Archive of Our Own

Ghost of You

It’s a rainy spring evening, and Derek is tucked up in a cozy blanket, a mug of hot chocolate cradled in one hand, a book in the other, reading. Every now and again, he glances up at the clock or the window, searching for headlights on the road cutting through the Preserve, because the rain can mess with his hearing, and he’s expecting company.

Apparently Scott’s pack has come across something strange – some missing persons case where the missing persons don’t seem to have existed at all, except they left behind a terrorized son who swears his parents were real.

It all itches at the back of Derek’s mind a little, like it should be ringing a bell. Like a memory of a memory, or a dream of a dream he once had but can’t recall.

Either way, Derek is pretty confident they’ll deal with whatever this new threat is together, probably just as quickly as they dealt with the ridiculous Dread Doctors and their twisted chimera pack. The Beast had been worrying, but Derek is coming to think that maybe, just maybe, his pack and Scott’s pack teaming up as they have been could overcome any obstacle.

It’s a nice thought, bringing with it a sense of confidence and security that Derek hasn’t felt since his mother was alpha and he was surrounded by his strong, capable family.

He checks the clock again and frowns. It’s getting late, and not even a text. Stiles is usually late, but he’s usually self-aware enough to send a quick text so no one starts to worry.

He goes back to his book, reads a page or two, and glances up at the clock again. Minutes slip by. He checks the time again, and then the window, and then the book. Again, a few minutes later. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a flash of lightning, and the clock keeps ticking. And then, a few minutes after that, he just… doesn’t look again.

He reads until the rain begins to slow, until Erica texts that she and Boyd are on their way home from the Jungle, and then sets the book aside when they arrive.

“How was your night?” Erica asks, shaking the rain out of her hair. She smells of sweat, ozone, and cherry liquor, and Boyd’s mouth is smeared with her lipstick. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Uneventful,” Derek says with half a smile. “Just the way I like it.”

She laughs. “You need to get out more,” she says, tugging Boyd up the stairs. She grins wickedly over her shoulder. “Wear those headphones we got you tonight,” she tells him.

He winces, rolls his eyes, waves them up the stairs, and then turns out the light, leaving the book on the table. Making his way to the stairs, Derek hesitates at the window, looking out into the dark night, towards where the road cuts its way through the forest, almost as if he’s searching for something… someone…

A memory of a memory, maybe.

It itches in the back of his mind, for only a moment, and then it fades as if it was never there at all.

He goes to bed, wearing his noise cancelling headphones, listening to Radiohead.

*

The next morning, Derek is up before the sun, dressed in loose sweats and shirtless, running his regular route through the Preserve. It traces the boundary of the Hale land, from the creek on the western border, north to Satomi’s territory, and then east along the side of the road, before looping back to the house.

He’s jogging just inside the treeline alongside the road when the rising sun catches on something that shouldn’t be there.

Derek pauses, breathing deeply, frowning at the strong scent of oil, gas, metal and curly fries.

He leaves the shelter of the treeline and steps out onto the road.

There’s a vehicle there, on the other side of the pavement, where it seems to have spun out, plunged into the ditch, and smashed into the trunk of a tree. The driver’s side door has been wrenched right off the vehicle and lays tossed aside, and Derek can smell faint traces of blood, but nothing he recognizes.

It’s a blue jeep, and if he knew anyone who drove one of those, he’d definitely remember it.

He approaches the vehicle, peers inside, but there’s no one there, no hint of who the driver was, if they’re okay. He can’t hear or smell anybody nearby, and judging by the rain puddled inside the jeep, the dried blood, the cooled engine, the accident had to have happened sometime in the night.

He thinks about calling it in to the authorities, but he’s got to run into town anyway, and from the looks of it, the driver is probably already safe at home, dealing with this on their own.

Either way, Derek’ll swing by the sheriff’s station, just to make sure.

*

Erica and Boyd catch a ride into Beacon Hills with him, because apparently Scott’s pack has invited all of them to a meditation session at Scott’s place to get ready for the next full moon. It’s Scott’s latest effort to teach his newest beta a little bit of control, and Derek’s skeptical about it, but willing to give him a shot. Besides, no matter how it works out, Derek has every intention of teaching Liam to control his ridiculous temper and use it to his advantage in their next training sessions.

He’s pretty sure Erica only goes because Boyd enjoys it.

Derek hops out of the car at Scott’s place and walks inside with them, because there’s something he meant to discuss with Scott, though he can’t quite recall what it might be.

Scott waves when he sees him, comes over and says, “Hey, what’s up? Thought you couldn’t join us this time?”

And the thing is, usually Derek would. Today, though, he can’t quite find a good enough reason to rearrange the rest of his Saturday plans.

“Can’t, sorry,” he says. Erica and Boyd are rolling out their yoga mats, bickering with Jackson and Lydia in a friendly, competitive sort of way. “Argent and I are going over some research he dug up about pack alliances and shared territory for our meeting with Satomi next week. You’re still available for that?”

“Dude, of course! Send me the intel when you get a chance, I’ll be ready. Don’t worry, we won’t fuck this up.” Scott beams at him.

Derek nods and turns to go, but he hesitates, scanning the room. Liam looks pale, determined. All his little friends are rallied around him, supportive and forcefully optimistic (Derek still doesn’t know their names, but he’ll put the effort in once they prove they’re actually valuable to Scott’s pack). Isaac waves and grins from the mat he’s sharing with Allison, Kira smiles self-consciously from the pile of pillows she’s claimed as her own. Malia is glaring fiercely out the window.

“Let me know if you need any help with this,” Derek says, jerking his chin at Liam. “Control can be tough, but—”

Scott grabs his wrist, tugs him out of the house and says, low enough that only an alpha would hear, “It’s not Liam who’s the problem, actually. Well. Not the biggest problem.”

Derek frowns. If Liam and his explosive temper aren’t the biggest threat, than what—

“It’s Malia,” Scott says, eyes wide. “Something’s wrong and I don’t know how to fix it, and she won’t tell me what it is. Or maybe she can’t. She’s on edge, she’s barely in control. I’m worried about the full moon.”

Still frowning, Derek says, “Do the meditation thing. Try to talk to her. We’ve got a few days before the moon. If you’re still worried, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”

Scott nods. “We’re still on for tonight?”

“Of course.”

He grins. “Good. My mom made so many Rice Krispie squares, it’s ridiculous.”

*

“A blue jeep?” Sheriff Stilinski frowns. “I haven’t heard any accident reports. I’ll call the hospital, check for any injuries that may have come from it, and have someone pick it up. We’ll find the owners, don’t worry. Thanks for letting me know, son.”

He claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder and adds, “And make sure you stop by for dinner next week. Chris is coming over for poker. Bring your sister.”

Derek rolls his eyes but can’t help his pleased flush because he’s worked hard for this – to belong somewhere, to be part of a community, to turn this place into a home where he has a working relationship with local law enforcement, like his mother did. Where he has a pack, and alliances, and confidence in his ability to keep his loved ones safe. Where he was on even footing with the local hunters, who respected him and trusted him the way he had learned to trust them.

It feels good.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t quite recall when his working relationship with Sheriff Stilinski started feeling more like a family thing.

Derek shrugs the feeling off, slipping his sunglasses back on as he steps out into the sunlight, and as he makes his way to his Camaro, he forgets all about the blue jeep and its mystery.

*

That night, after a day of mixed results on the meditation front, he, Cora, Erica and Boyd host Scott’s pack at a backyard bonfire at the restored Hale House. Danny comes along and hooks up his projector, lighting up the side of the house with his computer desktop before opening a file of movies.

Everyone else is clustered around the fire, lawn chairs set up in pairs and groups of three, blankets spread over their shoulders like they still feel the cold the way a human does. Maybe Lydia can; Derek isn’t all that familiar with banshees.

She cuddles close to Jackson all the same, head on his shoulder, while Boyd and Erica are already making out in the firelight. Scott and Kira are whispering to each other, Liam and Hayden are giggling about something Derek doesn’t care enough to investigate, Allison and Isaac are pretending they didn’t sit close to each other on purpose, and there are three chairs sitting empty in the back.

Derek makes his way over there automatically, taking a chair on the end, dropping the plate of Rice Krispie squares on the chair beside him, and a few minutes later, Malia curls up in the last chair. She’s wrapped up in a hoodie two sizes too big, hands hidden in the sleeves, chewing anxiously on the hood string. Her eyes flash blue in the firelight.

“What are we watching?” Allison asks.

Danny glances over his shoulder. “American Werewolf in Paris,” he says. “It’s all queued up, we decided last time.”

“Are you serious?” Jackson sneers. “Who the fuck would pick that? It has to be a joke. I veto.”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, ever the peace maker. “Maybe someone really wanted to watch it?”

No one pipes up to defend the movie choice and Danny shrugs, closing the file. An argument erupts on whose turn it was to pick, who was going to pick, and what they should watch, and Derek turns to Malia.

“You okay?” he asks.

She shrugs, restless. “Full moon coming up,” she says. “Tougher than usual, that’s all.”

“You can spend it here, if you’re worried,” he offers.

“Don’t worry.” She flashes a quick grin. “I’ve got somewhere to go. Shackles, too. I just… don’t think I can get them on by myself.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Just come out here. I’ll keep you under control, and if I can’t, I’ll keep you out of trouble.”

She hesitates. “Scott…”

“Is welcome, as is the rest of your pack. Any time.”

She still looks unsure, but the movie starts up, and she makes a big show at being fascinated by the opening scenes of The Notebook.

Derek turns back to the movie, picking at a Rice Krispie square, but setting it down after one bite. He hates them – too sugary. He can’t think of why he brought an entire plate back here, since Malia seems disinclined to eat them either.

At the end of the night, the Rice Krispie squares sit on a small table by the fire, basically untouched.

*

The full moon is rough but Derek manages to stay in control, and to keep Malia from heading towards town with her unchecked rage. The other wolves are twitchy and anxious, except for Scott, who can’t seem to keep his betas in line. He had been doing much better with it lately, but something’s off, and Derek can’t pinpoint what it is.

Either way, the betas limp home the next morning, bruised and bloody with slow healing wounds, and it takes a day or two for the packs to recover.

And then he and Scott head over to Satomi’s territory, armed with all the historic precedence Argent could dig up on packs sharing territory the way theirs do.

She’s worried it’s a sign of weakness – they are prepared to convince her it’s a strength instead.

The thing is, Packs don’t really co-operate and share territory the way Derek’s and Scott’s have been. That, combined with the fact that both Packs are young – though Derek’s has the Hale name behind it, and Scott’s got his True Alpha status – makes their situation particularly intriguing for Packs looking for easy territory. It’s also drawn the attention of nearby Packs, like Satomi’s, who want reassurance that Scott and Derek don’t pose a threat to them, and possibly even want to ally themselves with Scott and Derek, provided they can prove that their partnership makes them stronger, not weaker.

Since ditching the psychotic parts of his family, Chris Argent has become an important part of their alliance as well. Recognizing the fact that Scott and Derek’s partnership helps stabilize the entire region and keep supernatural crises to a minimum, he’s been helping out by keeping the Hunters off their backs, advocating for them where they can, and providing much-needed research for meetings like the one he and Scott have today.

Satomi listens patiently while Derek and Scott explain the logistics of how their Packs function together, how they ensure each alpha and each Pack maintains their own autonomy, how their strengths and weaknesses play into each other, and she looks stern, not betraying her reaction.

Finally out of reasons to convince her to ally with them rather than against them, Derek falls silent, shooting Scott a quick look, and wondering why this is so hard – why diplomacy feels so unfamiliar on his shoulders. Scott seems similarly out of his comfort zone.

“Why not become one Pack, if you work so well together?” she asks, after a long, pointed pause, her eyebrow raised. “It goes against the natural order of things – against the wolf instinct.”

Scott shifts awkwardly and then shrugs. “Well. When I became an alpha, it wasn’t exactly… through the traditional methods, as I’m sure you know. I haven’t killed for power, and I won’t. Especially not a friend.”

“And with all due respect, Satomi,” Derek adds, quiet. “My parents believed in learning absolute control, and so do I. My wolf instinct does not control every decision and reaction I have.” He smiles wryly. “Besides, I think the wolf prefers peace over crisis. And by partnering with Scott, we have plenty of peace.”

Scott smiles brightly at him, touched, and Satomi continues her stoic expression for another moment before smiling a little “I have always maintained a trusted relationship with the Hale Pack,” she says, looking fond. “You would have to do something more scandalous than this to change that.”

Derek nods in gratitude.

She fixes her eyes on Scott and adds, “Your story, Mr. McCall, intrigues me. I have heard all about how you became the True Alpha, but tell me. How is it you became a wolf at all?”

Scott opens his mouth to reply, and then he hesitates for a long moment. He shoots a quick look at Derek, looking far too uncertain for the question.

“It was Peter,” Derek says.

“Ahh,” Satomi nods. “Perhaps that helps. A family connection – being Pack brothers, and now alpha brothers.”

“Oh, no,” Scott tells her. “We were never Pack brothers, and I’ve seen what Alpha brothers can do, what too many alphas in one Pack can do. It’s why we make sure we maintain our specific roles and boundaries, our autonomy.”

She hums for a moment and then says, “We will, of course, stay aligned with all the Packs of Beacon Hills, unless given a reason to stray from that. We will stand for you – that should help any other Packs looking for territory to find it elsewhere.”

“Thank you,” Derek says.

