derek wants to get back to kissing them, but then Stiles says, "I really, really want to have sex with you right now."

Derek's brain maybe shorts out for a few moments, but then he's nodding, pushing Stiles back, whispering "Yeah" against his mouth.

"Come on," Stiles says, grabs his shirt, walks backwards toward Derek's room. They keep stopping to kiss, Derek making sure that they don't bump into anything. It seems so sudden, but Stiles looks eager, determined, and Derek's not going to say no to him.

The back of Stiles's legs hit the bed, and he stops to pull away for a bit, and pulls his shirt off. Derek wants to stare at him, at the expanse of skin stretching out in front of him, dotted with moles that he wants to trace with his tongue, but Stiles pulls him in again, a hand at his nape, and kisses him. He sits on the bed, and Derek has to bend over to keep kissing him. Stiles scoots backwards, pulls Derek along, and then they're both lying on top of the covers, and Derek's body is covering Stiles's and it feels so good. They're touching everywhere, and he can feel the hardness in Stiles's pants. He holds himself up with one hand, runs the other one up and down Stiles's back, feeling out his ribs, the muscles there. Stiles's skin feels hot to the touch, and smooth, soft.

Derek pulls away, moves down to mouth at Stiles's neck, breathes him in. Stiles gives a moan above him.

"Yeah, right there," he whispers, and Derek keeps kissing him, moves up under his jaw, gives a small bite to the skin there. He pulls away, watches the red appear, moves in to press a kiss to the mark. He makes his way down Stiles's neck, to the hollow of his throat, where he just breathes into it, tongue dipping in to taste the sweat that's gathered there.

Stiles's hands are wrapped in the back of Derek's shirt, pulling. "You are wearing way too many clothes," he says, tries to tug at Derek's shirt.

Derek sits up on his knees, legs on either side of Stiles's hips. He slips the shirt over his head fast, throws it somewhere on the floor. He sits back on his haunches for a second, taking in the sight before him. Stiles moves to lean on his elbows, eyes running up and down Derek's body, from his eyes to his mouth to his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.

"I will never get tired of this," Stiles says, and he rises up, runs his hands up Derek's arms, over his shoulders, wraps them around his neck. He pulls Derek into a kiss, a softer one this time, slow and dirty, tongue moving in, tasting. Derek shudders at the feeling. His mouth feels used already, but it's a good feeling. Stiles moves him then, tips him over slowly so that it's Derek lying on his back now as Stiles settles over him.

Stiles keeps kissing him for a bit before moving away, dragging his cheek against Derek's, rubbing against it like a cat. He presses his lips at the hinge of Derek's jaw, moves down right below, and bites. It goes straight to Derek's cock, and he jolts, hips pushing up. He can feel Stiles's smile against his skin, then his tongue as it licks at the bite.

He moves down, dragging his mouth across Derek's chest, mouthing at a nipple. He brings his hands up, rubs them through the hair there, making a pleased noise.

"You feel so good, Derek," he says, then leans down to bury his face against Derek's chest.

Derek's not entirely sure what's going on, but Stiles is rubbing his face against him, eyes closed, with a smile on his face. Maybe it's a thing for Stiles, his hairy chest. Maybe that's why he stopped shaving.

"Stiles," he says, and it comes out hoarse, broken. He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Yeah, babe, I'm gonna make you feel so good," Stiles says, then starts kissing again, his chest, his stomach, making his way down Derek's body. He dips a finger into Derek's navel, scratches with his nail, and Derek's dick is properly hard now, rubbing against the cotton of his pants.

Stiles keeps moving, slips his thumbs into the waistband of Derek's pants and pulls down, freeing his cock to stand up, hard and heavy against his stomach. He pulls the pants all the way back and settles in between Derek's legs.

Derek pulls his feet up, lets his knees fall to the sides to give Stiles room. He feels so open, so vulnerable, spread out for Stiles to do with as he will. He has no idea what to do with his hands, so he grabs a handful of blanket in each, holds it tight.

