Strange Terrain

Chapter 4 – Strangers

"You can't let one bad moment spoil a bunch of good ones." – Dale Earnhardt

In the few hours that it had taken for Malia to explain to her parents that she had, in fact, decided to stay in Beacon Hills with Stiles – they hadn't believed that she'd come up with the idea on her own, constantly accusing him of foul play – Erica, it seemed, had had a change of heart about her childhood friend.

He suspected that maybe the alcohol that flowed through her veins had been a big part in that change, but sometime between when Stiles had called her to fill her in (and get her to go home) and the drive back to his apartment, she had organized a party. Of course, she had waited until the last minute to text him, when he couldn't check his phone since he was kind of occupied with getting Malia home safe, letting him know that it was 'just a small thing' and 'not to freak out.'

His throat was dry and his palms sweaty, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone as he tried not to make a scene. Malia had already opened the passenger side door, but stopped when she saw him still sitting there.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, her eyebrows pulling together.

"What? No!" He said too quickly, before swallowing and squeezing his eyes shut. "Actually, yes. Don't hate me – seriously, it wasn't even my idea –"

"Just spit it out."

"Our – Erica decided to throw you a welcome home party," Stiles explained slowly. "She says it's just a small thing, a bunch of our closest friends, but I don't know… when she puts her mind to something…" He rolled his eyes, but when he looked over at her, he could tell that she really didn't know what he was talking about. It was strange, since she had known Erica longer than she had known him, but maybe it was just another side effect of her injury. "Nevermind."

Malia processed what he'd said for a minute, before shrugging. "I can handle it."

"Malia –"

"Come on. We'd better not keep everyone waiting," she insisted, finally climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind her before he could get a word in.

Before he could warn her that this was probably a very, very bad idea.

"I can't believe you," Stiles muttered as he passed Erica on his way back from the bathroom.

The party was not, in fact, just a gathering of their closest friends. There were about a dozen people from various parts of their life – he'd seen his co-workers from Howlin', a woman who had been a waitress with Malia during her first year in Beacon Hills, their next door neighbor (who had invited himself), and a handful of people that he only sort of recognized – milling about, eating his food, drinking his beer. But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was that he could see that it was slowly taking its toll on Malia.

She had been doing fine for the first hour or so, greeting people politely, being totally blunt about not remembering who they were, answering questions, moving on. He had tried to give her some space, mostly hovering around Erica and his friends from work, eying Greenberg (The Guy Next Door) to make sure he didn't steal anything.

But even for him, it was all becoming a bit much.

She had only just left the hospital a few hours ago, after all.

"What? It's not that bad," Erica insisted. "And besides, it looks like Malia's having fun. She hasn't come over to talk to me yet, but hey, she's having fun." She shrugged like she didn't care. Stiles knew she did.

"That's because she doesn't remember you."

"Whatever," she replied, waving her hand dismissively and taking another swig of beer.

Stiles rolled his eyes, and was about to open his mouth to retort when all of a sudden something smashed to the floor and Malia was yelling.

"Enough!" She was saying, the heels of her hands pressed to her temples like if she moved them her head would explode from all of the pressure. There were three people standing in front of her, their eyes wide like everyone else's. The seemed taken aback. "Just stop trying to force me to understand or to remember because I can't. I can't, okay? So stop trying."

"Hold on –"

"Don't touch me!" Malia snapped, backing away from the person.

Instinctively, Stiles moved towards her, put his arm around her and steered her away from the people that she had just been berating. "Alright, everyone, party's over." He glanced at Erica. "You too. Out."

Erica shook her head, but she followed the rest of the party goers out of the apartment and shut the door behind her.

A few hours later, Malia is showered and getting re-settled in their bedroom while Stiles makes up a bed on the couch. It still feels strange, even though it had been his suggestion in the first place in order to accommodate her state of mind, and he finds himself wondering if things will ever get back to the way they were.

When he finished brushing his teeth, flicking off the light, he heard her talking to someone on the phone in the room. Curious (or just nosey), he paused, listening.

"…I don't know why, Alana. None of this makes any sense," she was saying. "One day I'm engaged to one guy and the next I'm waking up from a coma to another guy telling me I'm married…"

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, not fully understanding for a second. If she had been engaged before she had come to Beacon Hills, why wouldn't she have told him that? Past relationships were supposed to be shared with your current one. It was like an unspoken rule.

"There's something you're not telling me… What do you mean, mom's calling you? Alana, I swear to – Alana!" Malia groaned and there was a thud, like she'd tossed her phone onto the bed out of frustration. Stiles was still reeling from the fact that she had been engaged before, still stuck on the fact that this was the second piece of information that had been kept from him for almost four years.

He wondered what else she hadn't told him about.

Slowly, he forced himself to move from the spot he'd been standing in for almost a full five minutes and go back to the living room. He laid down and stared up at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, his mind reeling.

He didn't sleep at all.