On the way back, Scott’s quiet for most of the drive. As they make it back to Beacon Hills, he says, “I just can’t remember… what the fuck was I doing out in the woods by myself, Derek? The night I was bitten?”

And Derek can’t remember either. It unsettles him, intensifying the strange feeling that ground under his feet isn’t quite as strong a foundation as it looks.

*

“Does something… seem off to you?” Derek asks Cora, on their way home after dinner with Sheriff Stilinski and Chris Argent.

Cora looks at him, frowning. “No? Off how?”

Derek tries to find the words for it, to describe how off balance the night had been. The conversations around the table had lagged uncomfortably, and Derek wasn’t good at small talk, he knew that. He also knew that Cora wouldn’t bother to try to hold up her end of the conversation unless the topic actually interested her.

But there had been odd missed beats in the conversation, silences that Derek kept expecting to be filled.

But something, somewhere, was wrong, and Derek didn’t know how to describe it.

“It’s like when Laura died,” he says finally. “It took so long, just to learn to function again. To learn to be me without her. I kept thinking I’d see her or she’d call and then being stupidly surprised when she didn’t, and I keep feeling the same surprise now, but…”

“Phantom pain,” she says, nodding slowly. “Kind of like that?”

It was as good a word for it as any.

*

Erica’s leaning against the kitchen counter, cradling a bowl of Lucky Charms, when Derek gets back from his run. It’s early, just past dawn, and she looks sleepy and mussed, in pajamas that are too big for her, bare toes peeking out from where the hems pool on the floor.

Derek grunts hello as he opens the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice, chugging it straight, not bothering with a glass.

Erica snorts. “That’s barbaric,” she tells him.

Derek bares his teeth lazily while screwing the lid back on. “Where’s Boyd?”

Officially, Erica still lives at home. Unofficially, she spends more time in the rebuilt Hale house than she does at her own place, and her mom doesn’t seem to mind – probably because Erica claims she spends most of her time with Kira, and Kira is amazing at making good impressions on parents.

She shrugs. “Out with Isaac.”

Derek looks at her, eyes narrowing. “Usually you go with them,” he says pointedly.

“Mmhmm. Today I wanted to talk to you,” she says, dropping her empty bowl in the sink. She levers herself up to sit on the counter, and Derek leans in the doorway, keeping his escape options open. He’s never sure whether Erica’s going to come at him with an awkward personal problem, traumatic questions about werewolves and their sexual anatomy, or thinly veiled threats when she feels like he’s being an asshole.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, arms crossing defensively across his chest.

She jerks her chin at him, swings her legs so her heels drum against the cupboard, and says, “I’ve got so, so many problems, Derek, but today, my biggest one is you.”

Ah. So it’s the thinly veiled threats. He lifts an eyebrow and doesn’t bother asking for clarification, because Erica will give it whether he wants it or not.

She studies him for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then says, “Remember before, when you weren’t so well-adjusted and borderline functioning on an adult level, when you were a new alpha with anger management issues who decided to bite and recruit a bunch of similarly maladjusted teenagers to be in your leather-wearing gang of werewolf badasses?”

Derek shifts, uncomfortable. “You didn’t complain, when I offered you the Bite.”

She shrugs easily. “Not complaining now, either. I’m just saying – you were an asshole then. I mean, I liked it. I aspired to emulate it. But you sort of overcame it, got control of your rage issues, and became… a better person? Definitely a better alpha.”

“Okay,” Derek says. Anger had been his anchor then, sure. But it hasn’t been, not for a long while. “So what’s the problem?”

Her feet stop swinging and she ducks her head, shrugging again. “You’re kind of reverting back to that. The anger thing. I mean, it took Malia three days to heal after the last full moon, and the rest of us didn’t get off easy either.”

“Malia was out of control. I had to—”

“That’s just it,” she says, looking at him again. “I thought by now you’d learned ways to help us stay in control that didn’t involve violence and pain.”

Derek scowls. “That’s overstating it a bit.”

“It’s not just that. You’ve been impatient with Liam, snappy at Scott. You lose your temper over stupid shit, like towels on the bathroom floor. I mean, Derek, c’mon. I ate the last of your mint chocolate chip ice cream because I didn’t know you were saving it, and I sent Boyd to get more once I knew how pissed you were, and you still pulled out the red eyes and alpha voice to tell me how much I’d pissed you off. A bit of an overreaction, right?”

“I—“

She talks right over him. “And I don’t care. Like, I can handle it. Freak out at me all you want, I’m good. I can hold my own. But, Derek. You’re scaring Isaac.” Her eyes are wide now, imploring, and then she looks away quickly, almost like she doesn’t want to care that much.

Derek takes a deep breath. Has he really been that bad? He’s felt on edge lately, sure. Quick tempered, maybe. But scaring Isaac? Worrying the Pack?

He closes his eyes. “I’ll talk to him,” he promises.

“And?”

“And have more self-control,” he snaps.

She smiles, sliding off the counter. “Good. Like I said, I don’t care if you revert to ragey, anger-is-my-anchor Alpha Hale, he had some appeal. But it’s just… I’d kinda gotten used to you being sorta happy?”

“I’m not… unhappy,” he says, and she just rolls her eyes and walks out the door.

The problem is, now that she’s drawn his attention to it, he can’t quite remember when anger stopped being his anchor, or what it had been replaced with.

*

When Isaac’s number pops up on Derek’s phone late that night, for a moment, he thinks that Erica talked to him too. He and Isaac had come a long way towards repairing their fractured relationship since Derek fucked up and threw him out when the alpha pack was in town, and for the most part, they’re good. Isaac is a member of Scott’s pack and Derek is okay with that, they get along at interpack gatherings, they trust each other. But Isaac doesn’t call unless someone is dead or dying.

Derek answers quickly, just in case. “Isaac?”

“Dude, no. It’s Scott.”

Derek checks the phone again, but it still reads ISAAC. “Okay,” he says.

“Couldn’t find your number. Listen. Are you busy? I think something weird is going on, but I’m not sure what it is, if something actually happened or it was some weird chimera thing, or a drug thing, or something in the water, maybe? I don’t know. But—”

The thing is, there have been strange things happening, Derek knows it. It’s strange, abrasive little things, like pebbles in his shoe – like losing his anchor, like Malia losing hers, like forgetting how Scott was bitten. Like Scott somehow not having his phone number.

None of that, though, should lead to the confused panic in Scott’s tone.

“Can you come? Corey’s freaking out, so Mason’s freaking out, and that’s making Liam freak out, and nothing good happens when Liam freaks out. It’s pissing Malia off.”

Basically, if Derek doesn’t get over there, Scott’s about to lose control of his entire pack.

“I’ll be right there,” he says.

*

Most of Scott’s pack is gathered in his living room, and someone has hopefully put a massive pile of Rice Krispie squares on the coffee table, but no one is eating them.

Scott looks relieved when he leads Derek into the living room. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “It might be nothing –”

“It wasn’t nothing!” Mason argues.

“Just… let’s just figure this out, okay?” Scott says, soothing. He shoots Derek a quick look. “Malia left – Jackson took her for a run in the Preserve to burn off some, uh. Aggression.”

Liam’s still there, pacing a little, clearly reacting badly to Mason’s panic. And Corey, as usual, looks pale, anxious, and small.

“What happened?” Derek asks, because everyone seems to be looking at him for answers, and he’s not a damned mind reader.

Everyone looks at Corey instead, and he sinks back against the couch. Mason nudges him. “It’s okay,” he says. He turns to Derek. “We were at school, late, working on some physics, and Coach Finstock kicked us out, but I forgot my phone, so I ran back in, so I didn’t really see it, at first, and—”

“See what?” Derek snaps, before closing his eyes, taking a breath, and forcing himself to calm down. He’s glad Erica’s not here to see him this close to losing his temper, and wonders how long this has been going on without him really noticing.

“Cowboys,” Corey says shakily. “Weird cowboys with twisted faces, and – and horses. In the school.”

Derek stares at him. Scott delicately clears his throat. “So that’s why I was thinking drugs,” he says.

Mason shakes his head. “But I saw it too!”

“Mason went to get his phone, and while I was waiting, the clock acted weird – started going backwards,” Corey says, hesitating nervously before adding, “And then the doors flew open and I panicked and went invisible and then I could see – I could see them. But they couldn’t see me.”

“The cowboys,” Derek repeats, just to be sure.

Corey nods miserably. “I texted Mason, freaking out, to get out of the school, and then I followed the cowboys to the library. Someone was studying, and they – they had whips, and they attacked him. The whip wrapped all around his neck and they lifted him up, pulling and pulling and I didn’t know what to do, it was all so fast. And then Mason was there… So I grabbed him and pulled him into invisibility too. And he could see them.”

Mason nods quickly. “I could see the guy in the air, before. But not why. And when Corey touched me, I could see the cowboys. There were four of them. They were…” He shudders. “Like mummified cowboys. And then the boy disappeared and they walked away.”

“Mummified cowboys stole someone from the library,” Derek says, shooting Scott a quick look. “Who did they take?”

“That’s – I don’t know,” Mason admits. “I can’t remember what he looked like. What he was wearing. It’s like a cloud – like, I remember there was someone there, but I don’t know who. But he must have been a student. Right?”

“We’re dealing with mummified cowboys. It could be anybody.”

“Or drugs,” Scott adds hopefully.

Derek kind of hopes it’s drugs.

*

It’s not drugs.

“They’re called the Wild Hunt,” Chris says, looking grimmer than Derek can remember having seen him. “And if they’re in Beacon Hills, we have a big problem.”

“Okay,” Sheriff Stilinski says, frowning. “What’s the problem and how do we deal with it?”

He, Derek and Chris are gathered at Chris’ place, the way they always are when a new supernatural threat comes along that might involve the hunters, the wolves, or the local human populations. Sometimes, they just gather for a friendly game of poker and a few beer. Derek likes those times better.

“Not much is known about them,” Chris explains. “They don’t like to leave witnesses behind. But legend has it they’re supernatural hunters – immortal, probably fae.”

“And what do they hunt?” the sheriff asks.

“Souls.” Chris takes a sip of his beer and then adds, “When they ride into a town, within a matter of weeks, that town is abandoned – no one left.”

Looking spooked, the sheriff says, “They kill everyone? Why haven’t we heard about this? Abandoned towns, mass murder…”

“They don’t kill them,” Chris tells him. “They take them. Some say to join the Hunt. Others say just to feed it. I don’t know.”

“There haven’t been any missing persons cases,” the sheriff says. “Are you sure—”

“That’s just it,” Chris explains. “They don’t just take you… they erase you. You’re forgotten. So there’s no one to make a report.”

The sheriff sits back, frowning, and Derek takes a deep breath and says, “So we could have already lost someone, and we wouldn’t even know.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, quiet.

“Can we get them back?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

*

The interpack meeting to discuss the Wild Hunt is a mess. No one knows how to deal with the threat, how to start looking into how to deal with it, what steps to take next, or even where to look for more information. Malia and Liam are already on edge, and the hysteria, the arguing, the fear are all serving to put Malia and Liam even more on edge than they are to begin with.

When Liam starts snarling at Isaac after Isaac sneers at Mason and goes back to the drug theory, Scott loses his patience, and Derek is glad he does. It’s not Derek’s place to keep Scott’s betas in control, and he tries not to overstep when he can.

“That’s enough,” Scott snaps, getting to his feet. His eyes flash red and Isaac instantly shrinks back, but Liam glares sullenly at the floor. “You’re not helping. We need to come up with a plan.”

It’s silent for a moment or two, and Derek frowns. This shouldn’t be so hard – they’ve come up with dozens of plans for so many more dangerous situations. There never seems to be a shortage of ideas, of tactics, of places to look for more information. Now, however, everyone seems to be waiting for someone else to come up with something.

Derek finally looks at Lydia. As a banshee, technically she’s not in anybody’s Pack, but she’s usually up for helping them deal with whatever threats their facing, and she’s obviously the smartest person in the room.

“Lydia,” he says, and she frowns at him. “You’ve translated the bestiary, right? Was there anything in it…”

“No. Nothing on mummified cowboys or Wild Hunts,” she says. “But I can see what else I can find? I’ve got some books I could look through… there has to be something.”

“Okay. Okay, thanks.” Derek looks around again, and says hesitantly, “And Danny, maybe you could…”

Danny isn’t in anybody’s pack either, but he’s much closer to Scott’s.

“Dude, I can totally look online for information,” Danny reassures him. “Lydia and I can work together. It’ll be cool.”

Derek nods his thanks, and then before he can try to come up with anything else, Kira clears her throat. “I could ask my parents,” she says, flushing pink when everybody looks at her. “My dad mentioned the Wild Hunt a while ago, it’s possible they know something.”

“The sheriff is looking for missing persons reports, and Chris is checking with other Hunters,” Derek tells them. “Someone has to find something about how we find them, how we kill them, how we get people back.”

It’s Malia who asks quietly, “We’ve lost someone, haven’t we?”

Derek sits back down heavily, and so does Scott.

“There are holes in my memory,” Scott says, soft. “I can’t remember how I was bitten. I can’t remember… who was with me when I met Derek, or why my mom is so sure that one of us loves Rice Krispie squares so much that she made us three dozen and we still have most of them left. I can’t remember how I got to school before I got my bike, or who first figured out that I was a werewolf or… or who I sat with at lunch every day since I started school, and I know I didn’t sit alone.”

Lydia, Malia, Isaac, even Jackson are nodding, and Malia says, “I’ve lost my anchor and I can’t control myself. It’s not even the full moon, it’s all the time. And I can’t remember who taught me to control myself in the first place.”

