Derek wakes as the sun shines in through the blinds, now regretting his decision to only deal with the necessities for Stiles last night. At the time it had been all he could do to hold it together long enough to clean Stiles up, calm him down, and shove enough of his clothes in a bag that he could crash with Derek a few days. Dealing with the sheriff while Stiles waited in the car was equally exhausting. By the time they made it back to the apartment, Derek was too drained to function, so he gave Stiles a blanket and pillow on the couch, assured him again that he was not going to be punished, and promised to explain more in the morning.
Well, it's morning. What now?
He wanders out into the living room to find Stiles sitting in almost the exact same position Derek left him in last night.
"Stiles, did you sleep?" he asks.
"Yes, Derek," Stiles reports.
"Good," Derek replies, unsure what else to say.
He goes to the kitchen and is halfway through a bowl of cereal when he catches Stiles watching out the corner of his eye. Stiles averts his eyes quickly, clearly hoping he wasn't noticed.
"Did you eat breakfast?" Derek asks.
"No, Derek," Stiles assures him.
"You hungry?"
"Yes, Derek."
"Cereal?" Derek asks, reaching for the box.
"Anything, Derek."
He studies Stiles then, noting the eagerness in his eyes.
"When was the last time you ate, Stiles?"
"At the vet's office before you came to claim me."
The way he speaks as if he were lost luggage Derek picked up from the airport is insanely unsettling, but there's a more immediate problem.
"You haven't eaten since then?"
"No, Derek."
Because I didn't give you anything. Fuck. I didn't even think about that.
"Shit, Stiles, I should've made sure you got something," Derek mutters, hurrying to pour him a bowl of cereal. "I didn't mean to make you wait that long. You should've told me."
"I'm sorry, Derek," he says quietly, head down again.
"No, don't apologize; it's not your fault."
It's mine. How the hell do I overlook that the malnourished, abused teenager I'm in charge of didn't fucking eat anything. What the fuck is wrong with me?
"Here, come eat this," Derek instructs, and Stiles hurries to obey.
"Thank you, Derek."
"Stiles, you don't have to wait for me to give you food, okay? You can eat anything you want in this kitchen. It's all fair game. You can cook yourself something for breakfast if you want more than cereal. Can you cook?"
"Yes, Derek, I can cook anything," he replies confidently. "Anything you want."
It's the first sign on confidence in twenty-four hours. Though, the only reason Stiles would still know how to cook is because he did it serving the alphas. He's volunteering the information now with the assumption that it's a skill Derek will find useful. Derek's not sure if that counts as actual progress or not, but it's better than nothing.
"So you like to cook?"
Stiles seems almost confused by the question, but his voice is steady and sure when he replies carefully, "I like to do anything that you want me to, Derek. You're my Alpha."
It's a loaded statement, and it scares Derek to know how sincere Stiles probably is when he says anything. It puts a suffocating kind of terror in Derek's chest because he's realizing more with every moment that he doesn't know how the hell he's going to deal with this submissive version of Stiles while he tries to learn how to give back the memories.
Stiles finishes his cereal, drinking the milk to the last drop, and then immediately moves to clean his mess. He hesitates before reaching for Derek's bowl.
"May I take it, Derek?"
"I'll get it. You don't have to clean up for me."
Stiles nods acknowledgment, confusion on his face again, and moves to wash his bowl in the sink. He stills slightly when Derek moves to stand beside him at the sink. Derek doesn't understand the hopeful look on Stiles face until his face falls the minute Derek starts to pour out his leftover milk.
"Stiles, are you still hungry?"
"You gave me plenty, Derek."
"That's not what I asked you. I said, 'are you still hungry'?"
"Yes, Derek," Stiles answers apologetically.
"I said the whole kitchen, Stiles. Anything you want to eat."
"I don't need more, Derek. I'm fine. Thank you, Derek."
Derek grips to counter too tightly because watching this shell they left of Stiles makes him feel so pissed and guilty and helpless he could kill something—but bursts of anger damn sure aren't going to help the situation, so all he can do is sit and stew and hope to God he and Deaton can figure out how to get Stiles' memories back.
