rotten to the touch; luke castellan
series masterlist
wc: 3.2k
pairing: pre-tlt luke castellan x f! reader
synopsis: you’re pretty sure you’re an awful person. you’re pretty sure luke castellan is too. and you’re pretty sure you want to make out with him.
warnings: reader is flawed & not the greatest, luke is ... a little dark🫣, small mention of blood, swearing, lots of making out but no explicit nsfw, a bit toxic, & no more more ‘i can fix him’ or ‘i can make him worse’ it’s ‘he can make ME worse’
notes: this is… sluttier than my usual stuff so it’s not as good but i’m trying, feedback is appreciated! also i wonder what cabin we think this reader would be in, let me know where you’d place her im curious :) maybe i’ll write more of her in the future she’s interesting!! and thank you for 100 followers i am so grateful<3 designated song for this fic is crush by ethel cain
You are a miserable, wicked, asshole of a person, and everybody knows it. Including you.
It’s unclear to you why you turned out this way—every reason to blame never satiates the fury searing your insides. All the campers hate you. The counsellors, too. Even Chiron looks down on the viciousness inside you. You are Camp Half-Blood’s black sheep; a mean, bitter person with no love for the people around you. And it’s not just for show. You know you’re rotten. You know the anger will never go away.
It’s evident in the things you think about other people—the way you pick them apart in your head, toss them aside, because they just don’t see it. This miserable, unforgiving world, with children sleeping on wooden floors because the people who created you think you disposable. Because they can just make more of you. More, more, more, until one of you comes out rotten, born of all the ugliness they have inside them. You are the worst parts of Godly blood. The wrathful parts.
Everyone hates you. Everyone hates a person with an unquenchable anger.
But everyone loves Luke Castellan.
He’s a saint at Camp Half-Blood if there ever was one. Handsome, generous, kind. Goes out of his way to help out the new kids and gives them homes in his cabin. He’s the best swordsman in camp by a mile. Shit, you’d even love Luke Castellan if you didn’t know any better.
But you do, and you don’t, and it’s complicated, okay?
Because there’s something you know about Luke Castellan that nobody else does: he’s miserable and wicked, too.
You see it in his eyes sometimes. The way they look at you at dinner, when you’re picking at your food away from anyone else at your table. Something familiar rises in them, and your stomach twists. His body tenses whenever someone mentions his father, but the smiles he flashes are so charismatic nobody notices. But you do. It’s exciting.
During sword practice, he quips back and forth with the kids and laughs whenever they take a jab at him. He’s light, easy, carefree. But you see how he holds back, the tension in his shoulder, the way the arc of his sword never fully finishes. So you wait until everybody leaves and he’s alone, with the training dummies and the setting sun. And you. Hiding.
He slashes through them and spears through their heads. You see it, the gnashing of his teeth, the sweat curling down his cheeks. There’s something there. A chasm he’s hopeless to fill.
Before you know it, you’re going out of your way to catch him training alone. It’s creepy, you know, and awful, you know, but the more you watch him the more you see a sort of violence scabbed under his skin.
Whenever you see him now, the feeling you get is entirely foreign to you. It’s almost . . . longing.
Wherever she is, you’re pretty sure Aphrodite’s having a cosmic fucking laugh. And you’re sure she’s laughing double tonight.
The Aphrodite cabin is hosting some secret party for the older counsellors. You’re definitely of age to be a counsellor, but you’ve never been made one because that would probably make half the campers drop out. Chiron and Mr. D don’t know what to do with you. You’re sure you’ll be kicked out of camp soon for good.
But you’re here anyways, for a reason you don’t want to admit, and you stay tucked in a corner as the world around you mingles. Luke is on the other side of the room, lovely as always, laughing with a few other counsellors. He brings a drink up to his lips, and you have a startling thought of what it would be like to kiss him. And you’re fucked. You’re so fucked. Because for the first time in your life you want something tangible, something real. You want to hear him and feel him and pry him apart, and a part of you wants him to actually see you, see all the awful things that might make you the same. You feel like a teenage girl with a crush, and it is infuriating.
An Aphrodite girl comes up to you with a foolish smile. “Hey, sorry, you want a drink?”
“Fuck off, you idiot,” you snarl.
You wait for her to leave. She doesn’t. “You know, you don’t have to be so mean all the time,” she says evenly. “If you’re here, you might as well enjoy it. So yes, I want to give you a drink.”
“Have you ever thought that I’m not being mean? Maybe I just am.”
You glare at her. She looks you up and down. “Sure,” she shrugs, walking away. There’s a vivid picture in your mind of her falling through a hole in the cabin floor. It doesn’t soothe you, but at least the fantasy is there.
The night drones on. You’re sick of the smells and the laughs and the heat. And you’re sick of yourself. You can’t believe, underneath all your sourness, you came here to stare at a boy you barely know, and you don’t even know why. He’s fascinating, and you resent him, and he’s also beautiful. But he’s looked back at you all of three times tonight and you’re sick of the way your skin crawls when he does.
Leaving the cabin brings the relief of the cool night air, and the singularity of your body. You are the only one who feels this rage. You are the only one who hates.
To stave off your discomfort you walk around to the back of the cabin, to the crest of the hill facing the water. The stars above twinkle at you in spite. There’s a bitterness in your throat you want to wash down with something worse (maybe you should have taken that drink), but you know it won’t matter. Nothing matters. Those stars and whatever they hide are apparently the only important things in the universe, so why should anyone care about anything?
They stars only get brighter. It’s probably their goal to piss you off. You grunt, “Oh, fuck you,” to them. It’s not enough, never nearly enough to expel the rotten part of you. “Fuck you. Fuck off!” You groan at the sky. Nothing happens. Until:
“I’m guessing you’re not having a fun night.”
You whirl around. It’s hard to see in the dark, but whatever light is left catches a long scar on a cheek. Your stomach knots.
“Yeah, me neither,” Luke Castellan says, hands in his pockets as he meanders towards you.
Even when he’s close enough, you don’t say anything. If you do, you’re afraid it’ll be something ugly. Like I kind of want to make out with you. Are you awful too? I need a lobotomy.
The thoughts almost make you laugh. Been a long time since you’ve been funny.
He nods at the sky. “Those things don’t talk. You do know that, right?” He’s still so captivating, so self-assured, even when there’s no one around but you.
“Gods, you’re the worst,” you scoff. You really mean it, so you can’t look him in the eye.
“Then why have you been staring at me all night?”
It catches you so off-guard that you whip back to face him. He has an eyebrow raised and the itch of a smile that makes you burn with shame. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He shrugs, leaning against the cabin wall. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been brooding in the corner watching me the second you came in.” He cocks his head to the side, adding, “Actually, you stare at me all the time. At meals and stuff. I really hope you don’t think you’re being subtle.”
You huff. “Okay, if we’re really being honest here, you started that! You do it too! All the time!”
His hands shot up like he was being arrested. “Hey, I never said I minded it. A guy’s . . . just gotta wonder. What’s up with you spying on me when I’m training alone, anyways?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You watch me when there’s nobody else around. I’m not blind. It’s weird. If you want tips you can just ask me. Or if you like what you’re looking at, at least be upfront about it.”
You speak before you can take in that last sentence, or the way his smile took pride in itself when he said it, or how embarrassed you should probably feel. “You didn’t answer my question about why you started staring at me first.”
The anger (shame) blinding you made you forget how close you are to him right now. Close enough to touch, but not enough to see. But almost there. Almost.
“People think you’re mean,” Luke says after a moment, his dark eyes probing you. The words curl out of his mouth slowly, like he’s choosing them all with care. “You’re rude. You never listen to anyone. You judge everything. They all think you’re awful.” Again, he looks you over. “I’m not so sure.”
“If I’m awful, then you’re awful,” you spit before he can say anything else.
He just shrugs. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m not sure.”
It’s irritating, his calmness. He has the same anger you do. How come he can just . . . shove it down? You try to unearth any fury in his eyes, but it’s too far back. Simmering. “Jesus,” you mutter, “You’re worse than me.”
He looks genuinely taken aback by this. His scar deepens when his brows wrinkle. “What?”
“You’re a pretender—that’s what you are.” It’s your turn now, to step closer, to make his skin crawl. “Look at you. Everyone loves you. You’re this perfect golden boy and you’re sweet and attentive and whatever the fuck but you know it’s one giant lie. At least I’m honest, but you just sit pretty and act like you don’t have that . . . thing that I have. Resentment. Insanity. Whatever you want to call it. We’re the same, but I’m the only one getting shit for it.”
Now, you are close enough to really see him. The patterns on the wood behind him frame the vision of his ever-shifting face. You realize that this, like most things are to Luke Castellan, is a challenge. You also can’t remember the last time you saw him lose one.
But when you play, you play to win.
“You don’t know that,” he dares.
“Oh, I do. You’re rotten, Castellan,” you sneer, index finger jabbed into his chest. You can feel his heartbeat if you concentrate. “And you’re not owning up to it, so you’re also a coward.”
However scathing you look, it isn’t enough. If anything it only makes Luke’s manner more playful. Nothing feels playful anymore. Everything, inside and outside of your mind, feels like constant, exhausting war. Maybe that’s why you don’t slap his hand off you when it wraps around your wrist, keeping it pressed to the middle of his chest. His heartbeat thrums through you.