“We should take notes,” Lydia says. “Of every hole we’ve found in our memories, or anything that’s wrong. Maybe we can figure out who it is, or if it’s even just one person – we could have lost dozens of people.”

“And then we’ll get them back,” Scott says, grimly determined.

So together, they talk about every strange moment, every missed beat in their lives that they’ve noticed recently, every skipped memory, and Lydia records it. And then, after they’ve talked themselves hoarse, Scott looks at Derek and says, “What about you?”

But that’s the thing – there aren’t words to explain the ways his life feels off balance, shifted, incomplete. It’s nothing specific – no specific memory, no specific thing. It’s just an overwhelming feeling of loss, of waiting for something that doesn’t come. A tension in his chest, a shortness in his temper. Nothing feels right.

But he doesn’t have the words for it, so he says, “No. Nothing.”

Erica’s eyes narrow and she looks at him closely for a moment, before saying, “What about the pool, Derek? You and I were at the pool when Jackson was still all scaly, and he knocked me out, so… what happened next? I mean, I don’t know, but I’m sure you told me, but I can’t…”

Derek glares at her for a moment, because this all feels too vulnerable, too important, to be added to Lydia’s list, and he’s not sure why. But slowly, he says, “I was paralyzed. I fell in the pool. I didn’t drown.”

“Someone must have been there,” Scott says, frowning. “But when I got there, you were alone. Weren’t you?”

“No,” Derek says quietly. “Someone held me up for over two hours, and I can’t remember…”

Lydia writes it down. Jackson glares out the window, as he always does when the kanima incident comes up.

And Allison says, soft, “And the nogitsune.”

Scott looks stricken. “How could we forget the nogitsune?”

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do,” Boyd says suddenly, impatient. “We can sit around all day poking holes in our memories, or we can do what we need to do to fix it. Lydia, Danny, do the research, see what you can find out. Liam, Mason, Corey, you three investigate the library, see if there are any clues that can help us figure this out. Erica and I will go with you, pretty much because you’re all dangers to yourselves. Yeah, whatever, Liam, you can bring your girl. She’s cool. Scott, Isaac, talk to Deaton, he’s gotta know something. Kira, talk to your parents. Derek, Cora, maybe you can consult with other Packs, see if anybody has any information on these fucking cowboys. Allison, work with your dad on the hunter angle. Malia, Jackson, you’ve both got pretty good tracking skills, and we don’t want Malia losing it, so keeping her out of town is probably best, so why don’t you search the town’s perimeter and the Preserve, look for anything out of the ordinary – any smells or trails that could lead us to them. It’s a longshot, but with the Nemeton out there, it’s possible all this will eventually link back up with that clusterfuck. Also, don’t get erased. Okay? Can we stop now? Otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

Scott’s Pack is staring, probably not used to so many words from Boyd, and Derek knows it’s more of a desire for efficiency than any particular desire to step into a lead tactician role, but Derek is grateful for it anyway. He’s feeling too off balance to be good at strategy, which was never his strongest asset, even in the best of times.

Agreeing to complete their research and keep everyone updated as soon as they find anything, the meeting breaks up, and Derek slips out before Erica can corner him to point out that werewolves can tell when people lie.

He’ll save that confrontation for later.

*

Cora dismissively tells Derek that she’s better at interpack relations than he is, and has far more contacts with other packs than he does anyway, and basically takes over their research, closing herself up in her bedroom with her phone, Skype, and enough snacks to last several days.

It leaves Derek at loose ends and he hates it.

It starts to rain, and Derek thinks about Malia and Jackson are searching for anything amiss in Beacon Hills and the Preserve, that Malia’s tracking abilities have been honed by her years spent as a coyote. She and Jackson have formed a strange kinship, probably bonding over their unconventional introductions to life as a were, and finding balance in the fact that Malia has no control over her powers, and Jackson is so traumatized by his, that he’s usually afraid to use them.

If there’s anything amiss, they’ll find it together… but it’s a large territory, and Derek is anxious enough that he knows going for a run is basically the only way to channel his energy other than losing his temper at people who probably don’t deserve it.

So he strips off his clothes, lets his wolf take over the way it wants to, and takes off into the forest, fully shifted, his human worries damped into a vague hum in the background of the wolf’s mind, which is lit up with the colours, sounds and smells of the forest.

*

When he gets back to the house, he finds Lydia sitting on the porch, hugging her knees and looking a little damp from the rain.

“You’re much fluffier like that,” she says, and Derek shakes the rain off his coat beside her in revenge.

She’s still cursing him when he ducks into the house, shifts back, dresses, and joins her on the porch.

“You smell like wet dog,” she says..

“Occupational hazard,” he tells her. Silence falls, and Derek lets it stretch out between them. Lydia wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have a reason, but he also knows she won’t bring it up until she’s ready.

Finally, she huffs, tucks a damp lock of hair behind her ear, and says, “If the Wild Hunt kills them – if they’re dead – maybe I can figure out who it was.”

“You’re a banshee,” he reminds her. “Not a medium.”

“I know,” she snaps. “But maybe I can do something. If my power is linked to death, than maybe death isn’t enough to erase them. Even if it’s just enough to – to learn who it was.”

He frowns, thinking it through, and then says, “Would that change anything?”

“Yes. Because right now, everything feels wrong – unbalanced and sideways. There are missing pieces, someone’s gone, and I don’t even know who it is I’m supposed to be missing, but they had to be important. All of us are affected – all of our lives changed, and we didn’t even notice, not really, not until Corey saw the Wild Hunt take someone else. If we lost someone that important, they deserve to be remembered. They deserve to be mourned.”

“Okay,” Derek says, relieved, at least, to have something to do other than poke at all the places in his own life that feel hollow. “Why did you come to me instead of Scott?”

She rolls her eyes. “Scott’s protective. And sometimes he lets that get in the way of doing what needs to be done.”

“Which is?”

She flexes her fingers. “You can do that claw neck thing that Scott does, can’t you? To access my mind?” he nods and she gets to her feet, dusting her skirt off. “After that doctor drilled a hole in my head, Deaton’s helped me deal with it, using medications and other things to sort of… dim the sounds, so I don’t lose my mind with all the death screaming.” She waves a hand like that’s not a horrifying thing to think about. “So if they are dead, I don’t know if I would know, because there is an artificial dampener between my banshee powers, and my conscious mind. But if you access my mind, it’s possible you can… I don’t know. Figure something out. Even if you just sort through my memories, maybe you’ll find something there – maybe there will be something left of whoever we lost.”

Skeptical, Derek says, “You’d trust me in your mind like that?”

She shrugs. “After the whole lobotomy thing, the rest doesn’t feel like quite as much of a violation.”

*

No one is home, and Derek wonders if he would wait for someone, just in case. Lydia is impatient, though, sitting sideways on Derek’s favourite recliner, tugging her blouse off.

“I don’t want to get blood on it,” she tells him, matter-of-fact, when he looks horrified. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a tank top underneath.”

“Probably,” he says, clearing his throat. “It’s going to hurt. Maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing hurts more than a hole drilled through my head, Derek.” She rolls her eyes, gathers her hair up over one shoulder, baring the back of her neck, and says, “Are we doing this, or are you just going to stand there?”

He stands there, just for a moment, feeling helpless. Scott will kill him when he finds out. Lydia may technically not belong to anyone’s Pack, but Derek knows where her loyalties lie, when it comes down to it.

But she’s like Laura was – impossible to say no to.

He grabs a soft throw off the couch and tucks it around her, like that’ll make this any more comfortable. She smirks a little but lets him hover for a moment, making sure it’s tucked carefully around her legs.

“Hey,” she tells him, voice softer around the edges now. “It’ll be okay. I trust you.”

Derek isn’t sure she should.

He does it fast, when he finally comes up behind her, not giving her enough time to get anxious, not giving himself enough time to second guess it.

And the instant his claws slip into her skin, he barely feels her arch up a bit and gasp, because the screaming is so fucking loud.

Lydia’s mind fairly echoes with it – blood-curdling shrieks ricocheting off her skull, echoing over and over again, twisting into a rush of noise that cuts through his hearing like a burning blade.

He can’t see for a moment – can’t access her memories or even find his footing, because the screams overwhelm every other sense he’s got.

He tries fighting through the pain and the screams, but every time he thinks he’s making progress, he’s overwhelmed again, lost in darkness where the screams are all he can feel. And then he just stops fighting and gives in to it, surrendering himself to it.

And after that, the screams become a wave of pain, sensation, and distorted flashes of memory.

He sees the world through Lydia’s eyes, though everything is washed out, colourless, flickering and fading beneath the tidal wave of her locked up banshee powers. He sees Scott and Allison, he sees Peter, for just a second, before he’s gone again and Derek feels Lydia shuddering. He sees her mother, he sees himself, and Erica, Boyd, Allison again. He sees Get Well Soon balloons and birthday gifts, and piles of prom dresses. He sees Jackson – more of Jackson than he ever wanted to see. And every few breaths, he sees a flash of a doorway he doesn’t recognize, a doorway standing open, empty. He keeps circling back to that, more and more details filling in around the edges, until he realizes it must be Lydia’s bedroom. And then, when it all gets too much, he sees that door again, and a shadow standing there, and Lydia says, “What the hell is a Stiles?”

And then he jerks away from her, pulling his claws from her neck and breathing heavy, his ears ringing, the room spinning dizzily.

Lydia’s eyes are dark and hazy, wide, as she holds her hand over the marks on the back of her neck. “What did you see?” she demands, but Derek needs to sit down. He needs to clear his head. He needs to breathe.

“How do you stand it?” he asks, voice cracking. “How do you stand the screaming?”

She looks haunted for a moment, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear and clearing her throat. “After a while,” she says, “I don’t even hear it anymore.”

Derek buries his face in his hands and breathes, and this time, Lydia waits quietly.

Finally, Derek lets his hands fall, looks up at her and says, “Stiles. His name was Stiles.”

Lydia frowns a little, hugging the blanket tight around her shoulder. “What the hell is a Stiles?” she asks, and all Derek can do is laugh.

*

They reconvene at the Hale house this time, Scott grimly packing his freezer bag of Rice Krispie squares and Malia eating a few, just to help the tense line of his shoulders relax.

Liam is vibrating with excitement. “We found something,” he says, words fairly bursting from him, as soon as everyone is gathered in the den.

“Corey found it,” Mason adds.

Corey looks like he wishes he were invisible. He shoots Mason an uncertain look, before swallowing. “Yeah,” he says. “In the library.”

“We didn’t see anything out of place, at first,” Liam says. “Couldn’t smell anything off, either. But then Corey went invisible, and he took Mason and I with him, and we saw something – it was sort of glowing, out of place, and—”

Mason tosses a library card on the table triumphantly. “Steward Carr,” he announces. “Junior at Beacon Hills High School.”

“I remember him,” Corey adds. “He was in my math class.”

“As soon as we found it, we started remembering!” Liam says. “Not much – I don’t think we really knew him. But I saw him in the halls. Mason partnered with him once in Home Ec. Corey’s math class.”

“Is this really relevant? How does a dead kid’s library card help us figure this out?” Jackson snaps.

“Because that’s just it,” Mason says with a triumphant grin. “He’s not dead. He was erased. But he left something behind, and when we found it, we unerased him. Which means if we can find out what the person we lost left behind, they’ll be unerased too.”

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. “His name is Stiles.”

They stare at him. Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder. Scott’s eyes narrow. “How did you find that out?”

She cocks her head and says coolly, “It’s really not important, is it? The important thing is—”

“Lydia.” There’s just a hint of alpha in Scott’s tone.

She sighs, but shoots Derek a quick, apologetic glance, and says, “It was my idea. I knew you wouldn’t agree, but—”

Derek flexes his fingers, nails sharpening a little, though he tries to hide it. “I accessed her memories,” he says. “There was an echo of him there – just an echo. Just his name.”

“Who the fuck names their kid Stiles?” Jackson asks, but no one answers, because Scott’s eyes are flashing red, his teeth are pointier than they should be, and each exhale rumbles in his chest.

“That’s dangerous,” he says, clearly struggling for control. “You can’t just run around shoving your claws into people’s spines, Derek! You could have killed her. You could have –”

Derek can’t help it – faced with another alpha losing control, his own starts to fracture, and he gets to his feet, careful. Breathing deeply, struggling to stay calm, he says, “You need to calm down.” His voice is rougher than he wants it to be.

Cora stands, smooth and graceful, and moves to flank him defensively, but the rest of his betas hold their places, watching warily.

Scott’s betas… well. Aren’t very good at being betas, and for once, it comes in handy.

Liam elbows Scott in the ribs and hisses, “Dude. Now is not the time for a rumble.”

Blinking at him, Scott’s rage falters, the red flashing in his eyes and then draining away, and he crosses his arms over his chest, scowls, and says, “He shouldn’t have done it anyway.”

Lydia sighs. “Calm down, Scott. I asked him to, because I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

Scott throws himself back down and argues, “Than he should have done it to me! I’d have healed faster, I’d have—”

“It was my idea, and it had to be me, because if he was dead—” her nonchalance falters a bit here, and she swallows shakily. “—Then I thought I had the best chance of having any memory of him at all. You know. Being a banshee.”

Now that the tensions have eased, Derek sits back down carefully, tugging Cora down to sit beside him.

And Malia says, around a mouthful of Rice Krispie square, “And you did remember him? Stiles.” The name sounds soft, familiar on her tongue.

“He’s just an echo,” Derek says. “Just a name.”

