The photograph felt familiar. Not so much for its own sake but for the child in it, the thin little boy covered in freckles. He felt familiar, even if Derek doubted he had ever seen a scrapbook of Stiles' childhood even before he was erased. He couldn't form an image of the grown up Stiles in his head, but the dark color of his eyes, the curve of his cheek, the upturn of the nose were all things that Derek's eyes knew.

Beside him, Malia had Stiles' jersey in her lap. Every few seconds she brought it to her nose, reminding herself of his scent, anchoring herself with it. The photograph carried his scent too, strongly, like he handled it often. Derek was very careful not to hold it too tight or crinkle the delicate old material, no matter how much he wanted to cling to the evidence that Stiles had had a life. That he had always existed.

Lydia was on his other side, cross-legged on the loft's concrete floor, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes open, distant. Scott sat across from him, his thumb tapping anxiously against his knee, and the Sheriff beside him.

Between the Sheriff and Lydia was Deaton, as calm and serene as always despite the strangeness of his circumstances. Maybe he had been involved in stranger things in his life; Derek had never managed to wheedle much of a backstory out of the man, not that he had tried all that hard. He had decided a long time ago that it was better not to ask questions where Deaton was concerned.

The rest of the pack was milling around them, standing outside their seated circle of six and watching. The lights were dimmed, bedsheets hung up as impromptu curtains to block the last of the evening light from the wall of windows. They could have found another place for this ritual, somewhere darker and quieter, but Deaton and Lydia both seemed to think having the whole pack in attendance would be most effective, and there weren't many places that would fit sixteen people.

Even with the susurration of so many people breathing and shifting in an enclosed space, the dull thump of so many heartbeats at once, it was quiet. Hushed, almost muted. On the floor in the center of them Deaton had set up a small light, directed upward to illuminate the shard of glass that Scott had collected from the impound lot. Just an arbitrary focal point, he said.

It had the same blue-green tint to it as the ruined door in the abandoned house. Derek imagined he could smell the sulfur and gunpowder from where he sat.

"Focus on the light," Deaton said, his voice pitched low. He didn't need to project when most everyone in the room had advanced hearing. "Try to relax."

This wasn't quite hypnosis, Lydia had told them. It wasn't a real trance they were aiming for here; all they needed was to let down their guards just a little bit. Enough for the memories to sneak in, like they had in Scott's dream.

"They're there," she had said. "All the memories are still there in our subconscious, right under the surface. Stiles' dad broke through and got his back, and the act of truly remembering Stiles was enough to punch a hole in the fabric of reality, if only for a second. Just imagine how much more powerful it would be if we all remembered at once."

So here they sat, the five of them with the strongest connection to Stiles: his father, who overcame a magical mindwipe for the love of his son; his best friend, the two of them so close their scents were almost inseparable; the banshee literally seeing through his eyes to another realm; his ex-girlfriend, at least, who felt her return to humanity had been integrally linked to his presence in her life; and Derek.

Derek didn't know what he was to Stiles, really. A packmate, obviously, and certainly a friend. He just knew that the scent on the photograph in his hands settled somewhere deep in his chest and sent warmth and security radiating through him. They were something.

"I want all of you to think of Stiles," Deaton told them. "Not just of the name or the description you've been given. Think of the negative space. Think of the outline his absence has left behind, the irrevocable impact he has had on your life. When one looks at a light," he said serenely, "its brightness leaves an inverse impression. The same can be said here in reverse. And the longer one looks, the clearer the afterimage."

Derek breathed deep. The shard of glass twinkled in its spotlight, twisting a bit on the string that held it aloft.

He thought of the pool, of lapping waves closing in over his head and the suffocating helplessness of immobility. He thought of breaching the surface and coughing out water. Of being held up, buoyed and supported. There had to have been arms around him then, a chest against his back, a heartbeat in his ear.

"Let yourself float," came Deaton's voice. "Let yourself sink into the memories and be pulled along by the tide. Look for the shadows of what you cannot see."

The glass shard twisted on its string.

Derek had come back for someone. He had been out of Beacon Hills, but he had come back because someone—Stiles—was in trouble. The wicked glint of the nogitsune's teeth, too blurred around the edges in his mind's eye. He had searched for days without stopping, too afraid to even sleep for fear that someone—Stiles—would be lost when he awoke.

"The memories are there," Deaton said. Derek almost didn't hear him. His pulse was loud in his ears, beating in time with all those around him, one communal throb of life. "Even if you cannot find them, the memories are there. Let them come to you."

Derek felt the echo of a gunshot, the punch of a bullet in his stomach, his own hot blood on his fingers. A chilling white smile and tanned skin that rippled into blue fur. Days of nothing, stretches of emptiness where he had clung to anything but reality, seeking the refuge of that scent—Stiles—his anchor—Stiles—his safety when everything else was fear.