He tilts his face towards you, grinning, “Then why do you want to kiss me?”
All right. What the fuck. It feels like you’ve been electrocuted.
“What the—what are you talking about?” You blunder, but he knows, of course he knows, because there’s something between the two of you that has been formed and understood by eye contact alone. He can probably read your mind. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you’d like to read his just as much.
He cocks his head. “I mean, you did call me pretty,” he teases, and it’s almost endearing. “You’re pretty like this too.” His other hand comes up to your face, and you’re surprised you don’t flinch when his thumb gently smooths the crease in your eyebrows. “Don’t call me a coward, heathen. Then we’ll both be embarrassed.”
The nickname makes you want to fight, but the touch makes you dizzy. “You don’t want to kiss me, Luke,” you say with all the control you have, which, right now, is increasingly sparse.
“You’ve gotta stop telling people what they want,” he muses. The hand on your wrist traces further down your forearm. The one on your face snakes around your hips. “One of your more disagreeable qualities.”
His words fan over you. That fire simmering in his eyes has finally come to the surface.
“One of?” You challenge.
“You let me make out with you and I’ll give you a whole list.”
You snort, hoping it hides the shortness in your breath. “What a charmer you are.”
His lips brush yours. “Well, that’s what makes me so rotten, isn’t it?”
There’s hardly time to unravel if that’s a question or a statement because you grab a fistful of his shirt and he kisses you. Your heart detonates. It is not rotten in the slightest.
His body is warm and firm. You smell the cabin wood and the drink on his breath. It all matters, and none of it does. You’re warm everywhere as he wraps both arms around your back, and the way he kisses is, unfortunately, exactly how you thought he would. Your hands are tentative in his hair. So is your mouth on his. But Luke is so deliberate in the way he kisses that you know he’s thought about this, too. It makes you all the warmer.
His hand takes your jaw and tilts it up. You know your neck is shaky with breath, and you’re pretty sure he’s admiring it. You don’t complain when he presses a kiss to your jaw, then another one, like he’s testing the waters. “You’re so nice like this,” he mutters almost to himself, thumb running across your neck. “If only people could see you.”
“Then they’d see how mean you are too, no?” You huff. “You don’t want that.”
Another kiss to your jaw. “Not yet, sweetheart.”
Whatever feeling is harbouring in your body right now, it’s so fulfilling it almost makes you uncomfortable. You want to reject it. You’re not supposed to want things. Worse, you’re not supposed to get things. Luke starts marking a path down your neck and you are so determined to enjoy this that you’d kiss a fucking baby if someone asked you to. You might as well be a saint.
He bites the pulse point on your neck, sure to leave a mark, and a shudder rips through you. You’re pretty sure the bastard starts laughing. You hit his shoulder in retaliation.
“Easy, heathen,” he reprimands in your ear, and you know he’s still smiling.
“Don’t—don’t call me that.” You hate that you start to smile, too, and that your stomach burgeons with butterflies when he pulls back to look at you.
He touches the corner of your upturned mouth, kiss-bitten and red. His expression is boyish. “Hard to when it makes your face do that,” he goads. “I thought it was impossible for you to smile.”
“Be quiet.” You thread a hand through his camp necklace and bring him closer. You can almost taste his mouth on yours, but he sweeps past you at the last minute.
He gently tugs your earlobe with his teeth and whispers, “Yes ma’am.”
Fuck him. Seriously. You might have to.
It’s a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath his shirt and he does the same, and you’re both angry and greedy and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet. Now you’re just teenagers fooling around at the back of a party, and it’s the first good thing either of you have had in a long time. Luke leaves you gasping whenever his mouth hits certain places, maybe too many places, and he teases you accordingly. “So sensitive,” he taunts, pressing his knee between your legs so he can see you squirm. You rake your nails through his scalp and he tilts his head back to groan. It shuts him up for a while.
He bites your neck until you say his name. You trace lines on his stomach till he takes your hand in his own. You’ve been hungry for something your whole life, and you finally have something to sink your teeth into. For better or for worse.
After Hades knows how long, laughter floats out from the front of the cabin. Sounds of feet tripping over each other and muffled goodbyes. You pull away from Luke, chests heaving together. His hair is wild, his shirt crumpled, and he looks entirely satisfied with it. Smug little shit. “Party’s letting out,” you mutter.
“What a damn shame.” His hand rubs your jaw, and it’s too tender a gesture so you angle your head away to peek over the side of the cabin. You barely pay attention to the kids straggling back to their bunks.
“Is now the time you tell me all my horrible qualities?” You ask once you’re ready to look at him again.
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Actually, I came up with more since I said that so I’m pretty sure it’ll take more than one night.” He fakes a wince, “Might have to spread it out for a few days.”
You roll your eyes, “Oh, you ass.”
“I’ll give you one for starters.” You feel like a tornado when he kisses the juncture between your jaw and your neck. “Your hands are too cold.” They’re tucked underneath his shirt right now, pressed against his back. You don’t move them. “And,” he adds, “you’re incredibly crass.”
“Thanks, dipshit.”
“Thank you for proving my point, heathen.”
The commotion at the front gets louder, and you know your time to go undiscovered runs short. “You meet me again tomorrow, and I start telling you the rest?” He raises his brows.
The prospect both repulses and excites you, although perhaps they’re hand-in-hand. You tentatively reach up to trace the scar on his face. A faint, jagged line that holds scripture within it. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Even though I’m rotten?” You ask, and there’s an echo of mischief in your voice, too.
He’s got a strange expression when he looks at you. “That’s not true.”
He leans down, angles his head to kiss you. It’s slow, but bitter, and he bites down on your lip until you’re pretty sure there’s blood. “Luke,” you murmur, and he kisses you softer. You lean into him like a hapless, lovesick fool.
After you part, he loosens his grip on you. The bumbling campers have gotten louder. He stares at you, and you see the chasm in his eyes again, brimming with fire. Same as yours. You know you’ll see him tomorrow.
He says, “You’re not rotten. You’re right.”
And damn it, you really do believe him.
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Part 8: The Favor
Teen Wolf : Multishot
Stiles Stilinski x Reader
Word Count: 13.5k
Warnings: series rewrite, season 2 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, Stiles pining and depressed, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, talk of scars {good}, amnesia, finger picking, AGAIN ANGSTY AS HELL
Request: This just came from my own head 😊
A/N: Don't worry
100% recommend listening to rain sounds when you get to the end part where it's a thunderstorm.
Part 7: The Summer Filter
Part 8: The Favor {You Are Here}
“No, I’m sorry, who are you?” The look on your face sends a wave of hurt down Stiles. “How do you know my name?”
He’s gripping the steering wheel of the jeep, cruising with Scott and Allison in the car. Lydia had gone missing about twenty minutes ago, the police at the hospital taking witness statements and rallying an APB.
With you indisposed, the trio decide to take matters into their own hands. That doesn’t mean Stiles is free of the hurt. You really have no idea who he is.
“Alright, but if Lydia’s turning, would they actually kill her?”
Allison is fretful, “I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything. Okay, all they say is, ‘We’ll talk after Kate’s funeral when the others get here.’”
“What others?” Stiles looks in the rearview mirror.
“They won’t tell me that, either.”
Stiles sighs, “Okay, your family’s got some serious communication issues to work on.” He yells at Scott whose head is out the window, “Scott, are we going the right way?”
Scott sniffs the rushing air and says, “Take the next right!”
“This is really turning into a real shit night.”
Allison is chewing on her fingers, “(Y/N) really doesn’t remember us?”
“She’s lost her memory from the last few months,” Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. “She remembers last summer but doesn’t remember starting her job at the hospital. That means her memory stops around October of last year.”
“God…” Allison mumbles, “Did they say if her memory would come back?”
Stiles digs his thumb into the ridges of the wheel, “They called it retrograde amnesia, and there’s a chance the memory loss could come back if they treat the underlying cause. But the cause was an anoxic brain, and they just needed to oxygenate her body to fix that. I don’t…” he slams a hand against the wheel as Scott slides back into the car. “This is what happened to…”
“Happened to…?” Allison presses, but it was Scott who answers.
“His mom,” Scott’s voice was quiet and full of sympathy. “There were days she didn’t know who Stiles was.”
Allison looks mortified, “Stiles, I am so…”
“How close are we?” Stiles cuts in, jaw set.
Scott points toward the woods, “It’s coming from that direction. We’re definitely closer – the scent is stronger.”
“There’s no way she’s a werewolf, right?” Allison says in a shaky voice, an attempt to get past the topic of you. Clearly this expedition to save Lydia was a way to distract Stiles. “You said her bite didn’t heal.”
“I know,” Scott frowns, not-so-subtly looking over at his friend to gauge the hurt he was feeling. “Maybe it was a late reaction?”
“I don’t think so,” Stiles muses, tone a little rigid, “This has got to be something else. Peter made it clear that she either turns or she’s dead.”
Scott directs the jeep further into the woods, “Maybe we should try to get ahold of Derek?”
“I’m done being on speaking terms with psychotic alpha werewolves,” Stiles goes off road into the trees and leaf-strewn ground. “I want that guy out of here by the next full moon.”