“Not much to go on,” Allison says, frowning.

“But a place to start. If he left something behind, maybe we can find it!” Mason says. “We just need to figure out where to look.”

“Is no one concerned with stopping the band of mummified cowboys erasing residents of Beacon Hills?” Cora drawls, sarcastic. “Shouldn’t that be a priority?”

“They ride the lightning.”

Everyone stops and stares at Kira, who had been so quiet up until now. Derek would have nearly forgotten she was there at all, if not for the soft, crackling scent of electricity that always sparked when she was near.

She clears her throat and fidgets with her hair and says, “I mean. I talked to my mom. She says they’re fae, like Mr. Argent said, and they ride the lightning. That’s why there have been so many storms. When lightning strikes, they’re here.”

“So we can track them, then,” Malia says, eyes lighting up. “Follow them to their den. Find Stiles, and whoever else. Free them. Kill the riders. Easy.”

Danny shakes his head. “They’re pretty much immortal in every legend I managed to drag up,” he says. “I don’t know how killable they are. And they’re usually mentioned with hell hounds, and we know how impossible it is to deal with those.”

Derek looks quickly at Lydia, who grimaces. “Parrish,” she says. “We’ll have to tell him. Who knows what’ll happen if he runs into one of them.”

“There’s another thing,” Kira says grimly. “My mother says if you see the riders –” She shoots a quick look at Mason and Corey. “Then they’ll be after you next.”

It’s a lot to process, and Derek sits back, rubbing at his temple, trying to think of what, if anything, they can do next about an immortal threat that rides lightning, that erases people, that he can’t see coming. Arguments are popping up, mainly in Scott’s pack – Mason arguing that he and Corey can’t search for clues if they’re locked away in a safe house like Liam is demanding they should be, Allison trying to convince Scott that she has the weapons to kill anything, immortal or not, Lydia and Jackson bickering about god only knows what.

Derek’s back sits back, quiet and watchful, and Scott finally raises his voice to be heard over the noise. “So we have three priorities,” he says, and his betas fall into silence. It’s more control than Derek thought he had over them. “Protect Corey and Mason. Figure out who Stiles is. Stop the Wild Hunt.”

“Four,” Malia says. “We’ve also got to get Stiles back.”

“We’ve got to get all of them back,” Scott agrees. “Whoever they took.”

“Unless they’re dead.” Jackson shrugs when everyone glares at him.

“Liam can hang out with me and Corey,” Mason says. “Protect us from the Hunt, help us look for anything out of place, unexplained, that might help us remember.”

“We can track the Hunt,” Malia says, but Kira shakes her head.

“If they ride the lightning,” she says, biting her bottom lip. “Then I can just… I can channel it. I can call the lightning to me. We can set a trap.”

Scott lights up; he beams at her and she blushes bright red. “Yes!” he says. “We’ll work on a trap. Corey and Mason will search for information on Stiles.”

“Shouldn’t we figure out what to do with a member of the Hunt before we catch it?” Cora asks, crossing her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes. “Let’s think this through. They’re immortal – they can’t be killed.”

Liam grins, all teeth. “So we’ll torture it for information.”

“Does it speak English, Liam?” Erica asks.

He shrugs and looks sullen, and Derek wonders if all their plans have been this half assed.

Maybe Stiles had been the one with the plans.

*

They have a plan. Well, sort of. It’s more like a plan to have a plan. But they’ve split into groups to tackle researching how to kill a member of the Wild Hunt, how to catch a member of the Wild Hunt, if anyone has ever come back from the Wild Hunt, and for more information on Stiles.

Derek, again, is left at loose ends.

He wonders if this is normal. He feels it again – that phantom pain, that itch beneath his skin, that knowledge that he should be good for something. He’s a damned alpha werewolf. But his betas are on protection detail, keeping Mason and Corey safe from the Hunt. Cora is off with the research contingent, armed with notes gathered from her various werewolf connections. And Derek is at home, unnerved by thunder in the distance, and Googling ‘Stiles’ and coming up with nothing.

He hears the car long before it pulls up, and recognizes Lydia and Malia by their heartbeats. Still, he’s surprised, when they knock on his door. He does his best to make sure Malia and the rest of Scott’s Pack know they are always welcome out in the Preserve, but they rarely seek him out without an express invitation. And Lydia has never had much use for him – alpha memory searching powers aside.

He opens the door and Malia smirks. “Hey,” she says. “Figured you were going stir crazy.”

Malia had been left without a task as well. She’s on edge, snappy, wild, so Derek understands. He just hopes he’s not as affected by Stiles’ absence as she is.

Maybe that’s why they have no use for him.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “We also figured, you know. Scott can’t get mad if we have a little back up.”

“Back up for what?” he asks warily, because a core component of cooperation among Packs is not stepping on another alpha’s toes.

“Searching for Stiles. Danny’s trying to find info online, Mason and Corey are helping out because Scott’s pretty sure invisible cowboys will scoop them up if they leave the house, everyone else is working on some weird and probably doomed scheme to trap one of the Hunt… So we figured that someone’s got to be out there. Looking for proof that he’s real.” Lydia shrugs. “And I figured that you and Malia… probably stand the best chance. Because you’re the two who don’t seem all that capable of functioning in a world without him. And me… Maybe I can hear him.”

“Okay,” Derek says, arms crossed over his chest. At least they didn’t go wandering around without back up. And a distraction is just what he needs. “Are we searching the Preserve?”

“I’ve done that, and I know you have too,” Malia says. “If there was anything out there, I’d have found it. We were thinking we’d look in town, for something… out of place.”

Lydia grimaces. “We don’t really know where to start,” she says.

Derek grabs his leather jacket and closes the door behind him. “Not much of a plan,” he says grimly. “Come on. I’m driving.”

“Where are we going?” Malia asks, as Lydia cooling calls shot gun.

“Sheriff’s place. Figured I’d catch him up, tell him we have a name. Might help him searching for missing persons, and maybe he’ll have some idea of where to start. Maybe someone’s turned in a wallet or… or a library card.”

Another useless plan. But it’s all they’ve got.

Stiles was definitely the one with the plans.

*

“Stiles?” the sheriff echoes, eyebrows raised. “Who names their child Stiles?”

“Maybe it’s a nickname?” Lydia suggests.

The sheriff still looks skeptical, but he writes it down. They’re sitting together in the sheriff’s living room, and Derek keeps looking around, waiting for something – some interruption, some sound, anything – but nothing comes.

He doesn’t even know what’s missing here but he can feel it like an ache in his bones.

So Derek is about to ask about missing persons or out of place, lost items, or anything suspicious – any place to start, really – when the sheriff says, “Oh, Derek! About that Jeep, I nearly forgot. It’s the damnedest thing.”

Derek blinks. “The Jeep,” he echoes, eyes going wide.

The sheriff nods. “Yeah. Ran the plates.” He shakes his head. “It’s registered to my wife. Claudia.” He looks up, his smile a little shaky. “The registration expired the year she died… I forgot all about it. How do you forget a blue monstrosity of a Jeep?”

Derek needs to focus, he does. He’d forgotten all about the Jeep in an all-encompassing way that had to be some sort of fae magic – but he’s distracted because Lydia’s heart is suddenly pounding. He thinks maybe it’s the adrenaline – maybe she realizes how important this is too – but when he looks at her, her face is bone white, her eyes glazed. Like she’s seen a ghost.

She’s staring at an empty spot behind the couch like she can see something he can’t.

Malia is frowning, squinting at the same spot and then at Lydia again, and she says, “Hey, Sheriff, Lydia’s feeling a bit off. Can we use the washroom?”

“Sure, sure,” he says, waving them down the hall. “Is she okay? Should we call her mother?”

Malia smiles tightly, tugging Lydia up. “No. It’s, uh. Female stuff. You know.”

The sheriff winces in sympathy and Derek watches Malia coax Lydia down the hallway. Before Lydia turns the corner, Derek hears her whisper, “I keep seeing shadows.”

Banshee magic. Just what they need to deal with now. He turns back to the sheriff, still listening as Malia pulls Lydia down the hall, trying to talk her down, get a response, hopefully keep her from screaming.

He leaves her to it and tries to focus.

“Where is the Jeep now?” he asks.

“The department impound lot,” the sheriff says. “Just until the investigation concludes. But no one’s come forward, and…”

“Can I see it? It might be what we need, to find Stiles, and everyone else. To remember them.”

The sheriff frowns. “Son, I can’t just give you the keys to a car involved in an active investigation—”

Derek turns his head, frowning. He can hear muffled sounds of a scuffle coming down the hallway, and Malia hissing under her breath. Lydia’s heartrate is going wild.

For a moment, Derek forgets the Jeep. He gets to his feet and the sheriff follows him around the corner, where Malia seems to be trying to stop Lydia from trying to scratch through a bare wall.

“What on earth—” the sheriff says, stunned.

“This shouldn’t be here,” Lydia says, sounding borderline hysterical. Her eyes are shining with tears, she doesn’t appear lucid at all. But at least she isn’t screaming. “The shadows – the doorway – all here…”

“Sorry,” Malia says, still trying to hold Lydia still without hurting her. “She kept saying there was someone here – a shadow, and I couldn’t get her away from the wall, or get her coherent or—”

Lydia twists against her hold, slamming her fist against the wall, and Derek’s about to step in, to help, when Malia loses her patience.

“For fuck’s sake,” she snaps, and then, before Derek can stop her, Malia slams her fist through the drywall and says, “There’s nothing here, Lydia.”

Except there is.

Derek can smell it – the musty scent of an empty, unused, dusty room, a forgotten place, and sunlight filtering through a window.

The sheriff is losing his shit. It’s probably warranted. But Derek doesn’t care. Lydia stands back now, shaking, but Malia can sense it too, can see it – there’s something behind the wall.

Together, she and Derek dig their way through the wall in a matter of moments, standing with plaster chunks and dust all around them a short time later, in the middle of a forgotten, empty bedroom.

The sheriff has stopped shouting, looking haunted. Derek can’t look away from the window, his palms aching with a sense memory of pushing that window open, of holding onto that window sill, of standing on the other side of that window and watching through the glass.

Lydia carefully picks her way over the crumbled wall, looking around the room with eyes that shine with tears, lucid again. “You didn’t know this was here,” she says, looking at the sheriff.

“No,” he replies. “I should have – I should have known.”

“It doesn’t have a scent,” Malia tells them. “Just dust. Like no one’s ever been here.” She frowns and looks at Derek and says, “Except under all the scent of dust and cobwebs and sunlight, sometimes I swear, I can smell you. Like a forgotten memory of you. Like you used to be here too and then you weren’t. But that makes no sense…”

“Is it Stiles?” the sheriff asks, quiet.

Derek turns to him and says, “You must have lost him too.”

There’s a quiet moment, and then the sheriff says, “Let me get you the keys to that Jeep.”

*

Lydia is pale and shaking, so they leave her in the car with strict instructions to call Scott for backup if anything goes wrong. She argues – of course she does – but given that Derek had wanted to take her home and go to the lot himself, she’s lucky to be there at all.

Besides, there’s an 8 foot barbed wire fence surrounding the lot, and guard dogs too, he can smell them. So he and Malia go alone, easily hopping over the fence, and subduing the bored Dobermans with a flash of Derek’s red eyes.

There aren’t many cars in the impound lot, and they find the blue Jeep tucked away near the gate, in a shadowy corner. Derek half expects all his memories of Stiles to come screaming back into his mind when he sees it, but there’s nothing – just the distant rumble of thunder, the scent of ozone on the air.

“That’s it?” Malia asks, sounding disappointed. “I was expecting… fireworks. Memories. Something.”

Derek shrugs and she follows him over to the Jeep, climbing inside after he unlocks both the driver and the passenger side doors.

It’s quiet, and he’s got a growing sense of unease, anxiety settling into his bones.

“There’s a scent,” Malia says. “Faint. Blood. I can’t place it.”

She starts digging through the random stuff that’s been tossed in the back seat – a Beacon Hills Jersey, a lacrosse stick, a ratty math textbook, a few empty curly fry containers. She pauses, frowning, when she tugs a t-shirt out, and glances at Derek.

“This one smells like you,” she says. “A little.”

Derek takes the shirt. It’s generic, black, like one of the dozens he’s got back at home, crammed into his dresser.

He can’t remember what the fuck his shirt is doing in this Jeep, and it’s starting to piss him off.

Raindrops begin hitting the Jeep, slowly, but Derek knows soon, it will be pouring.

He puts the key in the ignition, turns it, and the engine groans softly and dies.

“I’m texting Lydia,” Malia says. “And Scott. Maybe he can figure this out.”

Derek leaves her to it, climbing out into the rain, and popping the hood. It’s dark, but he’s never had a problem seeing in the dark.

The engine is basically held together with duct tape.

If he had more time, he could probably fix it, make it run without the duct tape, but the rain is picking up and so is the wind. Leaves roll along the ground, thunder keeps threatening in the distance. It’ll start to storm soon, and nothing good comes when it storms.

So he starts messing around with the connections, hoping it’s just a loose wire. Maybe when the Jeep hit the tree, it jolted something loose…

Lightning crashes nearby and Derek jerks his head up to look. He can smell something burning – something burnt – but the smell is nearly buried beneath the rain.

Scrambling out of the Jeep, Malia says, “You don’t think that was one of them, do you? I can smell something—”

And then Lydia screams.

On the plus side, it’s not the eerie shriek of a banshee predicting death. It’s a frantic, panicked, and furious scream demanding Derek get over there right now.