The shard twisted and gleamed. The hearts beat. There was a chill in the air, skittering along Derek's overheated skin like static. Like lightning. Malia's knee against his was trembling. Lydia's breath hitched on every inhale.

"Breathe," Deaton told them, soothing and steady when everything else was unmoored. "Let go of thought. You don't need it here. Stiles exists beneath the conscious mind. You can feel him."

The beating of Derek's heart hurt, too big in his chest. His whole body moved with the force of it. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, tunneling until he couldn't see anything but the light, flickering in front of him.

The glint of pale light on water. A heartbeat against his back, panic-quick but steady.

"Would you just trust me this once?"

..

Flickering light.

..

The curve of a cheek, a familiar arrangement of moles.

"It's my house, my rules, buddy."

A rainbow of plaid. A graphic tee with a bullseye on the front.

..

Light flashing, brighter. Pulsing with the heartbeat. A high-pitched buzz of sound.

..

"We gotta get you out of here. The police are coming right now, and we gotta get you the hell out of here!"

The upturn of a nose. Eyes, brown, almost gold in the sun.

"I'm not afraid of you."

..

White light, brilliant and growing. All around them, eclipsing anything else. Ringing in their ears, louder and louder. Lydia's voice, words unintelligible but urgent, pleading.

..

..

A surge. Blinding.

..

..

..

Darkness.

..

..

..

The next breath Derek took felt like breaking the surface of the pool all over again, air rushing back into starved lungs until he felt lightheaded and dizzy with it. He folded over, panting, and rested his forehead on the cool concrete of the floor. He wasn't the only one; Malia was on her back next to him, and Scott's breathing was as labored as his own.

"Where is he?" Lydia was climbing to her feet already. Her eyes, when Derek could lever himself up enough to follow them, were fixed on the innocuous shard of glass, staring at the place where the portal had opened up. "I saw him," she said, breathless and shaking. "Stiles, I saw him. I heard his voice, he was right there."

"Did it not work?" Scott asked, fear spiking in his scent. "I...I remember. I remember everything, it has to have worked!"

Derek remembered too. Stiles, how could ever have forgotten someone as vibrant and memorable as Stiles? Someone who had been there with him through so much? He pushed himself to his feet, swallowing down bile at the thought that they might have failed. That Stiles could still be stuck in that hellish in-between dimension, alone and helpless and trapped. There had to be another way, something else they could try. Maybe if th—

A loud clank, and the grinding noise of the loft's door being shoved open. The entire pack turned as one.

"Stiles!" Scott shouted.

He was already vaulting over the couch, throwing himself bodily at his best friend to wrap him up in a hug probably tight enough to break bone. Stiles gripped him back just as hard, saying his name over and over again.

The Sheriff was next and there were tears. A lot of tears, from both of them.

Lydia hugged Stiles around the middle and kissed him on both cheeks. She whispered in his ear that she loved him too.

Malia buried her face in his neck and wouldn't let go until Erica pried her off.

It took a long time but Stiles was passed around the whole room, getting hugs from everyone in the pack, even Hayden and Corey, whom he barely knew. Even Jackson, who punched him in the chest first and called him a jackass for putting everyone through such an ordeal.

Derek hung back, just watching and taking in the sound of Stiles' laughter ringing out over the babble of voices, the wave of ecstatic chemosignals from every person who cared about him. The loft would smell like happiness and relief and Stiles for weeks. Derek found himself smiling at that thought.

Finally, Stiles stumbled to a stop in front of him. His hair was a mess from all the times Isaac and Boyd had ruffled it. There was lipstick on his cheek from several of the girls. His eyes were bright with the relief of coming home. His smile was wide enough to make his eyes crinkle up at the corners, pressing dimples into both his cheeks.

Derek's heart skipped a beat when that smile fell on him. He thought, oh.

"Aw, come on, big guy," Stiles said, flapping his hands at him. "Don't stand there all grumpy. You get a hug too, bring it in!"

Derek let himself be hauled forward. Stiles's arms were as warm and strong around him as they had been in the pool, and twice as comforting now that he trusted them completely. He hugged Stiles back, trying to resist the urge that Malia had given into to bury his face in Stiles' neck and just breathe him in.

Stiles let him hold on for longer than he expected before patting him on the back. As he pulled away, his hand trailed down Derek's arm all the way to his wrist, the back of his hand, still holding tight to the photograph of young Stiles and his mother.

It took some effort for Derek to make himself release it, but he did. Stiles looked down at it, brow furrowed, then up at Derek again. Derek didn't say anything and neither did he.

Isaac jostled into Stiles from behind, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "You missed four tests, just so you know," he said, not sounding the least bit sympathetic.

"Wait a minute!" Stiles said, photo momentarily forgotten in his sudden alarm. "Four tests? How the hell long was I gone?"

"Less than a week," Danny said.

"But it's senior year," Scott said with a grimace. "There's tests, like, all the time."

"Oh, that is bullshit," Stiles groaned. "If they don't let me make those up, I swear to god—"