“Do you think he’ll leave town now that he’s gotten his revenge?” Allison muses, eyeing the back of Stiles’ head just as much as Scott was looking. “He avenged his sister, right?”
Scott shrugs, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to create a pack of his own.”
“And he can do that somewhere else,” Stiles scoffs, bouncing along with the jeep, “Go back to wherever he was the last six years.”
“(Y/N) wasn’t bitten, right?” Allison asks quietly.
Stiles is quick with the answer, “No, just… she was just thrown around a bit. No teeth action.”
“With all the supernatural stuff happening to us… hearing about (Y/N)’s heart problems just seems so – human, don’t you think?”
Scott gives his girlfriend a warning look, “Yeah, you’re right.”
“I think her memory will…”
“Can we drop the whole (Y/N)-amnesia thing?!” Stiles grumbles.
Allison is swift in her retort, “She’s my friend too, Stiles. I’m allowed to be worried about her just as much as you!”
“Let’s not do this right now,” Scott says in a louder voice. “Lydia’s scent is coming from there.”
Stiles parks the jeep, leading the way into the moonlit forest and the house far in the distance. The Hale House. He’s still grumpy as he asks, “She came here? You sure?”
Scott stands back with Allison, hands nearly touching, “Yeah, this is where the scent leads.”
They keep walking, “Alright, but has Lydia ever been here?”
Allison shakes her head, “Not with me. I don’t think with (Y/N) either.” She talks with Scott in hushed tones, “Maybe she came here on instinct, like she was looking for Derek.”
“You mean, looking for an Alpha.”
“Wolves need a pack, right?” she asks, “Would she have been drawn to an Alpha? Is it an instinct to be part of a pack?”
“Yeah, we’re stronger in packs.” They watch Stiles wander around the tree line, inspecting the area as he goes. “Like literally stronger, faster, better in every way.”
They could see the breaths coming from their mouths, it was so cold. Allison pulls her beanie over her ears, “That’s the same for an Alpha?”
Scott nods as something tightens around his ankle and lifts him into the air. Allison muffles a scream and backs away, watching her boyfriend be pulled toward a tree.
Stiles makes a funny choking sound, squatting on the ground and holding a black wire between his fingers, “Sorry, buddy.”
“Stiles, next time you see a tripwire… don’t trip it.”
Allison smiles, cheeks rosy from the cold, “Let’s get….”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Scott flails in the air, waving them off, “Someone’s coming. Hide!”
The pair of them jump into action, Stiles grabbing Allison’s arm to pull her back towards the woods. No sooner had their footsteps soften on the leaves as they hide behind a tree, did a group of hunters appear from the backside of the house.
“Oh, shit,” Allison mumbles into Stiles’ shoulder, “They probably thought about Derek too.”
“I can’t hear anything they’re saying,” Stiles bemoans, “This is stupid.”
Allison clutches his arm, “It’s going to be okay.”
In a quick motion, Stiles slams his head into the tree. Considering they were already pressed into it, the hit wasn’t that hard. “Things are anything but okay.”
~~~
The boys huddle into the locker rooms as Coach yells for them. Isaac fumbles with his equipment, joining the back of the pack.
“Quicker!” Finstock yells, “Danny, put a shirt on.” The coach prattles on, “Stilinski, that means you! Let’s go, gather round. Listen up.”
Isaac searches the office wall behind Finstock, looking for you. You were always near the Coach during team meetings, usually holding an energy drink or pointing out things Finstock failed to mention to the team.
But you are nowhere to be seen.
“Police are asking for help on a missing child advisory. It’s a sick girl, roaming around, totally naked.”
Isaac remembers how the Sheriff questioned him about the same advisory that morning when he reported the strange grave robbery at the cemetery.
“Now, it’s supposed to get below 40 degrees tonight. I don’t know about you, but the last time it was that cold, and I was running around naked… I lost a testicle to exposure. Now, I don’t want the same thing happening to some innocent girl. So police are organizing search parties for tonight.” The Coach brandishes a piece of paper and Isaac can visualize the rolling of your eyes at the poor delivery of the speech.
Finstock tapes the paper to his office window, “Sign up, find the missing girl, you get an automatic ‘A’ in my classes.” He smiles at the instantaneous cheers, but Isaac is of the few standing still.
He holds his duffel bag and looks for you again. There was no way you’d let Coach give students straight A’s like that. You were his voice of reason – the only way classes came out coherently and fairly graded.
A swarm of players rush past him, but Isaac lets his eyes roam until he finds Stiles and Scott. He knew you were friendly with those two, more so than him at least. He walks over to the boys at the shower entrance.
“Um… hey…” he says awkwardly, holding the strap of his bag with two tight hands.
Scott looks taken aback, but is friendly anyways, “Hey, Isaac.”
Stiles is a little more blunt, “What do you want?”
“I uh… I wanted to ask where (Y/N) was,” he wrings his hands, “Usually she’s at these team meetings.” He notices the way Stiles looks to the ground, letting Scott speak first.
“She’s still at the hospital,” he says calmly, “She won’t be back for a while.”
Isaac knits his brow, “Oh, is she okay?” Again, he notices how Stiles scoffs at his shoes.
“Yeah,” Scott says with a lackluster tone, “She’ll be fine. Did you need her for something? We can give her a message.”
“Just… I haven’t seen her in class and – we miss her.” He has a hard time looking them in the eye, “And maybe that Coach is running rampant without her.” His lips upturn ever-so-slightly, “She’ll want to know her assisting is very much appreciated.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles cuts in front of Scott’s laughter. “I didn’t realize you and (Y/N) were close?”
Isaac wipes the smile from his face. “We’re not. Not outside of class at least.” He grinds his teeth, “She’s great. She’s always been kind to me. I’d hate if something happened and I didn’t know about it.”
That seems to appease Stiles, a flash of guilt washing over his face. “Right.”
~~~
The days seem to darken. Even with the promise of spring right around the corner, the world seems dusky, like the sun was a dimmer set low. Stiles’ lens was filtered with gray, shadowing his perspective with melancholia.
He spends his afternoons chasing the supernatural with Scott. But his nights he spends alone – quiet – in his room. He sits at his desk, spinning from side to side to look at the bulletin boards on the walls.
The one directly in front of him was all about you. He had covered it up with a blanket when you slept over that one time. A family picture and a selfie he got from your social media are pinned in the middle. Countless strings are between the picture of you and little bits of information.
A few green strings lead to fun facts like:
Watches true crime
Likes to read
Works at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital
Born in Palo Alto, California
Fireman Tom
Front Desk Westbrook
Atrioventricular canal defect
A yellow string leads from the fact about a congenital heart defect. It spreads to multiple pictures, article clippings, and website screenshots on the heart problem.
“Children born with this condition have a hole in the wall between the heart’s chambers. They also have problems with the valves that control blood flow in the heart.
Atrioventricular canal defect allows extra blood to flow to the lungs. The extra blood forces the heart to work too hard, causing the heart muscle to grow larger.”
“Ventricular tachycardia is a type of irregular heartbeat, called an arrhythmia. It starts in the lower chambers of the heart, called the ventricles. A healthy heart typically beats about 60 to 100 times a minute at rest. In ventricular tachycardia, the heart beats faster, usually 100 or more beats a minute.
Sometimes the rapid heartbeat stops the heart chambers from properly filling with blood. The heart may not be able to pump enough blood to the body. If this happens, you may feel short of breath or lightheaded. Some people lose consciousness.”
He has a red string leading to an unknown section about the 3-inch incision on your chest. After hearing you mention that it was a device inserted near your heart, he did some more research. It might have been an implantable cardioverter-defibrillator, or an ICD.
Those devices detect irregular heartbeats and deliver electric shocks to hopefully restore a regular heart rhythm.
Other blue strings lead to theories he has about why your CHD correction wasn’t permanent, as well as solutions to your persistent tachycardia.
The other side of the board has a few other green strings that lead to a picture of you, Lydia, and Allison. Another is the name ‘Andrew’ written sloppily and then crossed out repeatedly with a ballpoint pen. A few short strings lead to the various situationships in your past and some notes on their kissing techniques.
Overall, Stiles was proud of the research he had conducted on you. But staring at it wasn’t making him feel any better. He was exhausting himself over retrograde amnesia, failing to put those details on your bulletin board.
He was hoping it would correct itself before he had to.
He barely registers that his dad enters the room. “Hey, kid,” he says, void of his sheriff uniform. “How you holding up?”
Stiles shrugs and it pulls a sigh out of Noah. “Listen, I’m glad we were able to find that Martin girl tonight. We should consider that a real victory.” Stiles just nods and Noah continues, “I uh… what in god’s name is that?”
He looks over Stiles’ bulletin board. “Research,” Stiles mumbles.
Noah sounds hesitant, “Right. Um… should I be concerned about this?” He searches his son’s vacant expression, “Like, are you peeping into her windows and stealing things from her underwear drawer?”
“What?” that snaps some life into Stiles, “No! No, dad, it’s not like that. It was a little inside joke from when we first started hanging out. Then it kind of turned into me trying to figure out what her heart problem was.”