He leaps the fence as easily as he did coming in, landing beside her. If he expected to see a hulking, mummified ghost rider, though, he’s disappointed. Lydia is alone – deathly pale and staring at nothing, but alone.

“You don’t see that?” she hisses.

Derek’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t see anything. Neither does Malia, landing beside him a moment later, growling low in her throat.

“It’s right there,” Lydia says, growing hysteria in her voice. “It’s standing right there. With a fucking horse, Derek.”

“What’s it doing?”

“Staring. Making strange noises. How are you not seeing this?”

“I can’t see it,” Malia says. “I can smell something, but I can’t – how do we kill something we can’t see?”

She steps forward, in front of Lydia, flexing her claws, eyes flashing blue, and Lydia yanks her back. “Stay behind me,” she says, voice shaking. “Derek, Malia, don’t – when you get in front of me, it starts going for its gun.”

And then she steps forward.

“Lydia,” Derek warns, quiet.

“No, it’s… it’s…” she frowns, takes another careful step, and then there’s a sudden gust of wind, a swirl of leaves, and she turns back to face Derek and says, “It’s gone. It left. Like… like it was afraid of me.”

The rain starts coming down harder now, and Derek doesn’t know what to do – but one thing he’s clear on. They can’t fight what they can’t see, and they need to get out of here.

He tosses his keys to Malia. “Get her out of here,” he says. “Take her to my place. Call Scott.”

“What about you?” Malia asks, voice squeaking. “I can’t drive your car. I’ll scratch it! You’ll kill me!”

“I’m getting the Jeep,” he says, grim. “And just don’t scratch it. It’s not that hard.”

“The Jeep won’t even turn on!” she shouts.

“Just get Lydia out of here!”

He hears the Camaro start up as he makes his way back to the Jeep, hears Malia’s cursing as she drives away, and then he lets himself relax, just a little.

The Jeep starts on his first try, and Derek uses his claws to cut through the gate before driving through it.

*

With the way the Jeep is rattling, Derek isn’t all that surprised when it dies halfway down the road that cuts through the Preserve and leads home.

Coincidentally, it’s just about where he found the Jeep the first time.

He swears, tries to start it again, and nothing happens. For a moment, he considers pushing the Jeep to the side of the road and running home, but if this really is their last connection to Stiles, he just can’t.

It’s pouring rain and the storm seems like it’s getting closer, lightning flashing over his head. Not all that sure he’ll be any safer at home than he is here, Derek’s still pretty sure that hanging out on a dark road in the middle of the woods during a thunderstorm with mummified fairy riders on the loose is just about as unsafe as it gets, so he reaches for the latch to pop the hood.

His elbow hits something and there is a shriek of static and a high-pitched squeal. Flinching, Derek fumbles for whatever dial will turn the damned radio off and then realizes that the car is dead. It’s something electrical. There’s no way the radio should be able to turn on at all.

With shaking fingers, he turns the dial instead, searching through the noise for a voice. It’s a police scanner – surely the sheriff is out there somewhere, talking to his deputies, keeping an eye on things.

Instead of the sheriff or one of his deputies, he hears a voice – tired and raspy as it drones on and on, apparently comparing Heath Ledger’s Joker to Jared Leto’s.

Derek breathes out carefully, picks up the mouth pieces, holds the button down, and says softly, “Hello?”

The voice goes silent and for a long moment, Derek thinks he’s lost the signal.

“Derek,” the voice says, cracking painfully. “Derek, fuck, Derek, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes. He expected a flash of memories, a sudden shifting of the world around him, all the holes he’s found to suddenly be filled with Stiles’ presence, for his whole life to make sense again.

Instead, there’s a faint sensation, like an easing of tension in his spine, but other than that, and the way his wolf wants to curl up and purr, there’s nothing.

“It’s me,” the voice says. “It’s Stiles. I’m – you remembered me? How did you remember me? How did you – where are you? Oh my god, Derek, I didn’t think – what’s happened? Where’s Scott? The Hunt – have you – holy shit, dude, you remembered.”

“No,” Derek confesses, because Stiles is sounding more and more off balance, his voice wavering with hope and tears, and Derek has to be honest, because he’s already feeling so much guilt for forgetting. “I don’t – I can’t –”

“Oh,” Stiles says, thinking for a moment. “But you still – how did you find me?”

“Your Jeep,” he says. “And I – something’s missing. I knew you were missing. But I don’t know – I can’t remember.” He’s getting frustrated, growling, but there’s a growing sense, in the back of his mind – faded echoes that may be memories, but they move out of focus when he tries to pull them closer.

“Hey, hey, sourwolf,” Stiles says, and Derek flinches at the dizzying sense of déjà vu. “You found me. It’s a place to start. Are you safe? Is everyone safe?”

“I think you’re the only one we’ve lost. Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “A mystical train station? I don’t think you can get here. There are dozens of people from Beacon Hills, but they just sit here, zombies, waiting, but I don’t know what for. I’ve screamed and screamed but I’m the only one who woke up. Derek, Peter’s here.”

“Who?”

Stiles laughs; his voice cracks on it. “Oh god,” he says. “Okay. Listen. You can’t find us here, but maybe – maybe if you take out the Wild Hunt, we’ll be free. I don’t know. Or maybe this place will collapse and we’ll be gone forever. Impossible to say. But we can’t let them take everyone. You’ve got to stop them.”

“We’ll find you first,” Derek says.

“We can’t risk it. Not if it means they have a chance to get to you, or Scott, or Malia, or Lydia, or, fuck, even Liam. Derek, you have to promise.”

He’s not going to promise.

Stiles keeps talking anyway, like he didn’t notice. “It’s Lydia, Derek. She’s the key. Lydia and Parrish. The Hunt is fae, and so are they. They’re the only ones who can harm them. I found an old account and it said the Hunt usually runs with hellhounds, though, so I don’t know if Parrish would be on our side. You know what he was like with the Dread Doctors. That’s what I was coming to tell you, the night they got me.”

“I think Scott’s setting a trap for them,” Derek tells him. “They ride lightning, so Kira’s going to channel it, and then—”

“Oh god,” Stiles says, laughing sharply. “Scott can’t make a plan without supervision, Derek. I love him, I do, but plans aren’t his thing – what’s he going to do, call all 12 riders into one place and throw wolves at them until they’re dead? Because it won’t work! They’ll all be taken! It has to be Lydia and Parrish.”

“I’ll tell him,” Derek says. “And we’ll get you out.”

As he relearns Stiles’ voice, the faded memories are growing sharper, a little at a time, but still remaining out of reach.

There’s a sharp crack of thunder overhead, and it stops Stiles mid-sentence. “Where are you?” he says.

“In the Jeep, on the road. The engine stopped, just before you came on the scanner.”

“Alone? In a storm? With ghost riders who travel by lightning? Get out of there!”

“I’m fine, I haven’t seen them, they aren’t after me, they—”

He stops when a cloaked figure appears on the rise just ahead of the Jeep, hat pulled low over a craggy, twisted face, a whip coiled in one hand. His boots have spurs, which glint in the rain.

“They’re after everyone,” Stiles snaps. “Get out. Find the others. Stay safe. Holy shit, if they take you, Scott won’t know—”

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. “I have to go. I’ll – I’ll find you. I will. Just wait for me, okay? I’ll find you.”

“Oh god. They’re there, aren’t they? They’ve found you? Run. Derek, you have to run.”

Derek turns the radio off quietly, eyes still trained on the rider, and when he pushes the passenger door open, he’s already shifting into his full wolf form, dashing for the trees.

He doesn’t make it. There’s the crack of a whip, and then searing heat around his middle, the familiar scent of burning fur and flesh. Just before the whip jerks him back, he throws his head up and howls for his betas – a warning, a goodbye, a plea to remember.

And then there is a twisting, searing pain, and then nothing.

*

It’s dark and nothing moves, and for a while, Derek thinks he’s dead. There are no sights, sounds or smells, he cannot feel his body, and he barely exists at all, just the faintest memory of existence, drifting in an empty nothing that seems to stretch on forever.

If this is death, he would have thought he’d at least get to see his mother again, or Laura.

Instead, there’s just… nothing.

Until, an endless time later, there’s a sound, echoing from very far away. At first, he ignores it, continues to drift. But it’s impossible to resist – it’s the only thing that breaks up the nothingness.

So he wanders closer and closer and the sound becomes a voice and the voice becomes words, faintly at first, and then separating into syllables.

“Derek,” the voice says. “Derek, Derek, please.”

The sound acts something like echo location – it bounces through the darkness, bends around Derek’s edges and hollows, until he begin to have the slightest bit of definition. Until he begins to recognize the name as his own.

Still, it’s all echoes and vague shadows, until a searing, starling heat bursts through the dark.

He sucks in a breath, the world blinking back into focus, and it’s overwhelming. He has a vague impression of a dusty, still train station, all shades of browns and grays, unmoving. He feels hundreds of people around him, too close, too still. His skin itches and burns with sensory overload, and he wants to flinch and hide away but all he can do is try to control the air in his lungs, because his chest feels like a balloon that’s being inflated too much.

And then he sees Stiles, kneeling between his thighs, eyes wide and brown and face just pale, dark circles under his eyes. Stiles has one hand on Derek’s face – and that heat centres Derek, grounds him. The heat from that hand is what startled him out of the darkness.

And for one heartbeat, or maybe two, Derek doesn’t remember.

And then it’s like the sunrise and every hollow place inside him that’s been empty and echoing since Stiles was taken is suddenly filled with blinding light.

He remembers everything. He remembers the beginning, when he was barely clinging to being a beta, and then barely handling being an alpha, and Stiles right there, with a shit-eating grin and a frustrating refusal to be controlled, even when he was afraid. He remembers the pool, the lack of trust, the surety, when Stiles let him go to go after his phone, that Stiles would let him drowned and that maybe Derek deserved it. He remembers that first breath of air when Stiles pulled him to the surface again, and how it burned like this one does. He remembers every moment after – the fragile trust that grew between the,, wrapped around them, as Derek and Scott negotiated a shared territory, a truce that, to be honest, was more Stiles’ doing that Scott’s or Derek’s. He remembers how he wrapped his whole fucking life around Stiles, how he relied on him, waited for him, lit up when he walked in the room, how Stiles breathed life into a life that Derek thought would always be stale and colourless after he lost his family, because that’s what he deserved.

He remembers watching Stiles, the way he got used to how his heart would skip a little when Stiles smiled, or laughed, or did something stupid that Derek would never admit he found attractive. He remembers worrying about Stiles and how damned human and breakable he is. He remembers thinking he lost Stiles to the nogitsune, and how it was the closest he ever came to falling apart, after the loss of his family. He remembers how brave he is, how determined he is to protect the people he loves, he remembers the first earth-shattering moment when he realized that somehow, he had become one of those people.

Of course Derek loves him, of course he does. How could Derek forget?

And it’s all overwhelming and too much and not enough and so easy to just fall into Stiles, to pull him close against Derek’s chest and bury his fingers in Stiles’ hair like he’s done it a hundred times before. So Derek kisses him desperately because even though he’d just remembered that he loves Stiles, nothing had made sense in a world without Stiles, and now suddenly, it does.

It’s only after the tension in Stiles’ body bleeds away into a soft, bewildered sound, and Stiles starts kissing him back, that Derek remembers that, yeah. He loves Stiles. But Stiles doesn’t know.

And they’ve never done this.

He jerks away, eyes wide, cheeks burning, a thousand excuses catching on his tongue, and Stiles blinks slowly at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes have bruises under them. But his smile is slow, familiar.

“So, you missed me?” Stiles says.

Derek swallows hard. “A little,” he lies.

Stiles’ smile turns into a smirk. “We’re talking about this,” he says. His cheeks are a little pink. “But first, we need to figure this shit out before Scott gets himself killed. Let me show you around. Maybe there’s something I missed. Maybe you can smash through the walls! I don’t know. C’mon.”

The train station looks like an abandoned movie set, benches filled with extras who are frozen in various poses – checking their watches, reading the paper, staring into space. They’re alive, Derek can hear their heartbeats, but they don’t seem conscious, despite their opened eyes.

“Peter’s over there,” Stiles says, leading Derek towards the back. He indicates a man Derek doesn’t recognize, who is glaring into an old newspaper, and Derek is about to ask Stiles who the fuck Peter is, when it clicks and he sucks in a startled breath.

“Peter.”

“Yeah. I tried to wake him, but it didn’t work out. Maybe you could do it?”

Derek frowns. “He’ll probably do less damage that way,” he says, and Stiles laughs. It sounds a little rusty.

Stiles leads him to a room in the back, where radio equipment lies, broken. “They make announcements here. Ghostly shit about cancelled stops and stuff. I managed to rewire it a bit, get a signal out – that’s how you heard me. But they figured it out, smashed it, and left you here. That was a few hours ago.” He shrugs. “So we can’t radio for help. I haven’t been able to figure out how to begin fixing it.”

He leads the way back through the main part of the station, indicating a broken clock, a schedule board with names of various towns, with their stops either listed as “canceled” or, in Beacon Hills’ case, “on schedule”. Then, he hops down onto the tracks and leads the way around the corner.

It’s a train tunnel with a concrete platform on one side, the tracks disappearing into the shadows ahead. “That’s where the riders get in and out,” Stiles says. “There’s a sort of…” he grimaced. “Shield? Force field? Teleportation thing? Portal? Who the fuck knows. It only opens when they come through or leave again. They ride through, it glows green, they disappear. They come back the same way.”

