Strange Terrain

Chapter Two – Waking Up

"Hope is important because it can make the present moment less difficult to bear. If we believe that tomorrow will be better, we can bear a hardship today." – Thich Nhat Hanh

Waking up was awful.

She remembered every single time she had had to wake up for school, for work, for some random family gathering with distant relatives she had never met before. It was always the same – she was always tired, cranky and unwilling, wanting nothing more than to return to the blissful dream that had come before she had regained consciousness and opened her eyes. Today felt something like that.

She opened her eyes slowly, the bright lights of the room seemingly too bright, making the process all the more terrible. Her whole body ached, like she had been laying in that same place for days. But that would never do – she always had things that needed to be done.

With that in mind, she tried opening her eyes again. When she did, she couldn't believe what she saw.

When he got word that she was awake, Stiles nearly dropped the coffee that he had been nursing in the hallway – cheap, bitter coffee that came out of a machine, but that did its job in keeping him alert and competent so that he could stay for as long as possible.

Ever since the accident, he had dropped everything to be by her side. Day and night he would sit there in that barely comfortable chair next to her bed, holding her hand, talking to her. It had been weeks before his friends had to come and tell him that he had to go back to work, a month before his landlord started threatening to kick him out of his apartment since he was two months behind on the rent.

So he spent less time with her during the day sometimes, but their mutual friends would always come and take his place when he wasn't there. Just to make sure Malia wasn't alone. To keep an eye on her to see if there was any change.

For weeks there wasn't. Months.

But today – nine weeks after some asshole had rear-ended them – she had woken up.

"What are you waiting for? Malia's awake!" Erica practically shouted at him, her eyes wide, expression impatient. She had moved to Beacon Hills a few weeks after Malia had, an old, hometown friend looking for a new start. She'd been the maid-of-honor at their wedding and often crashed at their apartment when she'd had too much to drink.

Stiles swallowed hard, following Erica once his brain started working again. Soon, he was walking faster than her, almost running down the hallway to Malia's hospital room. She was surrounded by people – doctors and friends alike – but Stiles pushed his way through, taking his spot by her side, taking her hand in his. But when she registered what he was doing, she immediately yanked her hand away, appalled.

The smile that had been on her face had disappeared.

"Malia, I –"

"If you think that hitting on a girl that just woke up from a coma is going to work, think again," she snapped, looking genuinely offended. An ugly bruise still stood out against her pale skin near her left temple, her split lip still in the process of healing. She looked better, but the memory of the accident was still fresh in Stiles' mind. The frantic trip to the hospital, the doctors' yelling, the blood, the fleeting idea that she might never wake up again… And here she was, awake. But she didn't seem to know who he was.

He couldn't tell what was worse.

"Malia, it's me. Stiles. Your husband…" he tried to explain, his eyes following hers to her left hand, which was no longer bearing their wedding band. He wondered what had happened to it. "Malia?"

"Oh, honey!"

Suddenly, two older people pushed their way through the group, the woman throwing her arms around Malia's neck and making her wince. But her expression – though wary – was less pointed than it had been with Stiles. "Hey, mom," she said once the woman had backed off. "What are you doing here? Where's Alana?"

Her mother looked taken aback. "What are we – You were in an accident, Malia." She told her, then added as an after-thought, "Your sister is in the waiting room with your father."

"I know I was in an accident. The doctors told me I was in a coma for a while, and this guy claims that I was married to him," Malia explained, gesturing to Stiles. He felt deflated, unable to find the words to explain that his wife was, in fact, his wife. And now here he was, faced with confronting his mother-in-law who he had not, in fact, ever met before.

The older woman eyed him, her lips tightly pressed together. Then she looked back at her daughter. "I've never met this man before. If you were married, don't you think I would have met your husband?" She barked out a laugh, as if not having met her daughter's husband was the most ridiculous thing she could ever conceive of.

But that was exactly what had happened.

In the three and a half years that Stiles had known Malia, he had never, not once met her parents. As far as he knew, their relationship wasn't all that great. Whenever they called her, she never answered if she was with him – which she almost always was. She'd met his dad plenty of times and seemed to love him, but never mentioned her own family or the life that she'd left behind in New York when she moved to Beacon Hills. It was like that part of her life no longer existed.

Until now.

"You're right," Malia agreed. "That doesn't make any sense."

Stiles suddenly felt his words return to him. "Now, wait a second. We were married for two years. You moved here almost four years ago, and I helped you get settled and then we started dating. Then you moved in with me." His brows furrowed. "You don't remember any of this?"

Malia shrugged, but there was no sign of recognition in her eyes. Instead, he thought he saw pity.

Stiles stood under the hot water of the shower for a long time, his eyes closed as the water poured over him, pelting his skin as he remained motionless, not making any move to wash himself.

He didn't know how long he had been standing there for, but he did know one thing: his wife had no idea who he was and it was killing him. This perfect, carefree, adventurous woman who had fallen for him despite the fact that he had probably made a fool of himself in front of her far too many times to count. The woman who preferred to be the big spoon over the little spoon in bed (and he didn't mind it). The woman who never seemed to dress appropriately for the weather. The woman he had fallen in love with.

For all he knew, she was long gone.

Stiles took a deep breath and forced himself to move. If he didn't, he would shrivel up standing there in the shower, and the water would turn cold, unpleasant. He'd had enough unpleasantness for one day.

He would have still been at the hospital if Malia's parents hadn't insisted that they would 'take care of her' and that he 'wasn't needed anymore' like a person providing a service whose job was done for the day. He had been dismissed. He infuriated him, but it also gave him some time to himself, time to really think about what he should do next.

He wasn't about to give up on his wife. She wouldn't have given up on him. No way.

Stiles resolved that he would go to visit her again the next day, and try again. A little bit everyday until she started to remember what her life had been like before the accident, before she had forgotten about her whole life, forgotten about him.

He shut off the water and climbed out, toweling dry and wrapping the towel around his waist. When he left the bathroom, he found the apartment eerily quiet. Of course, he had lived alone for almost five years before he had moved in with Malia, but now, not knowing if she'd ever come home, he felt even more alone than ever.

That is, until he heard the distinct clinking of glasses from the kitchen.

Furrowing his brows, Stiles headed in the direction of the sound, half-expecting his wife to appear there, somehow having remembered who he was and their life together. But instead, he found Erica sitting on a barstool in his kitchen, popping out the screw of a bottle of wine. She barely glanced up when he saw her.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked, almost irritated despite the fact that she knew where they kept their spare key.

"Drinking," Erica replied. "Want one?"

"Judging by the fact that you took out two glasses instead of one, it doesn't seem like you were planning on drinking alone in the first place," he pointed out.

She gave him a grim smile, pouring the dark red liquid into each of the glasses. "Well, judging by the day you just had, I thought you'd probably need a drink or two. I sure do," Erica told him. Not waiting for him, she picked up one of the glasses and downed the contents in a few quick gulps, before filling the glass again.

Stiles walked over and picked up the second glass, sitting down next to his friend. "She doesn't remember you, either?"

"Not a fucking clue," the blonde replied, a sad undertone to her voice.

He nodded and they just sat there, drinking in silence, feeling sorry for themselves. And suddenly, Stiles was glad that he wasn't alone anymore.