Noah looks to the side with the medical research, “You know… uh, the Westbrooks called.”
“And?” Stiles looks up with dull brown eyes.
“And the doctor says (Y/N) should be exposed to things that might trigger her memory back. Stuff that she doesn’t remember.”
Stiles bites at the inside of his cheek, “Like me?”
Noah takes a deep breath, folding his arms. The reserved Stiles before him was disconcerting. “Having you visit might help.” The Sheriff tries to find something helpful to say – his wife was always better at these things. “They’ve had Scott sit with her and she remembers the few times they ran into each other during her early hospital days; back when she was still getting surgeries.”
“I don’t know how I… how do I sit there and…” Stiles leaves his hands limp in his lap. “How am I supposed to help? Pretend that I don’t know anything about her? Act like we’re meeting for the first time?”
“Maybe,” Noah grimaces, “I’d start with keeping this bulletin board to yourself. It might scare her into getting a restraining order.”
Stiles cracks the smallest smile, “How long is she going to be at the hospital?”
“About two or three days,” the Sheriff scratches the scruff on his chin, “They’ll probably keep her from school for even longer.”
“She’ll need to keep up on homework,” Stiles sighs, “She’d hate to miss out on so many assignments.” His small smile grows, “Of course she’s already done with her end of term projects.”
Noah smiles, “Even that biology one you guys were supposed to do together?”
Stiles shrugs, “Honestly, I don’t have a clue.”
They both share a laugh before Noah beckons him, “You should go. I’ll tell Tom you’re on your way.” He looks at his son, nostalgia flooding him.
Little Stiles jumping across waiting room seats. Little Stiles following the nurses around. Little Stiles foraging for snacks in the vending machines. Little Stiles afraid to talk to his mother who didn’t recognize him.
Little Stiles that cried in the hallway while he was busy with a police dispatch.
“Hey, it’ll…” Noah tries, “… it’ll be okay.”
Stiles looks drained, but he smiles at his father’s attempt. “Thanks dad.”
It was a long drive to the hospital. It felt like the world around him was moving in slow motion. It was like his jeep was gliding on the road with no traction. It didn’t help that he let the ringing in his ears be the only source of sound.
There was a tightness in his chest that wasn’t as warm as before. It was accompanied by an anxious knot in his stomach. Hospitals were bad enough. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his mother while he sits with you.
Knots in his shoulders, he walks into the hospital with shuffling steps. He vaguely remembers running into Melissa. He barely notices how the Westbrooks dismiss themselves to grab lunch.
He’s in your doorway and watching the line of confusion grow between your brows. The look of someone meeting a stranger.
And he’s suddenly eight years old again.
“Hi, (Y/N),” he says with a growing lump in his throat.
You fidget with the blanket laying over your legs. Your eyes are uncertain, “Hello. Um… are my parents…?”
“They’re grabbing lunch,” he says, hands in his pockets, “Is it okay if I visit for a bit? The doctor said it might trigger your memory.”
You look reluctant and it pains him. “I guess it’s worth a shot,” you watch him pull a chair over, “I don’t think you told me your name before.”
He tries to swallow past the lump, “Stiles.”
“Stiles,” you say quietly, as if you had never said the name before. “Stiles what?”
“Stilinski.”
Your eyes brighten, “You’re a Stilinski?”
He snorts, “Yeah, my dad’s the sheriff.”
“Woah,” you smile, “Your dad has been to my house a few times.”
Stiles nods, reminiscent of your first conversation together searching the woods for Scott all those weeks ago. “And you’re front desk Westbrook’s daughter.”
That makes you giggle, “I like that nickname.” It grows quiet for a few seconds while you consider his deflated figure. His eyes are downcast and his hands are stuffed in his pockets; you can see his leg starting to bounce. “Are we really good friends?”
His muted brown eyes turn to your brighter ones. “Yeah, we are.”
You nod, “For how long?”
“Since January when the school came back from winter break.”
You give a side smile, “So I did manage to start public school.”
He licks his lips, “Yep. And being a medical assistant here and being a teacher’s assistant to Coach.”
“That’s amazing,” you remark, “I didn’t realize… I’ve been dreaming about doing those things for years, but the fact I did… and I don’t even remember.”
Stiles frowns deep, “You haven’t gotten any of your memory back?”
You shake your head, “I get these flashes sometimes and I can’t tell if they’re dreams or not. Like… blue spray paint on my arms.”
Stiles’ face brightens with hope, “That’s – that’s real! That’s not a dream. We had a spray paint fight when we were fixing my jeep.”
Your eyes snap to his. A strange guilty feeling enters your stomach. It was bad enough disappointing people simply because you couldn’t remember them. Seeing the hope on his face makes you fill with pressure. You two must’ve had a pretty significant friendship.
“What other things have we done together?”
Stiles takes a tight breath, “Well… we’ve had dinner together. You’re an excellent cook. We painted my jeep and took Scott to get drunk on the preserve. We did a few school projects together and hang out at lacrosse practice. I took care of you when you were sick,” he suddenly looks you right in the eye, “I was there when you broke up with Andrew.”
Your eyebrows go up, but you don’t interrupt him.
“I was there when you got those claw marks on your shoulder – and other times you felt in danger,” he swallows hard, “We went to the winter formal together.”
“I went to a school dance?” you breathe out quietly. “Was it amazing? I’ve always wanted to go to a school dance.”
Stiles rubs his suddenly clammy hands down his pants, “It was. You looked great.” At seeing the light shining in your eyes, he continues. “You wore a dress that had these sparkling stars on it. The… y-you let the scars on your chest show. You were… you looked beautiful.”
“Did we slow dance?”
“Yeah, we did,” he sighs, chest aching. “It was the only dancing you could do that didn’t mess with your heart.”
You feel a drop of insecurity enter, “How much do you know about my heart?”
“I know about the heart defect and the tachycardia,” he rubs at his face. He could really take advantage of the situation here and learn more about your condition. But as quick as the thought came, it left. He wasn’t going to manipulate you like that. “I know you had a device put in last summer.”
“And that’s it?” you ask quietly. “I didn’t tell you more?”
“You always felt like it wasn’t the right time,” he shrugs, “But I suppose you might feel differently once your memory comes back.”
You brush your hair away, “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”
A sadness creeps into him. “It’s not your fault.”
“I’m still sorry. I hate seeing the disappointment,” you gesture to his slumped figure, “I really am trying.”
“I believe you,” Stiles says with a little more vigor.
Your eyes are a little wide as you say, “My mom told me you were the one to find me and bring me here.”
Stiles bows his head, visions of your bloodied figure going purple from the lack of oxygen. “Like I said… it’s not your fault.”
“And you’re saying it’s yours?” It was an honest question, but you said it with such sarcasm that it takes you aback to see the seriousness on his face. He really believes it was his fault. “From what I hear, you saved me Stiles.”
“Not all of you,” he winces a smile, leaning back in the chair, “If I had been sooner… maybe your heart wouldn’t have given out in the parking garage.”
“You don’t know that,” you say quietly. You may not recognize the boy, but it upset you to think he was blaming himself for your condition. “Regardless of whatever retort you can think of… you brought me to help. If you hadn’t done that then I would’ve been dead for sure.”
He doesn’t see the point in arguing with a version of you that doesn’t even know him. “Maybe. How has your heart been since being here?”
“Fine,” you say quickly, “I’m ready to get back home.”
“Ollie misses you,” he smirks.
You gush, “Oh my god, you know Oliver! He’s my handsome little man.”
“That he is…” Stiles laughs, “Very handsome.” He plays with his fingers, leg still bouncing from the rising anxiety in his stomach. “Is this helping with your amnesia at all?”
Your shoulders rise in a shrug, “I’m not sure. Nothing has come to me yet. But I do like talking to you.” You have a sweet smile on your face, “You mentioned I was dating someone named Andrew?”
“Just for like two weeks,” he says hotly.
You don’t notice, “I told myself I wouldn’t ser…”
“…seriously date anyone,” Stiles finishes, “That’s why you broke up. He was looking for something long term with you.”
Curious, you tilt your head to the side. “Was he cute?”
Stiles snorts, “Well… I guess. You had a crush on him.” He tries to stop his leg bouncing, “You have good taste too, he’s a good guy.”
“Is that why we went to the dance together?” you wonder, “Because I broke up with Andrew?”
“Technically we both went stag,” he says with a faux smile. A forced smile to keep you at ease. “But it was important to you to have the full experience – so I asked.”
You sigh, leaning against your pillows in thought, “You don’t realize how lucky you are to live such an average teenage life.” Stiles holds back his sarcastic laugh. What you said was so ironic. “I spent a lot of my life dreaming about the little things – silly things – like high school dances and playing sports and learning to drive.”
“Wait…” Stiles leans forward, “You don’t know how to drive?”
“No, I do,” you say defensively, “I have a license, technically.” You slump a little further, “But medically I’m not allowed to drive. The potential for fainting is a big red flag for driving. I don’t want to cause any accidents because my heart decided to give out on the road.”
Stiles has a wary smile on his face. “That’s okay, I drive you everywhere.”
“Is that with the jeep you mentioned?”
“Yep, my pride and joy,” he says, “It was my mom’s. She called him Roscoe.”