“Maybe we can get out that way.”

“I wouldn’t try it,” Stiles says, looking away. “There was another guy in here, when I got here, who wasn’t in the trance. He tried to follow them out – he burned up and died before he got through.”

Derek frowns. “Human?” he asks.

Stiles nods, turning to lead back to the main terminal. “As near as I can tell,” he says. He slumps down on an empty bench. “They come every few hours, with another group of people. I think they’re taking everybody. And I don’t think we can get out.”

It’s quiet for a few moments. Derek sits beside Stiles, breathing deeply, filling his lungs with his scent, because Derek wants to rub all over him until Stiles smells like Derek, like… well, not Pack, because he was always Scott’s, but close to Pack. Like he belonged to Derek, a little, even if Scott was still his Alpha.

Instead, he lets himself sit close and breathe and think, because there is no way he’s letting the riders keep Stiles.

After a while, Stiles says quietly, “So, the kissing thing.”

“Accident,” Derek tells him, smooth. Almost casual. “I was overwhelmed by, uh. Remembering.”

Stiles looks at him incredulously. “So that’s how you react? By kissing the crap out of me?”

Shifting awkwardly, Derek shrugs one shoulder and says, “It… it just felt like that’s what… what I would do. What we did. What I…” He grimaces. “It was so much. All the remembering. I got confused. And then I remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

“That I would never have done that, before. So. So we should forget it.”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, and Derek can’t help but think that maybe he looks hurt. But why would he? Derek had gotten mixed up, had forgotten that all there was between them was friendship, whatever else Derek felt.

He’d lost control. He had it back now.

“Right,” Stiles says, faint.

It’s quiet again, and then Stiles slumps against Derek’s side and says, “Tell me what Scott’s doing. What’s his plan? Does he – he noticed I was gone, right?”

“We all noticed,” Derek tells him, and then he outlines the trap they’re setting, and Stiles grows more and more convinced of their doom with every word.

*

The riders come back – it’s a chaotic stampede of angry horses, mummified cowboys on their backs, dragging screaming Beacon Hills residents, who calm as soon as the Hunt leaves again. The residents take their seats quietly, and fall into stillness like everyone else.

Hayden’s among them this time.

“Liam must be losing his shit,” Stiles says, quiet.

Derek takes a deep breath. “I think I know how I can get out.”

Stiles is instantly suspicious. “Just you?”

He nods once. “Yeah. Just me. But I’ll come back for you. I’ll get you out.”

Pointing an accusing finger at him, Stiles says sharply, “The only reason you won’t take me now is if it’s stupidly dangerous. Is it? What are the chances of survival here?”

“Better, if I try it without you,” Derek tells him grimly.

He watched the end of the dark tunnel when the riders came in, and when they left again. He caught the sulphuric scent of the portal, felt the sharp heat of it, even from a distance.

“You can’t go through the portal,” Stiles says, eyes going wide. “Derek, you’ll die. That guy who tried it – he burned up.”

“He was human,” Derek says. “I’m not.”

“Not even a werewolf’s healing can help you survive that!”

“I’m not just a werewolf,” Derek reminds him. “I’m an Alpha. I think I can do it. It’s our only chance. If Scott and the others don’t figure out that Lydia’s their best option, they’ll leave her at home for her own protection, you know they will. And then they’ll be taken or killed, and there won’t be anyone left to protect Beacon Hills. To get you and everyone else out of here. But if I go – if I make it through – I can tell them. And I’ll know where the portal exits. And I’ll be able to come back for you.”

Stiles is already shaking his head. “What if you die? Then what? No one will remember me. No one will come for me.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, grabbing his wrists to calm his panicky gestures. “Listen to me. I’ll come back for you. I swear I will. And if I don’t make it, Scott is going to tear the world apart looking for you. You know that. But this is our best chance. I have to.”

Stiles hesitates, looking down at where Derek’s hands are wrapped around his wrists, and he breathes for a moment, before saying, “Okay. Okay. But if you die, I’ll be so, so angry.”

“Trust me.”

Stiles growls and it makes Derek smile.

“We’ll wait for them to come back and I’ll follow them out again,” Derek decides, because he’s not sure the portal will open if he tries it on his own.

Stiles’ face is pinched with worry and exhaustion. “More waiting,” he says, his voice grim.

They decide to wait on the shadowed platform halfway down the tunnel, away from the vacant stares of those waiting in the train station. Stiles leads Derek to a sheltered corner, where his jacket and plaid shirt are both bunched up, like he’d tried to make himself comfortable there.

It’s chilly here, the shadows thick, and after the adrenaline of finding Stiles, searching for ways out of here, deciding on a plan, things settle into a tense sort of waiting, and it gives Derek time to think – to wonder what it was like for Stiles, who thrives on movement, sound, colour, to exist here, alone, with no one to talk to, no one to acknowledge his presence, for so long.

Stiles settles himself in the nest of clothing easily, curling into himself, leaning against the rough stone wall, and he seems strangely content with the silence in a way Derek isn’t used to.

But then, he’d have had to get used to it, wouldn’t he?

Derek sits across from him, close enough that their knees nearly brush, and studies him. He’s all darkness and light – too pale, except where the shadows paint his face, highlighting the bruises under his eyes. Derek remembers him as always moving, always speaking, his face expressive, eyes lighting up, now he is still, his hands resting on his knees, not twitching with frenetic energy.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles blinks, looking startled, like he’d drifted away into his thoughts and forgotten Derek was there at all. “Are you alright?”

Stiles smiles, and it’s almost automatic, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He looks exhausted, faded, like the adrenaline of being found was all that was keeping him upright and now that’s begun to fade.

“I’m good,” he says. “I’m great. I’m just – sorry. I… You know.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Not used to company.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, quietly, still watching him.

Stiles frowns a little. “How… how long have I been gone?”

“I found your Jeep two weeks ago,” Derek says.

Nodding, Stiles distracts himself by picking at the threads of the jacket he’s sitting on. “Time passes strangely here. There’s no window, there’s no light and dark, there’s no meals or food or anything. I wasn’t sure – years could have gone by before anybody noticed I wasn’t there. Years or… or maybe they wouldn’t. I slept sometimes, but only when I couldn’t stay awake anymore. I never needed to eat, which is for the best, since there’s no food… but I started getting worried. What if I was dead, and I just didn’t know? What if I died and no one ever remembered me, and no one ever came for me. And then I found the radio, and I thought – if I could just get someone to hear me. But no one did. And I spent so many hours – days – talking, until I couldn’t talk anymore, and then I slept and tried again, and then finally – finally you answered.” He looks up at Derek, eyes haunted. “But what if no one ever answered? What if no one heard?”

As Stiles grows more and more agitated, his hands tug and twist at a tear in his jacket more violently, his cheeks flushing.

Derek reaches out and takes his hands, just to still them, and Stiles closes his eyes.

“If I hadn’t heard you,” Derek tells him quietly, “I’d still have been on the road that night with your Jeep, going to meet the others, with the Hunt following. I’d still have been taken, and I’d still have ended up here, with you. I’m going to get you out of here. Okay?”

“It’s been so quiet,” Stiles says, grimacing. “I started hearing things. I thought I was imagining it, when I heard you on the radio.”

“You weren’t.”

He can feel Stiles’ hands shaking, can see the tremors in his shoulders too, like Stiles has barely been keeping it together while left here alone, going crazy by himself in a fucking magical train station.

“It’s cold,” Derek says carefully, rubbing Stiles’ hands to warm them. “Do you want my –”

He’s going to offer his jacket, but he doesn’t get a chance to finish before Stiles is falling forward, all sharp knees and elbows, as he ducks under Derek’s arm and curls up against his side, like he’s only been waiting for an invitation.

Derek’s eyebrows go up in surprise, but he manages to hide it otherwise. It makes sense that Stiles would be almost as starved for touch as he is someone to talk to. He’s always been tactile, even before joining a werewolf Pack that used touch as a method of reassurance.

“I was going to offer my jacket,” Derek says dryly, and Stiles huffs a little, and starts pulling away.

“Sorry, I thought— hypothermia, body heat, nudity. I know how these things are supposed to go.” Stiles laughs, and it’s shaky and forced, but better than nothing.

“It’s not that cold,” Derek says, rolling his eyes, but he tugs Stiles close again, shrugging awkwardly out of his leather jacket, and then draping it over Stiles’ shoulders.

He does run hotter than humans do, and even though he’s pretty sure Stiles’ shaking is more from the mental strain of being alone and terrified for two weeks with no concept of the passage of time rather than actual chill, the heat won’t hurt.

It takes a moment or two for Stiles to relax enough to carefully inch his arm around Derek’s waist, almost like he’s worried Derek will snap at the invasion of his personal space.

It’s a little late for that, the way Stiles is pressed up close against him – not to mention the misguided kiss. The one Derek is so carefully not thinking about.

Derek just sighs and slides an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and says, “We have a few hours. I’ll watch over you if you want to sleep.”

He’s pretty sure Stiles is asleep before he’s even done making the offer.

*

Derek lets Stiles sleep, and loses count of the minutes that slip by. He can see how tricky keeping track of the days would be here, and how hard it would be to stay calm, to stay sane, when left alone in a mystical train station, with only your thoughts and the frozen people waiting for the trains for company.

He hears Stiles’ heart rate change, speeding up just a little, hears the faint hitching of his breath as he wakes. Stiles doesn’t move or speak, though, and if he wants to pretend to be sleeping for a little while longer, Derek will give him that.

“I was pretty sure you wouldn’t be here when I woke up,” Stiles confesses finally, quiet.

“I wouldn’t leave without waking you first.”

Stiles shifts closer. “No,” he says. “I thought I’d imagined it all.”

It’s quiet for a moment or two, and then Derek tips his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, and a few minutes slip by before he pulls away, clearly reluctant.

He looks different now than he had before – face less drawn, his cheek red and creased from where it had been pressed against Derek’s shirt, his hair mussed.

“I thought maybe Scott had told you. When you first got here.”

Frowning, Derek reaches over and tugs his jacket up, straightening it on Stiles’ shoulders. “Told me what?”

“That I’ve, uh.” He looks away, cheeks flushing pink. “Had a stupid thing for you.”

The ground suddenly feels less stable underneath him, and Derek struggles to keep his balance, to keep up with Stiles’ quick topic change.

“A thing?” he echoes, because he’s got no idea what to say.

“You know.” Stiles clears his throat before forcing himself to meet Derek’s gaze. He looks defiant, recklessly brave. Derek has seen that look before – it usually comes just as Stiles does something stupid, putting himself in harm’s way. “A thing. For you.”

Derek had never thought Stiles being recklessly brave did anything for him. Apparently he was wrong.

He shifts awkwardly and says, “Uh, no. He didn’t say anything.”

“It’s just, when I finally woke you up, you kissed me stupid. So I kind of thought, you know, that Scott had remembered me or something, and he’d told you – told you about my stupid thing for you, and, for a second, at least, when you were kissing me, I thought you know, and you wanted… that. That’s why you did that. Because Scott told you.”

It’s Derek’s turn to blush, he can feel his ears burning. He doesn’t let himself look away, though, because Stiles still has that reckless tilt to his jaw, and Derek can’t be the first one to break here.

Instead, he says, “That’s not why.”

“It’s just,” Stiles says, as if Derek hadn’t spoken at all. “We have a lot of secrets. I have a lot of secrets. It’s sort of part of the job – helping you and Scott be the best alphas you can be. Helping keep him from being a dick to you just because he can, keeping you from being a dick to him because you’re bad at not being a dick sometimes. Making sure Scott doesn’t do anything stupid without telling you, working fucking hard to prove that you can trust me. Helping negotiate the boundaries between both Packs. Ensuring you and Scott talk to each other – do you have any idea how hard I had to work just to get Scott to stop sulking and agree to share Beacon Hills with you? I mean, I know you know it wasn’t easy, but you’d think that you and your betas would be the hard sell in that! But no! It was Scott! Maybe it’s because he didn’t see why it was so important, actually working it out, figuring out what it would mean to share territory or whatever, because he’s not a born wolf.” Stiles shrugs, takes a deep breath, and says, “But the point is, I keep secrets, Derek. We all keep secrets. It’s sort of important, in the whole interpack cooperation thing. Diplomacy and all that. Building trust. I keep secrets for Scott and I keep secrets for me and, and see, here’s the point. This thing that I have for you was the only secret I kept for me.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, helpless. “You don’t have to—”

“But Scott’s not just the True Alpha, he’s also my best friend. He knows me. And he can tell when something’s going on with me, and I can’t lie to him, so he figured it out, and he swore not to tell anybody. And that was okay. I didn’t want him to tell anybody. But then you come bursting in here, and you kiss the shit out of me, and for a second, I thought he had told and I was glad he had told. You see what I mean?”

“No,” Derek tells him. “But—”

“It’s just, if you’re going to probably burn to death in a stupid attempt to save my life,” Stiles says, scowling. “Then I thought maybe I should tell you. Because after all of this – the Hunt and this goddamned train station and the forgetting and the probable death – I just couldn’t figure out why I was trying so hard to keep it a secret. So I wanted to tell you. There it is. Boom. Derek Hale, I think you’re swell.” He smiles – his quirky, lopsided, sweet smile.

And Derek wonders when he started cataloguing all of Stiles’ smiles and despairs, just a little.

Stiles looks expectant, like he finally ran out of words and he’s willing to actually let Derek respond, and for a moment, Derek thinks the best possible response would be a deflection, or a gentle rejection, or something.