I should have protected him from this in the first place. I should've found him sooner. I should have ripped those alphas limb from fucking limb until we figured out where they were keeping him.
He knows that they did everything they could to find Stiles. Half the time they were just trying to figure out what the hell the alphas' next move was just so they could stay alive—barely. It doesn't make him feel any better though, not really, not when Stiles is still standing next to him completely broken. In the next instant, Stiles isn't standing though. He drops to his knees with his head down and whole body tensed.
"Derek, I'm sorry I—"
"Stiles, don't—why are you apologizing?"
"You're angry. I—"
"It's not you," Derek assures him tiredly. "I'm not mad at you. Please get back up."
Derek reaches to help Stiles to his feet, but he flinches away from the motion. Derek retreats a few steps to give him space as he rises.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Derek promises. "I'm mad at the Alpha Pack, okay? That's all. I'm mad at them for the way they treated you, and I'm pissed at myself for not getting you away from them sooner. It's not you at all. You're not doing anything wrong."
Stiles still looks confused as hell. It's clear he doesn't understand what Derek's talking about. He looks lost, and Derek's going to lose his fucking mind if he doesn't figure out how to get that look to go away. Soon.
"Okay, let's get you something else to eat, and then I've got to go see Deaton," Derek says, trying to ignore the way Stiles flinches when Derek moves past him toward the pantry. "Come here," he requests, and Stiles moves to stand next to him. "Pick out anything you want, okay? Anything at all—hell, you can have everything in here if you want it, but let's not get ambitious."
Stiles seems to be trying to find the trap in the words. Derek forces himself to wait patiently until Stiles reaches a cautious hand out to grab the peanut butter. He looks to Derek apprehensively.
"Perfect," Derek says forcing a smile. "Protein's good for you. It'll fill you up. Take it, and go sit on the couch. I'll be there in a second."
"Yes, Derek."
Derek grabs a pack of crackers, a spoon, a glass, and the half gallon of milk still sitting on the counter. Stiles looks up questioningly as Derek enters the den.
"Here's the deal," Derek says. "You can have or cook anything in the kitchen, like I said, but if you're not sure or that makes you uncomfortable or whatever, you can stick to the peanut butter. You can eat it straight out of the jar—the whole damn thing if you want and it doesn't make you sick. Here's crackers. Here's milk to wash it down. You can have it all, okay? Eat as much as you want."
"Thank you, Derek," Stiles says, eyes wide. "I—I—thank you."
The unwarranted amount of gratitude confirms yet again just how little care has been given to Stiles in his time with the alphas. It only intensifies Derek's need to get the fuck out of here and do something to fix this.
"You're more than welcome," Derek replies, "and I mean it about the kitchen. If you get tired of the peanut butter, you can have anything in there."
"Thank you, Derek."
"I'll be back later, okay?"
"Yes, Derek."
"If you need anything, wake Peter. He won't be mad."
Well he's not a morning person, but he won't be legitimately mad. You won't have the gumption to wake him anyway. It'll be fine.
Derek hates himself for banking on Stiles timidity but excuses it because he's leaving him so that he can figure out how to make this all better.
"You'll be okay 'til I get back?"
"Yes, Derek."
He leaves hoping fervently that Deaton's got good news. The man's family's been doing this whole Adviser thing for years, so he should have some idea where to start. Maybe this won't be so bad. Maybe they'll be lucky.
Please just this once let us be lucky.
Stiles sits contentedly filling himself with peanut butter and crackers for a good fifteen minutes after Derek leaves. He doesn't know the last time he was this full, and he takes time to sit and relish it. There's a voice in the back of his mind insisting this is some sort of trick or test, but he's replayed Derek's instructions a thousand times to check. This is what Derek told him to do. Maybe this illusion of serenity will shatter later, but, for now at least, it's good.
"We have a vacuum," the Second informs him when he walks into the den to find Stiles carefully collecting the cracker crumbs he got all over the couch.