Stiles settles a hand on one of his knees, the other one moving up, running light fingers through Derek's pubic hair. Then his hand wraps around Derek's cock. His grip is light, just holding, but it feels so good that Derek's eyes close, his hips push up into it, needing friction. Stiles squeezes a bit before letting go, and Derek can't help the needy noise that escapes him.

Stiles grins. His hand moves down to Derek's balls, cupping them. It makes his dick twitch. He runs his fingernails lightly against the skin, and Derek's eyes roll back into his head. The feeling ripples across his skin, down his thighs all the way to the soles of his feet, up his chest, through his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. Stiles keeps massaging, fingertips pressing in, and Derek wonders if he can come just from this, without Stiles even touching his dick.

He opens his eyes to see Stiles staring at him, at his face. His eyes are hooded, his mouth hanging open slightly. He looks drugged, almost like how Derek feels, and Derek wonders at it.

Stiles sees him looking, and he pulls his hand away. For a moment, Derek is disappointed, wants to cry out, wants to beg for Stiles to put his hand back where it was, have his fingers work that magic again. Except then Stiles is leaning back over him, settling a hand against his chest as his mouth finds Derek's.

It's soft and close-mouthed, and Stiles pulls away after a second, waits until Derek opens his eyes.

"What do you want?" he asks, and Derek just stares at him, his beautiful face. He doesn't know, can't really think right then. He dick aches where it rests against his stomach, untouched.

"I want -- anything," he says. He brings his hands up, cups Stiles's face in them. "You, I want you."

Stiles laughs. "Well, that doesn't help me decide anything," he says, voice fond. He traces a finger over Derek's left eyebrow, brings it down Derek's cheek, catches on his lips. Derek pulls it in, sucks on it, reveling in the taste of Stiles's skin.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says, eyes locked on his finger in Derek's mouth, "I'm gonna blow you."

The words themselves are enough to send another jolt of arousal through him, and Derek moans. Stiles moves quickly down his body, grabs Derek's neglected cock in his hand and puts his mouth on it, a kiss right under the head.

Derek has no words to describe the feeling as Stiles traces his tongue up and down, his hand twisting back and forth, his grip just hard enough to keep Derek from coming. Eventually he wraps his lips around Derek's cock, moving down slowly, tongue tracing patterns on the underside. His mouth is hot and wet, and Derek can feel the soft gust of air as Stiles breathes out through his nose.

He looks down and has to look away quickly to keep from coming too soon, because Stiles's mouth around his cock is too much, his eyelashes dark against his pale skin, eyes closed. He looks like he's savoring it.

Derek doesn't know what to do with his hands, brings one up to run lightly though Stiles's hair, down to where his cheek is hollowed out.

Stiles pulls off briefly. "You can tug on my hair. I like it," he says before getting back to what he'd been doing.

Derek puts his hand in Stiles's hair then, lets his fingers run through it, grabs lightly. He pulls a little, not too hard because he doesn't know how Stiles likes it yet, and Stiles moans.

He lets himself get lost in the sensation, practically all of his attention focused on the pleasure of Stiles's mouth. The finger at his hole takes him by surprise.

He gasps, looks down, sees Stiles looking up at him as he keeps sucking. He traces around the edges of Derek's hole, pushing slightly against it. Derek doesn't know what to do. He's never had anyone do that before -- that he remembers anyway. It feels strange, but not bad, and Stiles brings the hand that's not on his dick up to play with Derek's balls before going down toward his hole again.

He pulls off with a loud smack, licking his lips, and Derek can't do anything but stare as Stiles leans up and over to the nightstand, pulling out a tube of something. It must be lube, because he pours some on his fingers and goes back down, picking Derek's cock up and putting his mouth around it.

This time, Stiles's finger enters him, and it surprises Derek how easy it is, how his body just accepts it. It feels good, actually, and Stiles pulls the finger out and back in, rubbing. Derek settles into it, getting lost in the sensations again, so that he almost doesn't notice when Stiles adds a second finger, pushing them in, crooking them and rubbing against him, and it feels amazing. He can't hold on much longer. It's too much, the pleasure almost too intense. His hand tightens in Stiles's hair, trying to get out a warning, but Stiles keeps holding on, mouth sucking hard, fingers moving in and out, in and out, and Derek comes like that, body arching up, eyes squeezing shut as the air rushes out of him.