You remember how the Sheriff lost his wife. Something your parents told you after a few visits from him. You remember feeling sad that someone had died. Now you realize how sad it would be for a child to lose their mom as well.
“And we fixed him up one time?” You want to hear him talk more.
“Yeah, we put a new hood on him,” Stiles sighs out a smile. “You kept poking fun at how… how much duct tape and spray paint I have for him.”
You have a sweet smile on your face, “You want the car to last, I get it. Probably will be just duct tape by the time you turn him in.”
“Oh no,” Stiles waves his hands, “I’m going to keep this jeep for the rest of my life, even if it runs down. I’ll import custom parts to keep him fixed, I don’t care. I just need to find a way to make enough money to.”
You giggle and it strikes Stiles.
“What sort of job would that be?”
“I don’t know, maybe like an FBI agent or something.”
“FBI…” you nod, impressed, “That’d be cool.”
Stiles swallows, unsure of how to keep a conversation going with you. That was a feeling he wasn’t used to. It was so easy to talk to you before. He hates the awkward edge he feels brimming his smile.
“What about you?”
“Another one of those silly things I dream about,” you say sadly, “I don’t know what I’d do.”
His brow knits, “Spitball some ideas for me.”
You laugh again, “Maybe… a writer. Or maybe I’d open a cat rescue. Even better, what if I opened a cat café where you could read and buy books and pet cats.” The more you talk, the easier it was to spill your dreams. “I could be a nurse one day. Maybe work under a cardiothoracic surgeon. I could also just be a stay-at-home mom.”
Stiles feels that achy warmth in his chest more and more. “You want a family?”
“Of course,” you say as if it were the easiest decision in the world. “I always hated being an only child. It made being stuck at home so much worse. I’d want a bunch of kids.”
“How much is a bunch?”
You smirk, “I don’t know, like ten maybe.”
“Ten!?” Stiles jerks in his chair and it makes you laugh louder than before.
You wave a hand, “I’m kidding. I think four might be my max.”
Stiles wipes at his brow comically and your following giggle keeps that ache pulsing in his chest. “I think all those ideas are great. I think I’d even read a book written by you.”
“Are you not a big book reader?” you ask.
He winces, “If it’s not for research I don’t usually partake.”
“That’s a shame. There’s some really good fiction out there,” you smile. But there’s a sudden shift in your expression. “Have we had this conversation before?”
Stiles feels a tug at his heart, “No, actually. We don’t talk about the future much. Usually it’s whatever has happened in the past before we met – or what our friends are up to.”
You nod, a little reassured. “I would hate it if you just pretended like you didn’t already know this stuff about me.”
“When it comes to you, (Y/N),” he says confidently, “I’d say I’m scarily unfiltered. I say things to you that I don’t to anyone else. I don’t think I could pretend.” Even with his feelings for you – they came out in the littlest of ways without him voicing them directly.
That puts the smile back on your face, “It makes me sad not remembering you. It sounds like we got along really well.”
“We did,” he says quickly, “We do.”
You pull at the edge of your cotton blanket, “Our friends seem nice too – Allison and Lydia.”
“Nice might be a little kind for Lydia,” Stiles laughs, “Maybe a faux cold-hearted rich bitch is more appropriate.” He feels proud to rouse a look of shock on your face, “She’s all talk at school, but she has a good heart and is super smart. Just don’t get on her bad side.”
You chuckle, “And Scott sat with me a couple times. He looks different than what I remembered.”
“It’s been almost six months from where you memory ends,” he says, “That makes sense to me.”
“Do you…” you falter, “Do you think I will remember eventually?”
God, I hope so, he thinks. “I think you’ll get a few things back,” he says honestly, “I don’t know about everything. Amnesia is stupid like that.”
You frown, “Will you still – hang out with me?”
“Of course,” he says instantly, “If you want to. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know it’s probably overwhelming.”
“It is,” you push back your hair again, “But I still want to try.”
~~~
The next week is full of anxiety. With spring right around the corner, March appears with sunny days and average temperatures. The promise of rain was on the way. It was nearing the next full moon and Stiles was full to the brim with nerves.
You still hadn’t come back to school, and he was finding it hard to come visit you. Meanwhile he and Scott try to tackle school one day at a time. Scott finds ways to see Allison while the overly watchful eyes of her grandfather become an increasing pressure.
The old man, Gerard, was still living at the Argent residence after his daughter’s funeral. His presence brought a newfound fear to the group.
He was the one at your door when you heard it knock.
“Hello, (Y/N),” he says with a smile. “I’m Mr. Argent, the new principal at Beacon Hill High.”
You blink a few times before awkwardly saying, “Right, um… hello.”
He raises his eyebrows, “May I come in?”
You look behind your shoulder for a moment before muttering, “Sure, we can sit here.” You gesture to the sitting room with the piano just beside the door. The older man nods his thanks and finds a seat in a comfy armchair.
You follow and sit on the loveseat opposite him. “How can I help you?”
“I’m just checking in on your progress since leaving the hospital. Many of your teachers have asked about you returning. I understand you experienced some memory loss the night of the school dance.”
“Yes,” you say, sitting on your hands, “I don’t remember any of it.”
He leans his elbows on his knees, looking at you seriously, “And you haven’t regained anything?”
“I get these flashes sometimes,” you mutter, looking towards the carpet beneath your toes. “But those seem like dreams to me. I don’t recognize them.” At his persistent look, you elaborate, “Like visiting the mall or a lacrosse field or the woods.”
He nods, “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have any intention of returning to public school?”
You swallow hard, “Well, um… seeing as I don’t remember any of it – I think it would be hard to pick up where I left off.”
“Our staff is willing to accommodate to your situation,” he finally leans back, “We’ll give you special permission to use more resources and have extension time on all assignments. We want to make sure you’re comfortable in returning.”
“That’s good to know,” you say, noticing Oliver enter the sitting room. He jumps onto the couch with you, “I’ll need to talk to my parents about it.”
Gerard gives another strange smile, “Of course. Are you getting any of your course work from friends at least?”
You grimace – does he mean the friends you don’t remember? “I’ve had a few homework things dropped off.”
“Some from my granddaughter, I believe,” he chuckles, “She’s always had a good heart, that one.”
“Who is your granddaughter?”
“Allison Argent,” he says.
You widen your eyes, “Oh, yes – Allison. She’s been helping me with some assignments. I didn’t realize her grandfather was the principal.”
“Like I said, my position is relatively new.” He claps his hands together, “Please reach out to the office if you plan on returning full time.”
Meanwhile, in the middle of town, Stiles and Allison are at a hardware store looking for something to help Scott with the upcoming full moon. Allison was intent on being involved this month, her first full moon since learning the truth of it all.
“You used handcuffs last time?”
“On the radiator, yeah,” Stiles grumbles, looking at the shelves stocked with tools. “And he still got out and almost killed (Y/N).”
Allison gasps softly, “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. If Derek hadn’t shown up, I think he would’ve…” he stops at the end of the aisle, “We need something that won’t break as easily. Heavy duty.”
“Like… chains?”
Stiles waggles a finger at her, “I like your thinking.” He checks the signs above each aisle for what they need. “We can chain him up somewhere until the moon sets.”
She follows, her intentions on more than just helping Scott with the full moon. “(Y/N)’s told me you haven’t been visiting her.”
It’s like she can see the tension knot in his shoulders. His sneakers squeak on the tile floor, “And you have been?”
“I’ve been helping her keep up to date on our school assignments.” She watches the hunch develop in his posture. It was like he was deflating before her eyes, “Don’t you remember the doctor said exposing her to things she…”
“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says a little more coldly than before. “It’s just that…” He spots the chains and goes for them.
How does he tell Allison that seeing you might finally break his already tearing heart? He’s sure seeing the look in your eyes again – the polite look someone gives a stranger – would kill him. How does he explain the pain he feels knowing you don’t remember a single memorable thing you’ve done together? It was a new kind of rejection.
He prefers daydreaming about the you that knows him. The you that he feels more deeply about than anyone else before. The you that he now searches for in his sleep. It was now his favorite time of day.
Sleep meant he could dream about you. He could see you there, smelling of sparkling strawberries by the lake – looking like a sun warmed burst of color. He yearned for that peachy summer filter your presence brought to his life.
His days were dull without you. Like the world resorted to turning the brightness down because its sun had disappeared.
“I’ve been…”
“… distracting yourself?” Allison offers.
He grips a coiled pile of chains and pulls them over his shoulder, “Maybe. The full moon kind of takes priority the next couple of days.”
“Do you think (Y/N)’s in danger?”
“Not if this idea works,” he grumbles under the weight of the metal links. They walk towards the registers. “And with you helping it might make things easier.”
Allison pulls out some cash so they can split the cost. “First searching for Lydia, then looking into a new beta werewolf, now making plans for the full moon… you’re going to run out of distractions eventually.”
I’ll just sleep then, he thinks. You’ll be waiting for him there.
“Let’s tackle this first,” he says.
Allison sighs her frustration. “I wish there was a way we could just… reach in and pull the memories out, you know? Make her remember.”
Stiles drops the full weight of the chains on his foot, and he curses loudly, “Ah, fuck!” He bounces on his unhurt foot, panting as he has a stroke of brilliance.
