Summary: Stiles wakes up and everything looks really familiar. Now if he could only remember how he got here.
There's beeping sounds, penetrating the haze in his head like annoying bugs; making him frown.
"Stiles?"
The anxious tone in the voice - his father's voice, he realizes - prompts him to try and turn his head in its direction, to try and turn over.
"Ow! Shi..."
Two hands gently hold him down by the shoulders, forcing him to stay still.
"Don't move, son. You've got one hell of a concussion, on top of everything else."
Concussion. Right. Maybe that's why he doesn't remember anything. Like, how come he ended up in hospital. Again! Sighing, he relaxes back against the cushion, letting his body go limp. Apparently they've been giving him the good drugs, if the ease with which he goes boneless is any indication. He manages to open one, then the other eye and peeks at his father from between his lashes. Hospital lights, always so bright!
"Hey Dad."
"Hey kid."
The sheriff moves to sit on the edge of the bed, so Stiles won't have to move his head to look at him. The bed dips slightly, causing a wave of pain as Stiles' body is slightly tilted off center. He hisses.
"Shit, sorry. I'll..."
Stiles utters a grunt.
"No, stay. It's, it's OK. It passed already."
His father not being a werewolf means he doesn't hear the slight stutter of Stiles' heart which accompanies the lie. The pain is still there, just beneath the surface of sedation resulting from the drugs. It's in his head, and chest, and hands, but really mostly in his head. But why?
"So, me. Hospital. Again, I might add." He licks his lips, watches a frown appear on his father's face. "Sorry about that, by the way. But I, ehm, I don't ..."
He feebly waves a hand and sees an undefinable emotion cross over his father's face. It's gone too quickly for Stiles to either really catch or decipher it. His head hurts too much anyway to try and think things out; his dad will just have to explain things.
"The doctor said memory loss was a possibility, seeing the extend of your head trauma." The sheriff smiles gently. "You are very lucky, you know? Not many people walk away from being sho... from receiving a bullet to the head."
What?
"What?"
His father places a large, comforting hand on one of Stiles' knees.
"You were shot, Stiles."
He points to his own head, sweeping a finger from his temple to behind his ear.
"The bullet basically grazed you, but it still took out a good chunk. The impact also resulted in a concussion."
For a moment, his father's eyes darken with emotion - Stiles thinks it may be anger - and his lips draw together to form a thin line. The sheriff seems lost in thought for a moment, then shakes his head as if to clear his mind before continuing.
"We, ehm, we got a call about shots fired in a warehouse. When we got there, we found you. Unconscious. Bleeding."
Stiles just stares at his father. Shot? In a warehouse? But...
"Why was I in a warehouse, Dad? Was I alone? Was Scott there? How..."
The sheriff puts up a hand, stopping his increasingly agitated son.
"I don't know, Stiles. All I know is that we found you before ... well, before it was too late."
It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. The problem is, Stiles not being able to remember means he can't even try to make sense of it all, because he doesn't have any details. And neither does his father, it seems.
What the hell is going on?!