When he comes down, Stiles's mouth is off his dick, but his fingers are still in Derek's ass, and they send little aftershocks of pleasure through him. It's just this side of too sensitive, and he almost whines when Stiles finally pulls them out, wipes them on the sheets. He rests his head against Derek's thigh, looking up at him, and Derek makes a motion, hands grabbing at Stiles's arms to pull him up until Stiles's body covers his.

He welcomes the weight, pulls Stiles's mouth to his own, licks at his lips, tasting himself. Stiles is still hard, leaking against Derek's stomach, and Derek pushes a hand between them, wraps his fingers around Stiles. Stiles thrusts into his fist, rests his forehead against Derek's, breathing heavily. It doesn't take too long for him to come, spilling over Derek's stomach and chest before collapsing on top of him.

Stiles is the first to move, slipping to the side. With him gone, Derek feels suddenly cold, so he turns, wraps an arm around Stiles's waist, burrows in close to him.

Stiles laughs, and his arm comes around Derek briefly before pulling away. "I know you like being covered in jizz and all, but this is going to get really gross really soon."

Derek gives a soft whine, but lets Stiles pull away, listens as he walks to the bathroom, turns on the water. He comes back with a washcloth, wipes Derek down gently before settling in beside him, letting Derek spread his limbs over him to keep him close.

Derek nuzzles in at his shoulder, takes in the scent of Stiles, now mixed in with his own. It's a heady sensation.

"So," he says, lips brushing against Stiles, "cake turns you on?"

Stiles laughs, and Derek can feel the rise and fall of his chest. He turns, positioning them so that they're facing each other. He looks right at Derek, a serious expression on his face, and says, "All desserts turn me on. Cakes, pies, chocolate, ice cream. Nothing gets me harder faster than peach cobbler straight out of the oven."

Derek smiles. He can't help it, and eventually Stiles breaks and grins back at him.

"Is that how -- " Derek pauses, licks his lips. "Is that how I ... seduced you?"

Stiles laughs again, loud and amused. "Technically, I did the seducing."

Derek is slightly surprised. He can't imagine not being drawn to Stiles immediately, can't imagine not noticing him. He wants to know though. "So how did it happen?"

The tips of Stiles's ears turn red. "Uh, well. You came back to Beacon Hills, and were being generally attractive in my direction, and you know. One thing led to another."

"That doesn't really sound very seductive on your part."

Stiles punches him in the shoulder. "Fuck you, I had awesome game. You were totally into it. Wanted all up in this," he says, waving his hand up and down to indicate his body.

Derek smiles. "I bet I did," he says with a grin, then leans forward to kiss Stiles again. It's slow and tender, and Derek thinks he could maybe be up for another round pretty soon, but Stiles pulls away.

"I'm hungry," he says. "Let's eat that cake."

They end up on the couch, leaning against each other, huge slices of cake on plates in front of them. Stiles finds a Futurama marathon on some channel, makes Derek watch with him, laughing loudly at the jokes, poking Derek in the side and going, "I love this part!"

Derek mostly watches Stiles, the way his head tips back, exposing his neck, the way his mouth curves on a laugh, the way he scratches his belly and leans back into the couch after he finishes his cake, the way his hand strays occasionally over to Derek, touching his thigh, his knee, stroking over his skin. Stiles gives him a look once, like he notices, but Derek can't bring himself to care.

Cora finds them that way when she gets home, gives Derek a smirk before retreating to her own room. She comes out a few minutes later, heads to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich that she eats as she plops herself down on the armchair.

"Hey losers," she says. "What are we watching?"

"The Shining," Stiles says.

"Ugh," Cora says, "no. Give me the remote."

Stiles picks it up from the coffee table, clutches it to his chest. "It's a classic."