Maybe there was a way to force your memories to the surface.
~~~
Scott is lying on your living room floor, Ollie hiding upstairs from the doggish presence. You’re sitting cross legged on the couch ottoman, listening to his woes.
“So you think the principal became the principal to spy on your secret relationship with Allison?”
“No, there’s got to be more to it than that,” Scott grumbles, arms splayed to either side. “He’s looking for something more. The Argents are… very loyal to their ideals. Once they set their minds to something – they accomplish it no matter what.”
“And by becoming principal, Mr. Argent is trying to accomplish… total domination over teenagers?”
Scott sighs out a laugh, sitting up, “Maybe. I’m sorry – I’m venting too much. It’s got to be super confusing for you.”
You shrug, “Just a little. I’m starting to piece things together.” You start to pick at your nails, a nervous habit you’ve been more partial to since the hospital. “Allison has been a big help. I think Lydia is still recovering from the attack, more than me at least.”
“And Stiles?”
You frown, “I haven’t seen him.”
Scott matches your frown, “He’s taken it pretty hard.”
“I thought as much,” you pick at your cuticles, “Why do you think that is?”
Sensing the touchy subject, Scott looks to the ground. “We all deal with hard stuff in our own way.”
“But he told me he still wanted to see me,” you say confusedly, “Even if I didn’t remember everything.”
“I think he holds a lot of guilt for the memory loss,” Scott defends, “He uh… he cares a lot.”
“I sort of got that from his last visit,” you wince, “I guess I wouldn’t want to be reminded of something I consider a failure.”
Scott furrows his brow, “You being alive isn’t a failure, (Y/N).”
“My amnesia is, though,” you sigh, “But it’s got me thinking… maybe there’s more to why he thinks of it as a failure.”
“What do you mean?”
You swallow, “I don’t know. It’s hard trying to figure this whole thing out. It’s like I’m trying to give a summary on a book I never read.”
“We’ve done that plenty of times in English class,” Scott smiles warily.
You chuckle at the joke. “I mean, I’m seeing the end of the movie without any plot. I don’t know what to make of anything I see. I hear of all these things I did, and it just feels like I’m out of the loop. I’m being told about someone I don’t even know.”
Scott nods at your words, happy to be your confidant. “It sounds hard.”
“And even with that, everyone is making an effort to stay connected to me. Everyone I don’t remember. Allison does homework with me, you vent to me about Allison, the hospital has put my work schedule on hold, the high school is making accommodations, even Lydia has texted me.” You grimace as you pull at the skin around your nail. Part of a cuticle tears away, “So why hasn’t Stiles? Why is he different?”
Scott bites his tongue. “This whole thing might mean something a little different for him.”
“In what way?”
“Just you,” he swallows, “You mean something different to him.”
“You mean, because he was the one who saved my life?”
Scott clenches his jaw, “Yeah, something like that.”
You suck on your finger. It stings where you tore the cuticle away. You taste blood on your tongue.
“We should do something,” Scott decides, “We should get the friends together and hang out.”
“And do what?” you ask, standing to find a band-aid.
Scott follows you to the hallway closet, “You have a firepit in the backyard. Maybe we roast some marshmallows?”
“You don’t think it might rain?” you wrap a plain brown band-aid around your finger. It almost surprises you to see two other fingers with the same bandage around the nail. “It’s been cloudy all week.”
“No, I think we’ve got a few more days before the weather gets real bad,” Scott waves a hand at you, “Would your parents be okay with it?”
“Sure,” you shrug, “My mom would probably be thrilled.”
Scott is already texting on his phone, “Perfect. I’ll let everyone know – do you have firewood?”
“Are you kidding?” you laugh, “My dad keeps the shed fully stocked. Marshmallows and everything.”
“It looks like Lydia is going to be at her dads place tonight,” Scott grimaces at his phone, “But Allison is available.”
You watch the dopey lovestruck smile grow on his face, “Won’t it… won’t it be terribly awkward for everyone? You guys have history to talk about while I… I don’t remember meeting any of you.”
Scott shifts his face into a serious expression, “That doesn’t mean we don’t want to still hang out with you.”
You fist your bandaged fingers into the pockets of your sweats. “I guess I can see it as a chance to get to know you guys better.”
“We could play like truth and dare, or answer get to know you questions,” Scott chuckles.
The next half hour has you creating a s’more station outside while Scott brings over a pile of firewood. He’s just exploring the depths of the shed when Allison appears, the sunset illuminating her in flattering light.
“Hey!” you say, glad to see her again, “I was just laying out the chocolate.”
Allison gives you a hug, eyeing her secret boyfriend carrying an armful of wood from the shed. “Perfect. Let me help with the camping chairs.” She hops over to kiss Scott before taking the covers off the chairs.
“Have you talked with Lydia recently?” you help move the seating around the firepit, “She was a little frazzled the last time I saw her.”
“She was a little shy coming back to school,” Allison admits, “But Lydia has always exuded a kind of confidence, even if she doesn’t especially feel it. The whole school was gawking at her, and she strut down the hallway like nothing happened.”
You nod, a smile of gratitude on your face, “I’m glad.” You notice how Allison deliberately set the chairs in two pairs across from each other, on either side of the firepit. She plans to sit by Scott, and across the fire, you sit by Stiles. “Is Stiles for sure coming?”
“He told me he would,” Scott throws a few more logs on their pile, “Just that he’d be late.”
As Scott was making a tent of wood in the firepit, a grumbling engine could be heard pulling in front of the house. You sit in your chair, matching cream colored sweatshirt and sweatpants on. You even had a green and blue flannel on over the sweatshirt for an added layer of warmth. It was something you just found in your closet.
Stiles appears walking around the house, hands in his pockets. His lips are in a thin line as he waves a hand in hello.
“How are you, Stiles?” Allison asks, ever the polite one.
He shrugs, eyes flitting between the remaining seats. He knows his best friend will want to sit beside his girlfriend. “I’m alright.”
Your eyebrows knit. Stiles doesn’t look very alright. He looks like he could collapse from exhaustion at any second.
“Hey, grab me some of that kindling, would you?” Scott says, kneeling beside the firepit and crumpling old newspapers into flammable balls.
Stiles leans down for a box of splintered wood and shaved bark. He gives the pieces for Scott to create a nest in the heart of the pit.
You fold your arms as the sun fully sets and the stars become more visible across the indigo sky. You observe the wrinkled nature of Stiles’ clothes – the dark rings beneath his eyes. He looks a little worse for wear.
“This is my first fire of the season,” Allison says, crossing her legs and admiring how Scott sets the kindling aflame, “I love having campfires.”
“Me too,” Scott says warmly, standing to go sit beside his girlfriend, “I’m a fiend for toasted marshmallows.”
“I like them a little on the burnt side,” she says in reply, enjoying how he easily slips his fingers between hers.
Stiles stands as the kindling burns more brightly, sending plumes of smoke into the air. His eyes find your form tightly wrapped in your chair. There’s a flicker of something sad in his gaze – guilt, pity, pain?
He walks around the pit and sits in the camping chair beside you. It was more like he collapsed in the chair, the legs scraping on the stones littering the ground.
“What about you?” you ask timidly.
Stiles looks at you with tired eyes, “Sorry?”
“How do you like your marshmallows roasted?”
His eyes are still sad, but something quirks in his lips, “Golden brown – although that’s dangerously close to burnt and that happens more often than I care to admit.”
“I don’t have patience for roasting marshmallows,” you say begrudgingly, “They’re never exactly what I want. I eat them too fast.”
Stiles swallows hard, moving his limbs slowly as if any faster would give him a headache. He spears two marshmallows on the end of a roasting stick. “And if you had patience for marshmallows – what would they look like?”
“I like them golden too,” you smile, “A little or a lot is fine with me. I just don’t like them burnt.”
“It gives them flavor!” Allison defies, “And it’s fun blowing them out when they catch fire.”
“Until they melt right off the stick,” Scott laughs, “And they burn in the pit like Anakin near the lava pools.”
You giggle, a strange flash of a dream crossing your mind. Yourself wearing a star wars t-shirt with a blue and green flannel. The same flannel you have on now. Was it a dream… or a memory? Was it like the strange memory of blue spray paint on your arms?
There was something stirring in your stomach. You could mistake it for anxiety or the painful churning of your insides – but something was trying to pry itself out of you. Watching Stiles rotate the roasting stick against the firepit was sending waves of familiarity through you.
The campfire reminds you of Stiles in a way. He reminds you of autumn and woods and campfire smoke. It makes you think of fallen leaves and flashlights and flannels.
Just as you remind Stiles of summertime – he reminds you of autumn.
“Did you hear about Isaac’s dad?” Allison suddenly speaks.
Scott sighs, “Yeah, he was taken out of lacrosse practice today to talk to the police.”
“I don’t think he has a strong case of his innocence,” Stiles mumbles.
“What happened to Isaac’s dad?” you ask, unsure of who Isaac even was.
Scott clears his throat, checking his marshmallow by pinching the soft white fluff. “He was murdered.”
Something cold and steely takes ahold of your limbs, “Oh my god, that’s terrible.”