"It would've woken you, Peter."
"Probably a good call in self-preservation to avoid that," he concedes.
"Yes, Peter," Stiles says, noting the advice for future reference.
"I'm guessing Derek's gone to Deaton to try and learn how to get you back to your usual snarky, pain-in-the-ass self?"
"Derek went to Deaton's," Stiles confirms, "but I'm not going to be like that again."
"No?" Peter asks raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"No," Stiles replies firmly.
"My need for coffee is outweighing the intrigue of this conversation; walk with me," Peter instructs.
"Yes, Peter."
Stiles rises and follows Peter to the kitchen, glad for a task. As Peter opens a cabinet to get out a mug, Stiles begins to clean out the coffee pot from its use the morning before.
"Are you going to make me coffee?"
"Yes, Peter," Stiles replies. "If that's okay? You said you needed coffee. I can make coffee."
"By all means," Peter replies, stepping back from the counter. "Good to know you've got a promising career as a barista if this whole amnesiac teenage werewolf thing stops working for you."
Stiles doesn't entirely understand what that means, so he just turns his attention to the coffee as Peter takes an apple from the counter and washes it in the sink. The Second sits at the bar, watching Stiles work. Stiles is careful to measure the grounds and water perfectly under the scrutiny.
"Asking permission to make me coffee," Peter mutters. "There really isn't any of the old you left in there, is there, Stiles?"
"No."
"And you don't want it back?"
"No."
"Huh. Interesting," Peter says. "And what does Derek think about that?"
"I'm a better beta now; I hope he's glad."
"It doesn't matter to you that you don't have the memories?"
"Nothing matters but the pack," Stiles recites automatically. "My place is here, serving the pack in whatever way is required of me."
"Did they teach you that?"
Stiles nods. "I know my place. I'm a good beta."
"I can see that," Peter says nodding to the now brewing coffee pot.
Stiles smiles at the praise. "Thank you, Peter."
"So did Derek happen to mention what the hell I'm supposed to do with you while he's off learning new tricks?" Peter asks.
From the look of it, Derek's been pouring through books at Deaton's for while by the time Isaac walks in for his usual shift at the clinic.
"You look like hell, dude," Isaac comments. "Is Stiles really that bad?"
"He didn't eat for a day because I didn't offer anything, and he was too scared to ask," Derek quips back. "Yeah, he's bad."
"Holy shit," Isaac mutters, "Scott said we were fucked, but I thought maybe he was just freaking because it's his best friend, ya know? I didn't think—"
"There's nothing of Stiles left in that husk sitting in my apartment," Derek says grimly. "That's why I have to figure out how to get his memories back."
"And since you seem to be on the verge of mauling every book in sight, I'm guessing it's not going well?"
"No."
"I can see if Deaton can spare me," Isaac offers. "Help you look?"
Derek runs a hand down his face. "I don't even know what the fuck I'm looking for. Deaton says he's never come across anything about the theory of controlling memories."
"Then how do alphas learn it?"
"If I knew that, we wouldn't have this problem."
"Okay, no theory on control, but you know the general premise, right?"
"Yes."
"So how about trial and error?"
Yeah, great idea. I'll take the terrified trauma survivor who already cowers at the sight of me and start slashing the back of his neck with my claws. What could possibly go wrong with that plan?"
Isaac hesitates just a moment before offering, "So try it on me first."
"What?"
"Practice it on me."
"You're serious?"
"It's worth a shot, right? It's the only way we're getting Stiles back, and, from the sound of it, the sooner the better."
"I gave Jackson memories without even trying while I was still a fucking beta," Derek grumbles to Deaton. "Why the hell isn't anything happening now"
It's been nearly an hour, and Derek still can't even get the memories to start taking. Isaac's been patient enough, but he knows the beta must be rethinking the decision to volunteer himself as the guinea pig. Isaac doesn't complain though. He just keeps telling Derek to try again.
"You gave Jackson hallucinations," Deaton corrects, "and most of that was due to the aconite poisoning acting as a catalyst."