"Whatever, I don't care. Jack Nicholson's face creeps me out and I refuse to watch anything with him in it."

Stiles looks at her in horror. "But -- you -- do you realize how many amazing movies you're dismissing out of your weird, facial prejudice?"

"My house, my rules," Cora says, grinning, teeth sharp. "Now hand it over," she says, holding her hand out.

"Technically it's Derek's house too," Stiles grumbles, but he throws the remote over, and Cora immediately starts browsing through the channels. Stiles pokes Derek in the side, gives him an exaggerated pout. "Your sister's being mean to me. You'll have to make it up to me later." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Derek can't help the smile on his face. He leans in close, lets his nose brush against Stiles's, lets them share the same breath for a moment.

"Stop being gross," Cora says, but when Derek glances at her, she's not even looking in their direction.

Stiles kisses Derek with a loud smack before pulling back and settling himself into a good position for watching TV. Derek doesn't know the show, but it's some crime drama. Apparently Cora really likes them.

She and Stiles eventually start arguing about the forensic techniques used in the show, but Derek is not really paying attention. He lets his head fall back, closes his eyes, lets the sound of their voices and the television run over him.

It feels like only a minute later, but Stiles is shaking him awake, and Derek blinks, sitting up and looking around. He can hear Cora in the bathroom, and Stiles is wearing all of his clothes again, looking regretfully down at Derek.

"Hey, I have to go," he says. "I promised my dad I'd get breakfast with him tomorrow before he goes to work."

Derek rubs his eyes to get rid of the fuzziness, stretches until his back pops.

"Can I see you again?" he asks, looking up at Stiles, reaching out a hand to settle on Stiles's hip.

"Of course," Stiles says. "I'm free all day."

"Good," Derek says, and leans into Stiles's stomach, breathing him in through his shirt.

Stiles laughs and pulls back. "That tickles," he says, but he pulls at Derek until Derek stands up, leans up to kiss him, arms around Derek's shoulders.

He pulls back reluctantly, starts heading toward the door. "I'll call you," he says, and then he's out, skipping down the stairs and Derek is left alone in the living room. It doesn't feel bad though. He'll see Stiles again. Stiles wants to be with him. It's more than Derek could have hoped for, and he goes to bed that night with a smile on his face.

To say he spends the next morning waiting for Stiles to call would be ... not inaccurate. Thankfully, he can't get too worked up about it, because the call comes soon after his shower, when he's standing in front of his dresser trying to pick out a shirt.

"You have plans for the day?" Stiles asks.

"No," Derek replies. The grey v-neck catches his eye. It feels like it might be a grey v-neck kind of day.

"Good," Stiles says. "Put on your swimming pants and pack a change of clothes, I'm swinging by to pick you up."

"Now?" Derek asks. He's surprised, but pleased.

"Be there in ten," Stiles says.

Derek is ready in five minutes. As promised, Stiles shows up at his door soon after, and Derek pulls him into his space, checks to make sure it's okay, and when Stiles wraps his arms around him, leans in to kiss softly at his neck, at the spot right behind his jaw.

"Mmm," Stiles says, running his fingers up the back of Derek's head, massaging his scalp. "Not that I don't love this, but I have plans for us today. Come on, you all packed?"

Derek pulls back, gestures to the gym bag lying beside the door.

Stiles grins. "Excellent."

"Where are we going?" Derek asks as they head down the stairs, out the door to where Stiles's Jeep is parked in front of his apartment building.

"You'll see," Stiles says with a secretive smile. "But it's great, I promise."

Any place he gets to go with Stiles would be great, Derek thinks, but he doesn't say anything, just fastens his seatbelt, leans the chair back, and puts on his sunglasses.

They get on the highway soon enough, and Derek is happy to sit there in the car with Stiles, listening to the music Stiles put on and the steady beat of Stiles's heartbeat threading through the bass. Stiles talks about breakfast with his dad, a few interesting cases the Sheriff is working on. Derek listens mostly, asks the right questions when it's needed. He likes listening to Stiles, they way his voice moves, the ups and downs, the way it wraps itself around Derek, entering through his ears and burrowing deep inside him.