“Yeah, it happened during the last rainstorm,” Scott continues, “I think they suspect Isaac.”
“Why would he kill his own father?” you ask with a slanted brow.
Allison prepares some graham crackers and chocolate, “I don’t think they had a very good relationship.”
“You could say that,” Stiles scratches at his neck, “Seeing as he comes to school with new bruises weekly.”
A small gasp escapes you, “That’s awful…”
“You’ve actually helped Isaac with it before,” Stiles says, “You’ve taken him to your house and cleaned him up after a fight.”
You find it hard to swallow, “I’m glad someone did. Has there ever been an investigation at the house for child abuse?”
“Not that I know of,” Stiles sighs, “Isaac has never wanted any trouble.”
“That doesn’t make any of it okay,” you say more to yourself, “Is he still being questioned?”
“I think my dad might take him into the station tomorrow for further questioning,” Stiles says.
You tilt your head towards him, “As in, Isaac is going to be arrested?”
“I’m not sure,” Stiles says quietly, “I wouldn’t be surprised seeing as he’s their biggest suspect with a damning motive.”
You don’t realize your fingers are searching for more tender skin to pick at around your nails. Scott puts his toasted marshmallow on a prepared cracker and proceeds to set another on fire. Allison giggles as she smashes one s’more down.
“I haven’t seen Isaac,” you say quizzically.
Scott presents the marshmallow aflame on his roasting stick for Allison to blow it out. “He’s been asking about you though.”
Stiles removes his marshmallows from the fire as well. “He says Coach has been unreliable and chaotic since you’ve left.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, “Because I’m his TA?”
“He may be your superior, but that man is hopeless without you,” Scott laughs, “I honestly don’t know how Coach has kept his job as long as he has.”
Stiles is preparing two s’mores beside you, layering a graham cracker and chocolate with golden brown marshmallows. You are picking at your unbandaged fingers terribly.
Scott and Allison are preoccupied with feeding each other sticky s’mores while you stare into the dancing flames of the fire. You wince at a sharp pain. Looking down you see your fingers have pried a sliver of skin from around a nail. It stings being exposed to the nighttime air and a blossom of blood speckles the tender skin beneath.
A large hand enters your vision – long fingers reaching for yours. He pulls your injured hand away and inspects the bandages on your fingertips. He places a readymade s’more in your palm. “What’s happened to Isaac isn’t your fault,” he says quietly, “Neither is Coach being manic – that’s nothing new.”
You watch his hand pull away, fisting in his lap as if regretful to touch you without your permission.
Taking a deep breath, you look at the perfectly cooked s’more, “Man, there weren’t even coals yet,” you say with mustered warmth. “This looks amazing.”
You catch him staring at your smile. The tiredness is evident in his look, but the fondness that warms his eyes is undeniable. He holds his hands together like he fears they’ll move for you if he didn’t.
The gooey marshmallow sticks to the sides of your face as you eat. It’s exactly how you like it, and you can’t help giggling at the sticky sweetness melting on the chocolate.
Stiles is watching you with something sad and sweet in his face.
“Thank you,” you say, cracker crumbs littering your lips. “You didn’t have to make me one.”
“I wanted to,” he says in return. “I wanted to see if that marshmallow would stay on the cracker or not.”
You snort with a full mouth. Bits of sticky fluff are on most of your fingers and stuck to your cheeks. You flick your fingers, seeing how some of the marshmallow was gripping the fraying fibers of your band aids.
“Oh, shoot,” you shake a hand free of crumbs. “I’ll be right back.”
As you rise from your chair, Stiles grips the arms of his – like he was about to stand with you. His eyes follow you all the way to the back door.
Scott clears his throat loudly and Allison nibbles the marshmallow from her fingers.
“What?” Stiles questions, still on the edge of his seat.
Scott wiggles his eyebrows, “You know what.”
Allison licks her lips and nods toward the house, “Take the chance.”
“Ah… god.” Stiles slips out of the chair, tripping on his way to the house. He opens the door and spies you starting to open new band aids at the kitchen counter.
“Oh!” you say sharply, “Hey – everything okay?”
“Um…” his throat was suddenly very dry, “I just – wanted to see if you needed help.” He walks to the counter and sees the pile of marshmallow coated band aids. “I know it can be hard to… wrap those on your fingers by yourself.”
You feel shy, hesitant to display your fingers, “That… that’d be nice, thank you.”
He ignores how your hands shake, unwrapping a band aid and picking a finger with raw skin around the fingernail. Some were scabbed over, and others were still wet with exposed, tender skin.
He’s soft in how he holds your hand, gently wrapping the band aid. “I’ve never seen you pick at your fingers before.”
“Me neither,” you say quietly, “I guess it’s just a new nervous habit.”
“What was making you nervous?” he asks just as quietly. He keeps his gaze on your hands, his own oddly cold against yours.
It leaves you free to look at his face without fear. You never noticed how thick his eyelashes were. You suspect they frame his bronze eyes well, especially when they were well rested. He also has a constellation of moles across his face.
You were tracing them with your eyes as you say, “I guess I was feeling guilty again for losing my memory. It sounds like people need me… the old me.”
I need you, Stiles thinks, upset at how the guilt was presenting itself in you. “But none of it is your fault.”
“That doesn’t stop the fact that lots of problems would be solved if I could just remember.”
“I’m sorry,” he says with hidden emotion, “I… I could’ve… if I had just stayed with you…”
Your brows knit as he applies a third bandage. “It’s not your fault either, Stiles. We’re both doing the best that we can.”
He clenches his jaw, “Maybe we should put band aids on all your fingers so you’re not tempted.”
You snort, “Thank you for helping me.”
Stiles smiles and again you’re struck by another one of his features. Stiles is cute, you think, he’s really cute. “You’re welcome,” he says.
He holds your hands for a second before lifting them to his lips. He kisses each of your bandages in a chaste, silly way. “Make-it-better kisses,” he says almost dreamily – remembering a past memory, “Your specialty.”
You’re stuck on the way his mouth hovered over each of your fingers. “You learned well, apparently.”
“You’re basically cured,” he smiles again, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Make-it-better kisses are a medical miracle, so they say.”
You nod slowly, “Maybe I just need a couple more of those to get my memory back.”
Stiles’ eyes blow wide, “Oh… oh my god – that’s not what I… I didn’t mean to insinuate – I mean, not that I’d be upset to do… ah, shit, I’m messing this up.”
Giggles are falling out of you faster than Stiles is running his mouth. “Stiles, I was meaning a forehead kiss. Help fix my brain.”
He lets out a loud sigh, “Of course – of course that’s what you meant.” He’s jerky and hesitant and terribly endearing as he leans over to place an awkward kiss to your temple.
~~~
The jeep stops with a jolt in front of the sheriff’s station. Through the blinds Stiles and Derek see a woman behind the counter.
Somewhere in the holding cells is Isaac, being held on suspicion of his father’s murder.
“Okay, now the keys to every cell are in a password protected lockbox in my father’s office,” Stiles says. He grits his teeth, “The problem is getting past front desk Westbrook.”
It was Angela on duty, filling out her part on police reports behind the counter.
“I’ll distract her,” Derek says nonchalantly.
Stiles freaks, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he grabs Derek’s leather jacket, “You? You’re not going in there.”
Derek looks at the hand on his jacket like it might be his next snack.
“I’m taking my hand off,” Stiles says quickly. “That is Angela Westbrook in there – you can’t just ‘distract her.’” He uses air quotation marks.
“Sure, I can.”
“She’s married!”
Derek shrugs, “And I’m charming.”
“You’re a criminal!”
“I was exonerated.”
Stiles licks his lips, “You’re still a person of interest, and trust me, Westbrook is the last person you want to mess with. She almost always hangs up when I try to call the station.”
“That’s because you’re a hyperactive, overexaggerated teenage boy and I’m…” he adjusts his collar, “A handsome innocent person of interest that looks really good in leather.”
The look of acceptance in Stiles’ face was laughable. He couldn’t deny any of those points. “Fine. Try and charm her and see what happens.”
They wait as another police officer appears to talk to Angela, looking like they were about to head home for the night. It’s the opportunity Stiles needs to talk to Derek about one more tiny favor.
“So with me helping with this whole Isaac fiasco… I was thinking maybe you could do something for me.”
Derek whips his head over, “Excuse me?”
“A favor for a favor.”
“You know I could just walk in, knock everyone out, and break into that lockbox, right? I don’t actually need you.”
Stiles lifts his hands in protest, “You do if you want to remain an innocent person of interest!”
Derek stares him down uncomfortably, “What favor?”
~~~
The new spring rain was finally here, starting with a light sprinkle. You are on the couch, your favorite forest green blanket over your socked feet. Oliver is snuggled on your lap, enjoying the way your stomach rocked him back and forth with your breaths.
Angela sits with you, warming her hands on a mug of tea she brewed for you. “Chamomile and lavender,” she says.
You sigh, “Good for stress.” You give her a knowing look, paired with a smile.
“And sleep,” she says, “I’ll probably pass out in about ten minutes.” She laughs and then clears her throat, “You know, there was something super strange that happened at the station the other day.”
“What was it?” you ask, excited that your mom wanted to share about her workdays again. She had been worried about putting stress on your heart by telling you those stories.