"So if I use wolfsbane, I could—"
"It would do nothing for your control. It would just make the memories or hallucinations more sporadic."
"It would at least make something happen. That's better than nothing."
"Don't fucking poison yourself," Isaac says irritably. "I told you. You look like shit. You're not up for it."
"I'll be fine," Derek insists.
"Shut up and try again," Isaac retorts. "You're wasting time."
"You're neck's not healed from the last two times."
"They're just scratches. They'll be fine."
They're deep damn scratches, Isaac. I know they hurt.
"Isaac—"
"Oh, my God, Derek, you've done worse. We need to fix Stiles. It's fine. Just do it!"
"Fine!"
He lashes out, claw going deep before he pulls away. Isaac's face contorts in pain before he pitches forward, clutching his head with a cry of pain.
"Isaac!"
Derek catches him before he falls and helps him to the floor.
"Isaac, what happened, what—"
"It worked," Isaac replies, smiling through the mask of pain. "It hurts like a bitch, but it worked."
"What?"
"It was a memory from when you were a kid. I don't think it's what you meant to give me, but it was definitely something. Give me a minute, and we'll go again."
"You shouldn't strain yourselves," Deaton advises.
Derek doesn't give a damn about straining himself. This isn't half as stressful as trying to figure out how to take care of brainwashed Stiles. Isaac's not looking so great though, and there's black blood oozing out of the wound now.
"What the hell?" Derek asks, looking to Deaton.
Isaac lifts a hand to gingerly touch the back of his neck.
"Why is it doing that?" he asks Deaton, examining the black gunk on his fingers when he pulls them away.
"The memory isn't natural; your body's confused about what's going on and trying to stop it. It's a typical werewolf immune defense."
"It's a memory, not a poison," Derek argues.
"A memory transferred through the bloodstream," Deaton reminds him. "If the blood isn't clear enough to pass the memory, the mind can't be intruded upon again until it clears."
"How long will that take?" Isaac wants to know.
"I'm not sure, but, as I said, you two shouldn't strain yourselves."
Two steps forward, one step back. Fuck my life.
"We'll give it an hour or two?" Derek suggests. "That should give them all time to fully heal."
"Okay."
"I should check on Stiles anyway—make sure he actually eats something for lunch."
"Can I come?" Isaac asks; there's a morbid curiosity behind the request.
"Sure," Derek replies.
You have no idea what's waiting for you when you walk into that apartment. Once you see him you won't get the look in his eyes out of your head, but at least you'll understand why I'd put you through this memory shit to get him back.
"Dude, is that smell coming from your place?" Isaac asks, his mouth watering as the aroma hits him.
"I told him to cook anything he wanted to; maybe he did?" Derek says hopefully.
The smell intensifies as they walk into the apartment. The kitchen counters are covered with an insanely impressive array of food. There's a full meal of laid out: roast, potatoes, carrots, green beans, sautéed mushrooms, rolls, and a salad. There's a pie, a plate of cookies, and Stiles is pulling a cake out of the oven now.
"Holy shit," Isaac breathes. "Talk about going all out."
"Oh good," Peter says from where he's sitting on the couch with a plateful of the culinary offerings. "I was afraid I was going to have to enjoy this all by myself."
"Stiles, you cooked all this?"
"Yes, Derek."
The food had distracted Isaac from noticing Stiles, but the words draw his attention now. He doesn't even look like Stiles, not really. He's standing too still, and his head's down with his eyes on the floor. Everything about his demeanor conveys the docility that's come from his time with the alphas. Derek's right; Isaac can tell already that Scott wasn't over-reacting. This isn't Stiles.
"You told him to cook anything in the kitchen, didn't you?" Peter replies. "So he cooked."
"I can see that," Derek replies tersely.
Derek's scowling, and Isaac doesn't entirely get why. Apparently neither does Stiles because the look on his face shifts to pure terror in no time and he drops to his knees in front of the stove.
"Derek, I must've misunderstood. I'm sorry, Derek, I—"
"I'm not pissed at you, Stiles," Derek says, clearly trying to keep the anger out of his words but failing miserably. "Please stand up."