Stiles quiets after a bit, turns up the music and hums along.

"Tell me about us," Derek says at one point. He's not sure where they are, but they seem to be heading west.

Stiles steals a glance at him. "What about us?" he says, and Derek can't decipher his tone.

Everything, Derek wants to say. He starts at the beginning instead. "How did we meet?"

Stiles laughs lightly. "Oh man, way back. Uh, actually, Scott and I were trespassing on your property. You kind of yelled at us."

Derek raises his eyebrows. Stiles looks at him quickly.

"It was soon after Laura died," he says softly, and Derek nods, swallows. He hadn't thought about Laura almost at all in the past few days, and he feels a little guilty about that. It was just him and her for so long, and now. Well, now he has a pack, he has Cora, he has Stiles. He still wishes Laura could be there, could have what he has now. He thinks she would have liked Stiles.

He tells Stiles that, and Stiles reaches a hand over, grabs Derek's where it's sitting on his thigh, squeezes a little before going back on the steering wheel.

"I know," Stiles says. "I would have liked her too."

Perhaps he should ask Stiles more, about the months after Laura's death, when Derek had been truly alone, about Peter and the alpha pack, and all those other horrors Deaton had mentioned. But those feel distant now, and he doesn't want to spoil the mood. He feels like maybe he should care more, worry more about those times, but he can't, not with Stiles breathing next to him and the road stretching out in front of them.

He can smell the change in the air when Stiles pulls off the highway, gets onto a little side street, and then another, glancing occasionally at his phone for directions. He curses a few times, pulls some U-turns, but eventually seems to find what he wants. It's a gravel road through a sparse forest, and it ends on a big grassy field, beyond which lies white sand and clear blue waves.

The beach is empty. It's not a huge place, just a little bit of sand between some cliffs, with the forest behind them. It's completely isolated. Derek can't even hear anyone in the vicinity. It's just him and Stiles.

Stiles is unloading stuff from the back of the Jeep, a big beach bag stuffed with things, a couple of smaller boards.

"There's a cooler in there," Stiles says, as he heads toward the water, and Derek changes quickly into his swimwear, leaving his clothes in the car, grabs the cooler and goes after Stiles.

Stiles sets up a few yards away from the water's reach, placing towels on the sand. He tears his shirt off, dumps it into the bag, pulls out a bottle of sunscreen, starts rubbing it all over himself.

Derek places the cooler down, watching Stiles. He would be lying if he said he didn't find it a little bit attractive. He takes the bottle from Stiles, and Stiles lets him, turns so his back is to Derek. Derek squirts some of the cream into the palm of his hand, rubs it gently over Stiles's back. He enjoys the feel of the skin beneath his fingertips, soft and smooth, lithe muscle beneath. He doesn't turn it into anything more, because Stiles is thrumming with energy, and as soon as Derek proclaims the sunscreening done, he grabs Derek's hand, pulls him toward the ocean.

He lets go of Derek as soon as his feet hit water, rushing headlong into the waves, diving in when its deep enough and coming back up soaked, water streaming down his body in rivulets.

"Come on!" he yells, happy and beaming, gesturing at Derek.

Derek humors him, steps into the water carefully, letting it brush over his toes. It's cold, but not too much, and he gets used to it quickly, wades easily out to where Stiles is.

He reaches out a hand to catch Stiles, but Stiles pulls away with a laugh, splashes around, and Derek darts forward, grabs at Stiles's shoulders, pulls him close.

Stiles lets himself be caught, presses close to Derek for a quick moment, a quick kiss, before slipping out of his arms again, heading further out.

The sand is soft beneath his feet, the sun is hot on his shoulders, and Stiles is like a beacon in front of him, rising up with the waves, slipping down under them, letting them carry him toward the beach for a few feet before returning back out again.