But if he is about to burn up and leave Stiles stuck in a magical train station for the rest of eternity alone, he probably owes him a little more.

So he takes a deep breath and says, “I kissed you because remembering you was like sunlight spilling into all the years that I’ve known you, like you breathed light and colour into everything, and… and…” he shrugs helplessly and confesses, “And it just didn’t make sense that remembering you could feel like that and not be love.”

Stiles blinks. “So what you’re saying is that you’ve got a thing for me too.”

“What I’m saying is that I didn’t think it was possible for you to mean that much to me and not know it.”

“Well,” Stiles says, licking his lips, hugging Derek’s jacket around him. “I’ve got pretty low self-esteem, so. I probably wouldn’t have noticed for, like, another decade, at least.” His face brightens and he beams at Derek. “We should –”

He doesn’t get to finish whatever he thinks they should do – probably make out, or date, or get married. Hell, Derek doesn’t want to know, except that he kind of does.

In any case, the buzzing of the portal interrupts him, and then the riders are back, their horses’ hooves pounding on the stone floor, their newest victims screaming as they’re dragged down the tunnel.

Stiles scrambles to his feet, going pale, and Derek grabs his arm before he can step out of the hidden alcove.

“Stay here,” he says, firm. “Don’t let them see you. I’ll come back for you.”

Stiles’ eyes are wide and dark. “Derek,” he says. “Wait. We—”

Derek only has a few moments. The riders will dump their prey and then be gone again. He quickly straightens his jacket around Stiles’ shoulders, and says, “I promise.”

“Derek,” Stiles says again, voice cracking. “Don’t – I can’t –”

Derek has to go, but he tugs the collar of his jacket, pulling Stiles close and kissing him. It’s a quick, hard kiss, he hasn’t got time for more – just a brush of lips and a hint of teeth dragging across Stiles’ bottom lip.

“Stay hidden,” he says, letting Stiles go reluctantly. “Wait for me.”

“Don’t forget me this time,” Stiles says shakily, but he lets Derek take a step back.

Derek smiles. “Not a chance,” he says, and Stiles looks like maybe he believes him.

Derek turns and leaves before he can change his mind. He times it perfectly, launching himself at the last rider. He lands on the horse’s back, behind the rider, digs in with his claws and his fangs, shoving the rider from the horse and through the portal seconds before he follows on horseback.

There’s a hiss of green electricity, a strange pressure, and then nothing but agony and the scent of burning flesh.

*

Derek isn’t sure how long it takes before he heals enough to be aware of the fact that he’s still alive and that most of his body is burned beyond functioning. He’s lying where he fell after bursting through the portal – in the clearing, right beside the Nemeton.

It hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt before, and every agonizing breath brings with it the scent of burning flesh, bringing back sharp memories of the night he lost most of his family to fire.

It takes even longer before his lungs have healed enough to draw a full breath, but as soon as they can, Derek closes his eyes, braces himself for the pain of movement, and howls for his pack.

Malia finds him first. It makes sense – she’s half feral, and her senses have always been sharper. She’s faster, too.

And it isn’t until she’s near enough that he can hear her sub-vocal growl as she stalks him through the trees that he remembers she isn’t going to remember him, even if he wasn’t burned beyond recognition.

He sees a flash of her blue eyes in the trees and manages to say her name, though his voice grates against his healing throat.

“Malia.”

She goes very still and then there’s a rustle, and Malia’s human face is peering blankly at him.

She blinks and then her eyes go wide. “Derek,” she says. “Holy shit, things make so much more sense now. Oh my god, you’re burned. Okay. Hold on, don’t move, let me just –”

And then she’s howling, the high-pitched, yipping coyote sound making him flinch. There are answering calls – he recognizes Erica and Boyd, and it eases something deep in his chest.

“I don’t have my phone,” she says, apologetic, falling to her hands and knees beside him. She’s naked but she’s always been less squeamish about it than the bitten wolves are. “What happened?” She reaches out to touch him but clearly thinks better of it, and he does his best to answer, but his voice is just a broken mess right now.

“Never mind,” she says. “Just lay still. You can talk when you’re healed. Boyd and Erica will be here in a few minutes. They’ve been going nuts without you – we couldn’t remember who their alpha was, and Scott was half convinced they were omegas. The hunters wanted to put them down, they were a little feral, but it was mostly just freaking out because they knew they had an alpha, and still had an alpha bond, but their alpha was just gone. It didn’t make any sense. But of course it does now, of course. How could we forget? You must have been taken by the Hunt.” Her eyes widen. “Did you find Stiles? How did you escape? Is that why you’re burned? Is Stiles okay? Did you remember him?”

He lets out a tight, painful breath, but he can feel his body slowly, slowly regenerating. Soon, he might even be able to answer her.

Before she can think of any more questions, Boyd and Erica burst through the underbrush in their beta forms, frantic.

“Derek,” Erica cries, voice cracking. “Derek, are you – is he—”

“Healing,” Malia says, getting to her feet. “It’ll go faster with you here. Stay with him, try not to touch him. I’ll get Scott. And a car. We’ll take him to Deaton.”

She shifts and is gone a moment later, and it takes all the strength Derek has to reach his twisted, burned hand towards Erica.

“I’m not supposed to touch you,” Erica says, eyes bright with tears. She takes his hand anyway, and it hurts like a bitch, but it also soothes him. After a moment, Boyd comes closer, carefully taking his other hand.

“Missed you,” Boyd confesses, swallowing hard.

Derek manages a quick, pained laugh. “Was only gone a few hours,” he breathes.

“Felt like forever,” Erica tells him.

*

They take him to Deaton, and Deaton forces him to drink down some foul tasting concoctions that are apparently going to help boost his healing ability. He injects Derek with something green that burns like a bitch, and when Derek is done screaming, most of the burned, dead skin has peeled away. Deaton bandages the raw flesh remaining, while Derek pants and tries not to scream again as his body starts regenerating healthy skin. Deaton orders Erica and Boyd to stay with Derek in the back room at the animal clinic while he returns to his regular clients.

Scott stays too, for a few minutes.

“So. So you found him? Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice still rougher than normal, but already stronger. Erica keeps forcing him to take tiny sips of water.

“And you remember him?” Scott asks.

Derek hums in agreement, obediently sipping at the water.

“And he’s okay? I still don’t…. I can’t remember him.” Scott looks frustrated. “We searched the Jeep but it didn’t help.”

“He was on the radio,” Derek says. “The police scanner. I started remembering him when I heard his voice, and it all came back when I saw him.”

“Don’t strain your voice,” Erica scolds.

“I promised we’d get him out,” Derek says, ignoring her advice. He’d already done his best to describe the train station, which Deaton had said probably existed on another plane, just a few steps away from this one. “The portal in and out is where Malia found me, by the nemeton.”

Scott is already nodding. “We’re setting up the trap for the Hunt at an electrical transformer, which Kira’s going to use to channel the lightning and summon the riders. We’ll kill them and—”

“They’re immortal,” Derek says. “Only Lydia can hurt them. And maybe Parrish. Stiles was coming to see me the night he disappeared to tell me – they’re fae, like banshees. It’s why they are afraid of Lydia. And they usually hunt with hellhounds… so either Parrish can help destroy them, or he’ll be forced to work with them. But we need to get Stiles and the others out first so the train station doesn’t fade away when they’re gone.”

Scott’s eyes are wide. “I’ll have Lydia talk to Parrish,” he says. “But are you sure we can’t take them on ourselves? We’re werewolves. I’m the True Alpha!”

Derek grimaces, his skin starting to peel. “Fae,” he insists. “Lydia and Parrish. Scott, they’ve got Hayden.”

“Who?”

He closes his eyes. “Your beta. Liam’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, shit,” Erica breathes. “No wonder he’s turned into such a little bastard.”

“Get Lydia and Parrish and your pack. We’ll go to the Nemeton and see if Lydia can pass through the portal,” Derek says, swallowing back a moan. The peeling away of dead, burned flesh hurts more than burning had in the first place.

“You can’t go anywhere!” Scott cries. “You almost died! You need to heal!”

“Give me 20 minutes,” he says grimly. “I’ll be fine.”

Erica helpfully holds the straw to his lips and he takes another careful sip.

*

It hurts to move and it hurts to breathe, but Derek hides it well enough so that Scott can’t argue when he shows up at the Nemeton a few hours later, once Parrish is off his shift at the Sheriff’s station.

Erica and Boyd know he’s not quite healed, of course, but they’d never betray that sort of secret to another pack, even one they work so closely with.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Lydia says as Derek, Erica and Boyd make their way into the clearing where Derek landed after coming through the portal. Her narrowed eyes are fixed on the Nemeton, however, and her head is cocked to the side, like she can hear something Derek can’t.

“We should have guessed the Nemeton had something to do with all this,” Scott says, prowling around the tree, flexing his claws.

Kira frowns, her eyes fixed on the ground. “It might not be the Nemeton, exactly,” she says. “This is also where the ley lines intersect, isn’t it? It’s an electrical gathering point, I can feel it. It’s sort of buzzing under my skin.”

Lydia climbs up onto the Nemeton, both hands outstretched, feeling something no one else can see. She hums a bit, thoughtful, and says, “Parrish, I need you.”

Parrish reluctantly hops up to join her, and she turns a cold glare on him. “Just don’t let the Hunt get into your head the way Jennifer did,” she says. Parrish starts to stammer something but she cuts him off. “Put your hand right here; the air is thicker. Can you feel it?”

He reaches out, pushing against nothing the way Lydia just did, and frowns. “That makes no sense. What is that?”

“Only one way to find out,” she says. “Help me push.” She glances over her shoulder at everyone else, one eyebrow raised, and waits until they scramble to put their earplugs in.

Erica has to help Derek because his hands are shaking too hard, but she doesn’t make a big deal about it.

And then Lydia pulls her hands back, opens her mouth, and screams, pushing forward with her entire body, turning the scream into a physical force that causes the air to ripple and pulse around her. It hits the thickened air in front of her like a pressure washer, and as it does, Parrish erupts into flames, roars, and shoves alongside it.

The earplugs do enough to take the edge off of Lydia’s scream, but Derek can feel the sonic boom snap in the air when whatever force Lydia and Parrish came up against suddenly gives way and shatters.

And then he’s staring into the familiar train tunnel, and nothing else matters anymore.

“Stiles!” he calls, tugging his earplugs out, staggering into the tunnel. The others, stunned, follow behind him, but it only takes seconds before Stiles appears at the other end of the tunnel. His eyes are wide and his face is pale again, and he doesn’t speak – just runs, colliding with Derek and nearly knocking him off his feet, his arms squeezing tight.

And it hurts. Derek is lightheaded from the pain but he doesn’t let Stiles know.

“I told you I’d come back,” Derek says, and Stiles just nods against his shoulder.

“Stiles,” Scott says, suddenly frantic. “Stiles, are you alright?”

Before Stiles can answer, the walls of the train station start to shudder, the old brick and stone holding them together knocked off balance by the force of Lydia and Parrish’s push that tore the portal open.

“It’s going to collapse,” Lydia says grimly. “And hopefully close the portal with it.”

“We need to get everyone else out!” Stiles says, pushing away from Derek and running back down the tunnel.

Derek follows. The other people are starting to wake, blinking sleepily and staring with various levels of bewildered panic as the room shakes again, walls starting to crumble. It’s chaos, trying to herd them out of danger, waking those who are still catatonic, keeping an eye on the state of the walls and the ceiling, because Derek is not going to let Stiles be trapped in this hellhole again. If it gets too dangerous, Derek will drag him out of there before the ceiling falls, whether or not they’ve saved everyone.

Liam is carrying Hayden out of the station, babbling about how he never forgot her, he swears, though he’s lying. And just as the roof starts to come down, they shove the last of the captives to safety and make it there themselves.

The portal disappears in a blink.

*

“Stiles and Derek should be resting,” Scott argues, as he reluctantly drives them through the Preserve towards the trap they’ve set. They aren’t sure how the Hunt will react to the destruction of their holding cell.

They’d called Chris and the sheriff to deal with the shell shocked captives, and the sheriff hadn’t even hesitated before insisting Derek make sure Stiles stays out of danger, as if he’d never forgotten him at all.

“Just try to drop Derek at home,” Erica says, riding shotgun. “He won’t listen.”

Derek and Stiles are pressed close together in the back – Stiles trembling, probably from sensory overload and adrenaline and exhaustion – and Derek doing his best to hide how much pain he still felt.

Erica looks back at them and smirks. “Welcome back, Stilinski,” she says. “You know what’s weird? I remember pretty much everything, except that you guys are apparently a thing.”

Derek glares at her and Scott gasps. “What?” he says, craning to look in the back seat instead of at the road. “They’re a what?!”

“I’m pretty sure we have more life-threatening things to worry about right now,” Stiles says, voice muffled against Derek’s shoulder.

*

Apparently Scott, Allison, Mason and Kira have built the trap in a transponder shack in the middle of the preserve, with a series of wires and antennae strapped together in the middle of a ring of iron bars that would, Derek assumes, hold the Hunt.

It looks rather unimpressive.

“This is why you guys don’t make the plans without me,” Stiles says, staring, when they arrive and Scott outlines the plan.

“It’ll work,” Kira says. “I think. I’ll draw the lightning here, through the lightning rod on the roof, and channel it there, in the middle of the cage. With the rod amplifying my abilities, I should be able to pull them all here. I think. And then, once they’re in the cage, I’ll create a vacuum, hold the lightning out so they can’t use it to escape.”