"Yes, Derek," Stiles replies, scrambling to obey.
"You told him to cook; he cooked," Peter says as Derek storms over to stand in from of him. "What's the problem?"
"These are your favorite things, Peter."
"Is it my fault the kid has good taste?"
"Peter—"
"To be fair here, those cookies are entirely for you. You know I hate walnuts."
"What the hell is wrong with you? You spent the morning making him cook for you?"
"He needed something to do; it was a win-win."
Derek's anger couldn't be more clearly directed at Peter, but Stiles still looks petrified. Isaac can tell from across the room that he's shaking.
"Stiles, it's okay," Isaac assures him as Peter and Derek's conversation in the living room escalates to a shouting match about whether or not Peter's taking advantage. Isaac moves cautiously toward Stiles, but Stiles' attention is too focused on Derek and Peter's argument to notice Isaac's approach.
"The Second told me to cook it," Stiles says in a hushed whisper. "I thought I was supposed to."
"Derek's not mad."
"Yes, he is."
"Not at you. He's pissed at Peter for making you cook."
"I don't—I don't understand. Derek said I could cook anything in the kitchen. Peter said he was hungry, so I made what he told me to." He looks to Isaac in confusion. "What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing," Isaac insists. "It's really okay."
"It can't be okay. Don't you hear them?" Stiles moans, covering his ears with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut.
The words come out so hopeless and broken that Isaac's pulling Stiles into a hug before he really even thinks about it. What the fuck did the alphas do to you, Stiles?
"I swear it's fine. It'll be okay. They'll chill out in a minute."
He realizes that Stiles has stilled completely under his touch, and is about to release him when Stiles relaxes just the slightest bit, hiding his face in Isaac's shoulder.
"Then what happens?" Stiles asks mournfully, voice muffled into Isaac's shirt.
"They're not going to hurt you," Isaac promises, knowing Stiles doesn't believe him. "I swear they're not, Stiles."
He realizes then that Peter and Derek have stopped and are staring into the kitchen. Derek looks guilty as hell; Peter looks as close to remorseful as he ever gets.
"He's right, Stiles," Derek says earnestly. "No one's going to hurt you."
"Thank you, Derek."
Derek takes a step to come closer, and Stiles jolts back from Isaac to cower against the counters. Isaac turns to face Derek, keeping himself in front of Stiles.
"Give him a sec, dude. You scared the shit out of him," Isaac says exasperatedly.
"Stiles, I wasn't trying to scare you."
"Bang up job, there," Peter comments with a roll of his eyes.
"Not helping," Derek quips back.
"Neither of you are helping," Isaac points out.
"Don't," Stiles pleads quietly behind him.
"They're not going to hurt me either," Isaac promises, turning back to face Stiles. "Look, I know how scared you are." Okay I don't have any idea, I just have an inkling, but that's too long a story to tell right now. "I was the same way before Derek turned me. I was scared all the time, and it's terrible. I know it is, but it's not like that in Derek's pack. It's better. You don't have to be scared anymore."
Stiles doesn't believe him; of course, this Stiles has never lived any kind of life when fear wasn't constant so Isaac can't blame him for letting an existence of experience outweigh the words of a stranger.
"He's right," Derek agrees. "It's different here, Stiles, and I'm sorry I haven't explained it better before now. I just—"
Suck at non-aggressive communication? Isaac wants to finish for him.
"I just—I dunno—let's eat, okay?" Derek asks, clearly just grasping for something to do to break the unease that's radiating through the room. "You cooked all of this, and it looks amazing and you haven't had any. We'll eat, and we'll talk, and you can see it's different with us. Okay?"
"Yes, Alpha," Stiles agrees automatically.
And then we're going to keep working on the memory transfer because there is you can't keep living like this; getting your memories back is the only hope of getting you back, and, looking at you now, I'm not even sure that's going to be enough.
Scott was right; we're so fucked.
Hope you all like this new story!
Stay a sourwolf ~AlphaHook