Derek doesn't know how long they stay in the water, greeting the waves together. Maybe it's half an hour, maybe a whole hour. It doesn't matter. Stiles laughs, pulls at him, tangles their hands together. Derek sneaks under him to lift him up high before dumping him back in, catching him by surprise. Stiles splutters when he surfaces, tries to get Derek back, but Derek swims away, grins at Stiles's indignant look and promises of revenge.

The sun is in the middle of the sky when they get back out, pleasantly tired, and throw themselves onto the towels, letting the heat soak into them, dry them off.

Stiles pulls out a couple of Cokes, ice cold, and Derek gulps his down gratefully.

They sit next to each other quietly, taking in the sand and ocean in front of them, listening to the swish of the waves.

They head back in eventually, splash and swim around. Stiles pulls out a short wooden board, throws it on the surf, jumps on it and slides through the water. He makes Derek try it, laughs when Derek promptly falls on his ass in the wet sand.

He brings out a couple of sandwiches, cheese and ham, and they sit and eat them on the towels.

Stiles makes Derek help him build a sandcastle, gets excited about designing it, with towers and moats and tall, defensible walls.

They lie in the sun, still and quiet, the heat broken by a light breeze. Derek closes his eyes, enjoys the stillness, the steady beat of Stiles's heart near him.

The sun is sliding closer to the ocean when they finally decide to pack up their things. Stiles is a bit pink in the cheeks, on the tip of his nose, and Derek pulls him in, smiling as he kisses him, nice and slow.

They stop at a nearby diner, and then Stiles lets Derek drive on the way back while he naps. His heartbeat is steady in Derek's ears, and he almost can't believe how relaxed he feels. All he can remember is guilt and anxiety and loneliness -- and his family, sometimes, but they're distant in his mind, covered with a patina of sorrow. But apparently something happened, something changed him in the last few years, something he can't remember but somehow his body does. It continues to be a wonder to him, that he can feel so at peace now.

When they get to the apartment, Stiles comes up without asking, drags Derek to his room, and rides him slow, body moving on top of Derek's while Derek grips his shoulders, his hips, trying not to hold on too tight, not to let his claws out. He drinks in the sight of Stiles, long, lean body over his, a sheen of sweat covering his skin, muscles moving in his thighs as he moves. Derek moves with him, the rhythm coming naturally, and he comes long and hard, while Stiles leans down to cover his mouth with his own, breathe the same air.

They clean up with one of their t-shirts and fall asleep almost immediately, limbs tangled in each other.

~

He's woken up by his phone vibrating insistently from somewhere to the left of him. He wants to ignore it. Stiles is still asleep, his body warm and soft next to Derek's. Derek wants to trace the moles on his back with his tongue, kiss him awake slowly, and maybe blow him later.

The phone keeps buzzing, though, so he reluctantly pulls himself away from Stiles, searches through the clothes he'd tossed off haphazardly the previous night.

The caller ID says Deaton.

"Derek," Deaton says when Derek answers, "I've finished the antidote. If you'd like to come to the clinic, we can restore your memory."

The words wake Derek up faster than a cold shower.

"I'll be there soon," he says hoarsely.

"Very good," Deaton says. "I'll call Scott as well. Be here in half an hour."

Derek stares at the phone in his hand for a moment, still stunned. He'd spent so much of the week not worrying about his situation, focused more on discovering his new life and Stiles. He's not sure how to feel now that the possibility of having his memories returned is a certainty.

He looks down at Stiles, whose face is half buried in the pillow, arms spread out wide. He wants to know. He wants to know.

Stiles shifts as if sensing Derek's gaze, reaches out a hand, finds the bed empty, and opens his eyes.

"Why're you so far away," he mumbles, beckoning at Derek to join him on the bed.

Derek does, lying back down. He presses a kiss to Stiles's temple, and Stiles smiles softly, lets his eyes drift closed again.

"Deaton has the cure," Derek whispers.

"Mmm, yeah, that's nice," Stiles says, shifting closer to Derek.

"Stiles," Derek says.

Stiles opens his eyes again. "Yeah?"