“Can you do all that?” Stiles asks, frowning.

She shoots him a look. “I’m a kitsune,” she says. “Lightning is kind of my bitch.” And then she looks a little less indignant and adds, “Besides. I spent those weeks with the Skin Walkers, remember? I’m a lot better at it. Especially calling it and holding it… that’s the easy part. Just give me a while before you ask me to shoot lightning out of my fingers or whatever. I’m still working on that.”

Thunder rumbles like a warning in the distance.

“Okay,” Scott says, surveying the gathered packs. Starting to feel weak, Derek gingerly leans against the wall, and Stiles looks at him suspiciously. “Stiles says only Lydia and Parrish can hurt these things, so the rest of us will act as backup. If the cage fails to hold, don’t let them near enough to take Lydia out of commission. Try to use their weapons against them, if you can. Derek, make sure they don’t get near Stiles… I still think you should wait in the car, Stiles. Corey will get Mason out of here as soon as Mason has the transponder working. Both of you go outside and get the lightning rod off the roof – the less lightning we attract after they’re here, the less Kira has to control. Allison, take a position outside, and if any of them leave the shack, take them out.”

It’s chaos – there are too many people in too small a space, and Derek is beginning to tremble from exhaustion. He’s glad Scott’s there to take control, because he’s not quite feeling up to being the alpha right now. He can make sure Stiles is safe, though.

“You sure you’re okay?” Stiles asks him, quiet, so the others don’t hear over the crackle of electricity as the transponder is turned on and Kira starts channeling electric currents.

“Just tired,” he says with a reassuring smile. “I’ll have to sleep for a week after this, that’s all.”

Stiles doesn’t look like he believes him, but there’s a sudden snap as Kira’s fingers start sparking.

“I can feel them,” she says, voice crackling like static. “Hold on.”

And then the transponder explodes in a shower of sparks and an arc of lightning bursts from Kira’s fingers, tracing a jagged path to the device in the middle of the cage. It lights up like a firework, smelling of burnt plastic and ozone, and then suddenly, the electric currents die, and the 12 riders of the Hunt stand together inside the cage

They’re making quiet, eerie sounds, clicks and whistles, and Parrish says, “They’re speaking. I can understand what they’re saying – they want me to fight for them. To let them out.”

“I hope you don’t intend to,” Lydia says, arching an eyebrow.

Parrish shakes his head with a rueful smile. “I don’t think it’ll do any good,” he tells her. “The hellhound is pretty, uh. Attached. To you.”

She lets out a tight breath and says, “Okay. Can you talk to them? Ask them what they want.”

Parrish’s eyes start glowing with flickering flames, the same shades of orange licking over his skin, as he starts speaking the same strange language as the riders. After a moment, he shakes his head. “They say they want to harvest everyone in Beacon Hills, I think. I’m not sure.”

“Well, tell them that I suggest, if they want to continue harvesting, they do it elsewhere,” Lydia snaps.

“Lydia,” Scott cautions. “We can’t let them do this somewhere else.”

She shoots him a quick glare and says, “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one expected to execute them.”

“They said if you wish to stop them, you’re welcome to try,” Parrish says, apologetic.

Lydia takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s do this. Earplugs, everyone.”

She waits until they’ve all jammed earplugs into their ears before she screams, shoving the force forward at the riders, who begin to howl. It’s an eerie, breathy sound that makes Derek’s skin crawl, and then, under all that noise, he hears Kira suck in a startled breath and whisper, “Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks her urgently.

“Lydia’s scream is interfering with the electric current,” she says, eyes wide, face tight with strain. “It’s making the bars vibrate, and the frequency is pulling the electricity, and I don’t know how long I can keep forcing it… And if I don’t have full control, the riders will. They’ll escape – disappear or attack or –”

“Okay,” Derek says. “Can you get rid of it somehow? So they can’t use it?”

She shoots him a quick look and says, “Yeah. But. But it’ll hurt. I can… pull it inside me. Absorb it. It’s how the fox spirit is fed, but this much… it’ll overwhelm me. It’ll burn me out.”

“But you’ll recover,” he says quickly, because Scott is busy over by Lydia, and he hasn’t heard anything Kira has said, or realized that there’s a problem. Derek knows Scott wouldn’t let Kira do anything risky, but it may be their only chance. “Won’t you?”

She hesitates. “Yes,” she says. “I’ll heal. Not as fast as you. But I will. But the cage will fall.”

“Okay. Can you do it?” he asks. “It’ll weaken them enough so we can keep them from Lydia, and Parrish will be able to help take them down once the cage is down.”

She swallows hard but nods. “Okay. Warn them, though.”

“You’ve got this,” he tells her, brushing a hand over her shoulder and getting an electric shock in return. Then he turns to the other and shouts, “The cage is coming down.”

Scott just has enough time to turn, eyes wide, and say, “What?”

And then Kira sucks in a harsh breath and there’s a strange tugging sensation, static electricity crawling over Derek’s skin. It feels like all the air is gone from the room for a moment, and Derek is close enough to Kira to feel it snap into her, like an elastic band. The explosion is more violent than he expected it to be, a shower of sparks shooting from her skin as she arches back and screams. Derek can smell burning flesh as the electricity tears through her, and then, with a flash of light, it’s gone.

She waves for a moment before collapsing, unconscious, and a second later, the iron bars holding the riders fall to the ground.

Stiles throws himself to the ground beside Kira, dragging her out of harm’s way, and Derek’s only got a few moments – enough time to grab Scott, who is frantically trying to shove his way to Kira’s side, and say, “Stiles has her. We have to end this.”

And then he shifts and leaps into the battle. He can’t hurt the riders, but he can pin them, push them, hold them back from rushing Lydia. He can make sure the riders don’t have a chance to hit anybody with their whips or bullets. He can guard Parrish’s flank as the hellhound takes over, destroying riders with brutal blows that tear right through muscle and bone.

Lydia is still using her screams as a weapon, tearing at the riders, and the floor is slick with blood – both theirs, and fae blood, which is strange and dark.

The battle seems endless and Derek’s body was already pushed beyond his limits. He can feel his muscles giving out as he grows more and more desperate, his vision beginning to swim. And then Scott gets his hand on one of the riders’ whips and starts to tear them apart.

It ends quickly after that, and when the last rider falls, Derek is on his knees, panting, stained with blood. Malia is instantly at Lydia’s side as Lydia’s legs start to give out, and Parrish’s flames flicker and die out.

Allison appears in the doorway, pouting, and says, “None tried to escape. You didn’t save me any fun.”

It’s like he’s seeing everything from far away, Derek realizes. He’s bleeding in half a dozen places, and he really couldn’t afford to lose any more blood.

He has enough strength left to check that Erica and Boyd are alright, and then search for Stiles, who is still with Kira and relatively untouched.

And that’s all he can manage before the room spins sickeningly and everything goes black before his head hits the floor.

*

Derek wakes up in his own bedroom as the door opens, and when Erica sees he’s awake, she beams at him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d wake up today but I brought soup just in case!” she says.

“Soup?” he echoes skeptically, because he’s so hungry, he could pretty much eat an entire deer right now. And then he blinks. “Today? How long have I been out?”

“Four days,” she says. “Deaton said not to worry, that you were just an idiot for pushing yourself beyond the point of exhaustion before you were fully healed.” She pauses, glancing at the bowl of soup in her hands, and then says, “Left over roast beef instead?”

“Please.”

She’s gone for a few minutes, long enough for him to catalogue his faded aches and pains, and to wonder what the fuck had happened while he’d been gone. It also gives him time to notice all the Get Well Soon balloons clustered in the corner.

She comes back with a massive roast beef sandwich and says, “You probably have questions. Let me see if I can answer then while you eat.”

He digs into the sandwich and she says, “We think we got all the riders. There haven’t been any signs of the Hunt since we trapped them, and none of them survived. The sheriff has helped all the people from that train station find their ways home, and it’s like they were never gone. It’s almost like they’re forgetting all about that whole incident. Hayden’s doing fine, and Liam is being sickeningly attentive to her. Scott is pissed because of the whole Kira frying herself thing, and you’ll probably be hearing from him about that, but she’s doing okay. Deaton says she won’t be able to do much for a while, but her abilities will come back once her energy is back.”

Derek swallows the last bit of sandwich, hesitates, and says, “And Stiles?”

“Right! He’s hanging out with his dad. The sheriff has not forgotten the whole incident, probably because he knows what actually happened, and he’s pretty shaken up about it. But Stiles has stopped in a bunch of times, brought all those –” She gestures to the balloons. “And he calls for updates a million times a day. And he’s been texting. I read them all, they’re sadly not all that interesting, considering that you guys are a thing now.”

“We’re not a thing,” Derek says, grabbing his phone off the bedside table. He pulls up the messages, skims through them. There are plenty of ‘are you awake yet’s and a few ‘u up?’ and some ‘GET WELL SOON SOURWOLF’s, and one ‘we need to talk.’

That’s ominous. He probably wants to talk about how he hadn’t meant the things he said when Derek found him. He had been emotionally unstable. Vulnerable. Lonely and desperate for affection. He probably regretted all of it and Derek didn’t blame him.

“Whoa,” Erica says, shaking her head. “Calm down. You’ve got your murder brows on, and I’m not sure Stiles deserves that, even if he has been driving me nuts.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “Forget it.”

There’s a beat of silence and she breaks it by saying brightly, “I’ll make another sandwich!”

Stiles texts while she’s gone, and Derek doesn’t text back. When Erica comes back, he tells her not to tell Stiles he’s awake, or let him in to visit.

He just… needs a few days to recover, and having that conversation won’t help.

*

Derek is in the kitchen cradling a mug of coffee and staring blearily out the window when Stiles shows up at the door, and Derek can’t help jumping at the angry knock. Normally, he’d have heard a visitor coming a mile away, but his senses are still dull, his reflexes still sluggish.

He flinches when Erica throws the door open and Stiles storms in, shouting, “What do you mean, I can’t come and visit? That’s ridiculous, you can’t just suddenly decide I’m not allowed to see him. Just because I’m not Pack doesn’t mean—”

Stiles freezes when he makes it to the kitchen door, eyes going wide as he stares at Derek. “Oh,” he says. “You woke up.”

Erica grimaces over Stiles’ shoulder. “Sorry, boss,” she says. “I tried to keep him out.”

“Not very hard,” Derek says, because she basically just let him waltz right into the kitchen. But Derek can’t blame her, really. He has trouble saying no to Stiles too.

“You’re the one who didn’t want me to visit anymore,” Stiles realizes. He looks stricken.“You’re the one who didn’t want me.”

“Probably for the best,” Erica says with a shrug, turning away. “You were supposed to stop being such an ass when we got him back, but if anything, it’s gotten worse. I’m going out. Fix this.”

She slams the door behind her.

“You could have just said something,” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest and sounding defiant, like his eyes aren’t still wide and hurt. “I’ve thought a lot of shitty things about you, but I never thought you were a coward. If you didn’t mean what you said, before, you should have just told me.”

Setting his coffee cup aside, Derek closes his eyes. “You said we needed to talk,” he says.

“And clearly we do! I mean, I’m not an idiot, Derek! I put you in a pretty situation, what other option did you have except to play along – oh, god, I took advantage. Like Kate. Like Jennifer. Oh my god.”

“No,” Derek says quickly, shaking his head and stepping closer. “No, Stiles, that’s not what I meant. You didn’t take advantage. I’m the one that kissed you! If anything, it was me who… but listen. You said we needed to talk!”

“Yeah,” Stiles says slowly, eyes shining suspiciously. “But I guess you’ve never been good with words, so instead you just… didn’t text me back. Didn’t tell me you were awake. Didn’t – didn’t let me visit.”

“I wasn’t… ready,” Derek confesses, because he doesn’t know what else to do to take the stricken look off Stiles’ face. “To talk.”

Stiles throws his hands up. “Why!”

“Because the only thing I could imagine you wanting to say to me was that it was a mistake.” Derek looks away quickly, trying to sound casual, but his voice is rougher than he wants it to be. “And I wasn’t ready to hear it. When you were gone, I spend hours picking through every aspect of my life, finding all the places where something was missing, and it was everywhere… my entire life is wrapped around you, and I didn’t know, until you were gone. And I wasn’t ready to… lose that.”

Stiles stares at Derek for a long moment, before falling bonelessly into a chair at the kitchen table. He taps his fingers on the table top, seeming to choose his words very carefully.

“I told my dad,” Stiles says finally. “About you. And me. And everything. And he lost it, a little. And he’s demanding you come over for dinner within a week of recovering, so he can clean his gun and glare at you while he does it.”

Derek frowns. “I have dinner with your dad nearly every week anyway,” he says.

“Yeah, but never as… as my boyfriend.” Stiles clears his throat, flushing, and adds, “That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

Derek drops into the chair across from him. He stares, just as long as Stiles had, and says, “Oh.”

“But if you want to take it all back, we can—”

“No,” Derek says quickly. “Do you?”

“No.”

It’s quiet again, but softer now. Derek can’t help a small, stupidly shy smile, and Stiles seems intrigued by it.

“So… dinner?” Stiles asks. “He’s getting wolfsbane bullets from Allison’s dad.”

“Worth it,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs. Holding out a hand for him, Derek tugs Stiles closer, saying, “C’mere, I missed you.”

“Your fault,” Stiles scolds, before kissing him sweetly.

It’s like the sun rising, and Derek doesn’t know how he ever could have forgotten Stiles the first time, but he knows it’ll never happen again.

The End