"The cure," Derek repeats.

It takes a moment, but Derek can see in Stiles's eyes when he realizes, because they open wider, and he sits up, rubbing the sleep away.

"Wait," he says, "it's done? Already?"

Derek nods. "Deaton said we should be there in half an hour." Deaton had technically only told Derek to be there, but there's no way he's going without Stiles.

Stiles gets up out of the bed, and Derek has a moment to admire the lines of his body as he stretches, and then he's looking around on the floor, going to the dresser and pulling out a couple of shirts.

Derek pulls some pants on and goes to wake Cora. She'd kill him if she knew he was going to do this without her.

Once she's awake, he moves to the kitchen, but there's not really much time to make breakfast, so he pours himself a glass of orange juice, stands at the counter while he drinks it.

He sees Stiles make his way to the bathroom, can hear Cora and him talking, something about a toothbrush. He goes back to his room, grabs a shirt to pull on. He looks around. The room has started to become more familiar to him now, less like it belongs to another person. He recalls the feeling that something was out of place, but this morning, right now, he doesn't feel it anymore. It feels right.

"Come on, Derek!" Stiles calls from the living room.

He comes into the bedroom munching on a Pop Tart -- and Derek has no idea where he got that, because he definitely didn't buy it -- and finds Derek standing there and looking around.

"Hey," he says, approaching slowly. "You okay?"

Derek gives himself a mental shake. It's no use dwelling on what happened and what might have been. He's going to get everything back.

"I'm fine," he says, grabs his phone from the nightstand. "Let's go."

~

Allison's SUV is parked in front of the clinic when they get there, and Derek is surprised to see her and Isaac alongside Scott. None of them look surprised to see Stiles there.

Deaton comes in from somewhere, carrying a mug. He sets it down on the metal table in the middle of the room.

They all lean in to look at the contents. It looks like some sort of dark brown sludge, but it's surprisingly odorless.

"I have to drink that?" Derek asks. "That's it?" It seems to easy.

Deaton nods. "I should warn you, however, that there is some danger involved."

"What kind of danger?" Stiles asks before Derek has a chance to say anything. He's leaning forward, looking at Deaton with narrowed eyes.

"The chance is small," Deaton says, "but if the spell that has been cast on Derek is not the one I have been led to believe, then the potion could have the opposite effect."

Derek lets that sink in. He could lose all of his memories, not just the past three years. He could lose his family, his mom and dad, Laura, even Cora. Does he want to take that chance?

A hand touches his then, fingers running gently through his own, grabbing hold and gripping tight. Stiles.

He thinks about the past week, about how he'd felt when he'd woken up to a strange fate; about being with Cora, with Scott and the pack, with Stiles; about seeing the marker where his family home had been.

He takes the mug, brings it up to his face. It feels like everyone in the room is holding their breath, so he nods to himself, squeezes Stiles's hand, and drinks.

It's thick and it tastes disgusting. He almost gags, but forces himself to swallow it all down, every last drop. Once it's done, he places the mug back on the table, wipes his mouth. Everyone is still.

"Derek?" Stiles whispers, and Derek turns toward him. Stiles's eyebrows are furrowed in a frown, concerned. Derek can't tear his eyes away from Stiles's face, seems to be drawn to it. His eyes are bright and his mouth is red. Too bright and too red, like light is shining out of them, brighter and brighter, drowning out the rest of his features. Stiles's lips move again, but there is no sound. The light makes his eyes hurt, but he still can't look away.

When the darkness takes him, he welcomes it.

~

He comes to on a hard surface. It's cold. He can feel the goosebumps on his arms, but he can't bring himself to move. His limbs feel heavy, like they're made of lead. He breathes in slowly, steadily. There's a strange drumming in his head, soft and distant.

Thump, thump, thump.

His lips are chapped and dry. He runs his tongue over them. He can't hear anything. It's dark.

He doesn't know how long he lies there in this strange state of almost non-being, but eventually it fades. Sounds start leaking through, soft voices getting louder and louder. He can move his fingers when he tries, folding them into his palm, stretching them out again. There's a light outside his eyelids that makes him see soft red hues. He opens them, stares up. The ceiling is made of white tiles. The walls are exposed brick.

A shape moves over him suddenly, a head of dark hair. A face with bright brown eyes and a mouth turned down at the corners. Eyebrows come together in concern.

"Derek?" Said softly, unsure.

The drumming in his head is closer now, and as Derek's eyes move down, to the neck and chest of the person in front of him, he realizes it's a heartbeat.

Stiles, he wants to say, but all that comes out is a croak, like a dying crow.

"Here," another voice says, and Stiles turns, takes the glass from the proffered hand, slips a hand under Derek's head, and gently lifts him up. He places the rim to Derek's lips, and tilts slightly, letting cool water run into his mouth, down his dry throat.

Derek takes a couple of swallows before the glass is pulled away.

Stiles hands it off to someone, but the hand on the back of Derek's head stays where it is, even as it lets him back down, a steady, warm presence between Derek and the cold beneath him.

"Stiles," he says, and this time it comes out, hoarse and thready, but there.

Stiles breaks into a smile, lets out the breath he'd been holding. His other hand comes up to Derek's face, trails his fingers over his cheek, his jaw.

"How're you feeling?" he asks.

"Like shit," Derek says, and Stiles laughs. Some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders.

"Can you sit up?"

Derek lets himself feel his body. He feels weak, sore all over, but generally fine. With Stiles's help he manages to sit up, swings his legs over the metal table he'd apparently been lying on. Stiles stands in front of him, hands moving everywhere, on Derek's face, his neck, his arms, his torso, as if checking that everything is as it should be.

"I'm okay," he says. "Where is everyone?"

"In there," Stiles says, pointing toward the door but not taking his eyes of Derek. "You want me to call them?"

"No," Derek says quickly, maybe too loud. "No," he repeats as he lifts a hand to clutch at Stiles's shirt, pulling it closer to himself.

"Okay," Stiles says, quiet. His eyes are on Derek's. He purses his lips like he wants to ask something and is holding himself back.

"Our first date," Derek says, "was to the holography museum, with the weird old lady and the 3D Star Trek ships." He sees the moment Stiles realizes, feels his lips turn up at the corners. "And no, that picnic thing didn't count just because everyone else bailed."

There's a moment where Stiles just stares, mouth hanging open slightly.

"You asshole!" he finally says, then grabs Derek around the waist, pulls him close in a crushing hug, buries his face in Derek's neck. "Don't you fucking do that to me ever again," he mumbles, hot puffs of breath over Derek's skin.

Derek holds him back, arms around him, as tightly as he dares. He lets himself revel in the tightness of their embrace, Stiles's body hot and solid against his, the scent of him enveloping them, heartbeat almost in sync with Derek's own.

It takes them a few minutes, but they eventually pull apart, and Stiles kisses Derek fiercely.

"I missed you," he says, grins. He lets out a happy laugh, his whole body shaking with it, loud and clear as a bell.

They call the others in then, make sure they know the potion worked, that Derek is back with all of his memories, the good and the bad. They're all happy for him, hugs and backslaps and relieved laughter. Derek makes sure to thank Deaton, who's standing to the side, a small smile on his face.

Stiles rides back with him and Cora, back to their apartment. He recalls now, the first time Stiles had spent the night there; the time he'd officially given Stiles the bottom drawer of his dresser; that time he gave Stiles a key.

Cora gives him another tight hug when they get inside, doesn't say anything before she heads to her room, and Stiles takes Derek by the hand into his bedroom. Their bedroom.

"I've got to get those photos back from Scott," Stiles says, looking around the place. The missing pieces make sense now, the bits of the bedroom that seemed off when he'd lost his memory.

He pulls Stiles around to face him, slides his hands around his waist, digging up under his shirt to feel the skin, warm and smooth.

"I love you," he says, smiling at having Stiles so close to him.

"I know," Stiles says with a grin.

Derek leans in then to kiss him. He's home.