She looks worried now, “It was a little chaotic.”
“Please, mom,” you say, “We haven’t just talked in a while.”
Angela seems to agree, taking a big gulp of her tea. “Well, we had a boy in holding for a murder – no, I won’t tell you who. And Derek Hale came in to talk to me.”
“Hale,” you mutter, “Wasn’t that the name of the family whose house…”
“Burned down, yes,” Angela says, “And while he was there, the boy broke out of holding and an officer I’ve never seen before was knocked out on the ground.” She shakes her head, “I have no idea how any of that happened on my watch. The poor officer had an arrow in his leg and everything.”
“Oh my god, from what?” you ask with pursed lips.
Angela shrugs her shoulders, “The Sheriff is looking into it, but I’m not sure. His son was by the holding cells when he got there.”
“That Stiles guy?”
She nods, suddenly looking at you with warmth – a question in her eyes. “That’s right. He’s a good kid. A strange one, but good.”
“Did you…” you start to say, “Did Stiles and I hang out a lot?”
Angela swallows, “You did. He thought we couldn’t hear all the times he climbed the garden trellis,” she smirks, “But your father and I aren’t that dumb.”
You scoff in surprise, “He climbed the front of the house?”
“A couple times,” she replies, finishing her tea, “He’s not exactly the most graceful person. It’s easy to hear him struggle up the vines and fall through your window.”
You laugh, “And you never thought to stop it?”
“Your dad considered it,” she says, pausing to hear the rain fall heavier on the roof. “But we knew you kids were fine. He might be a bit of a troublemaker, but I know he wouldn’t do anything to put you intentionally in harm’s way.”
Squinting your eyes, you suddenly gasp, “Oh my god, you approve of him, don’t you?”
Angela shrugs again, “Maybe.”
“You’ve never liked any boys I’ve brought over.”
“I think your dad still needs a little convincing,” she says, “But Stiles will win him over eventually.”
“I didn’t realize…” you say, flinching as thunder crashes overhead.
Angela shivers, “Well, that’s my cue for a nap.” She stands and stretches, “Warm tea, cozy bed, and rain in the background? Don’t expect me to wake up anytime soon.”
You laugh, “I’ll be here reading. Thank you for the tea, mom.”
“No problem, sweetie. I wish I could start on that garden, but the recommended time frame is the end of April,” she rolls her eyes, “My herbs are suffering in their little pots!”
You smile as she retreats up the stairs. The rain was really coming down now, pelting the roof like a hail of bullets. You always loved the sound of rain. Maybe it was the cliché book reader in you, but the weather gave the perfect conditions for a reading session.
Ollie sleeps soundly on your lap as you pick up your latest read. It was strange coming home to see a bookmark in a book you didn’t remember. It still sits on your nightstand, hopefully to be picked up again should your memories return.
In the meantime, you begin to read a new fantasy trilogy.
The rain and thunder continue for another half hour, Oliver choosing to sleep on an overturned pillow beside you. He snuggles his face into his fluffy tail as you read. You were just starting to feel sleep tugging at your eyelids when a firm knock came on the front door.
You close your book, apprehensive as the last time someone knocked on the door, the new principal sat you down to question your current whereabouts.
But you find that it was someone new. A tall handsome man with light eyes stands on the porch, sprinkled with rain.
He wipes the water dripping into his eyes, “Hey, (Y/N).” He looks up at the ceiling as if listening for something, “Can I come in?”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” you ask, shocked that this handsome man knew you by name.
“I’m Derek,” he says, pushing his way in and standing beside the piano.
You follow by quietly closing the door, afraid to wake your mom. One of the men involved in the strange chaos that happened at the police station was currently in the sitting room.
“Like Derek Hale, Derek?”
“You remember me?” he asks with confusion in his brow.
You fold your arms, “I remember your name on one of my mom’s police reports years ago. About a house fire.”
He clamps his mouth shut and nods. “Listen, Stiles and Isaac have been talking about you – asking me for favors.”
You remember your friends talking about an Isaac. “Okay?”
“I told them it might not even work, but alphas are usually the ones best apt to do it.”
“Do what?” you ask, arms tightly wound and your feet rooted to the spot. You are starting to get a pit in your stomach. Thunder is roiling outside.
“Just… jog your memory a little bit.” He takes a step forward and you suddenly find the ability to move backward as far as the room would let you.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say quickly, “I don’t even know you!”
Derek holds up his hands, “You need to calm down. Your heart is stuttering all over the place.”
“Yeah, it does that,” you say angrily, fear overtaking you, “Especially when strangers threaten to do something to jog my memory.”
“It’s just some minor memory manipulation,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “I haven’t really done it to extract memories out of someone else before, but it can be done.” He approaches your body pressed against the wall, “You need to hold still though – I don’t want to damage your spinal cord.”
You gape your mouth, “What the hell do you mean!?”
He takes ahold of your neck and you’re on the brink of a scream when he covers your mouth with his other hand. “I need you to stand still.” And he sinks his claws into the back of your neck.
You flinch and gasp behind his hand. Something sharp punctures the nape of your neck, heat trickling down from the top of your head to your spine. You feel a strange twinge of electricity and it makes you shiver.
A picture was filling your mind, crisp and warm as you close your eyes to see it better.
It was you in a pale yellow dress, bows in your hair, and your hand held tightly in Tom’s fingers. Judging by how you had to crane your neck to see his tall figure, you had to be about four years old.
Another warm image appears: dirty carrots being pulled from smelly earth. Your mom claps her soil stained gloves, proud of the garden you planted together. Little you was just as excited, taking a bite out of the carrot and grimacing at the gritty taste of dirt.
One memory flows in, a tinge of cold on the edge of this one. Like you found a cold spot in a pool of water. You were finishing a homework page your mom made on algebraic equations. A bitterness was in your chest at not being able to do it in an actual school.
Your mom appears to place a stapled packet of papers in front of you. You curiously pull the first page towards you and the top reads: ‘Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital – Job Application.’ You squeal and launch yourself into a hug with your mom.
The next memory that tries to surface isn’t as warm as the others. And it doesn’t flow in as easily. You start to get a headache as a cold image swims into view. A jeep driving through the woods.
“I don’t get out much.”
He laughs, “Then why the sudden change?”
“I felt like it.”
“Woman of many words,” he smirks.
You flinch, the memory crumbling into something new – just as cold and difficult to resurface as the other one. A movie was playing in the background and a steaming meal was on plates in front of you.
He was describing a different meal to you, “It was a masterpiece.”
“Sounds amazing,” you say, moving your plate, “Like a fancy kid’s meal.”
He laughs, “That’s what it was! When I was little the only thing I would eat was kraft mac and cheese with chicken nuggets. She was determined to make me a better version.”
“I would’ve liked to have met her,” you say softly, “She sounds like an amazing person.”
“She was,” he says quietly, “She would’ve thought you were sweet.”
Pain pulses in your temples as floods of memories try to pry through your vision. It was like trying to yank sharp rocks through a rubber hose. But the next memory appears with a slight warmth.
Your chest was fluttering with desperate breaths.
“And what do you feel?” he asks.
“My heartbeat,” you say, tightening your fingers around his, “Your hand. And the cracking spray paint.” It was getting easier to breathe as you open your eyes to look at him.
You can see your initials drawn on his cheek with blue paint. He looks concerned as his thumb starts to rub along the inside of your knee.
Stiles, you think. That’s Stiles!
A burst of freedom surges through your head – like a lock being broken. You start to remember everything in between these colder memories. They start to warm with recognition.
Stiles is rambling, “… and I wasn’t sure how you felt about me being close when you weren’t in some kind of distress from your heart because so far the only times I’ve touched you has been when you were about to faint or your heart is racing or you just went through a traumatic ordeal, and seeing as being drunk and having a breakup bonfire with your friends is none of those things… I thought maybe you’d be mad at me for, you know… touching you.”
You smile as he gets even more adorably endearing, “I’m not mad, Stiles.”
He still looks ashamed, whispering, “Okay.”
“I would tell you if I didn’t like how you were touching me.”
He whips his head to you, his throat bobbing.
Your eyes start to prickle with tears. How did you not realize how much this boy was into you? The signs were all there.
“Get in the bed, Stilinski,” you mumble, already soothed by his woodsy honey scent. You breathe it in deeply, loving how he apologizes as he gets under the sheets. You relish in his awkward avoidance of your limbs, “It’s fine, Stiles,” you laugh, “We’re bound to touch being this close.”
He swallows hard, staring at the ceiling like avoiding your gaze would save him from the heat encompassing his heart. It was making his cheeks burn.
“Goodnight,” you mumble.
He bites the inside of his cheek, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”
Tears are filling your eyeline, a drop racing down your cheek as the distant, cold memories are fully back in focus. The pain in your head was growing, but it was worth it to remember all this. The fact you didn’t notice Stiles’ feelings sooner was putting a pool of guilt in your stomach. The poor boy was being so terribly obvious now that you saw the scenes again in your mind’s eye.
He smells like candy, you think.
Your lips fall into an easy pattern. He moves his hands to the small of your back to remove any more space between you. Your noses brush and press into cheeks as you kiss.
He hums deep in his throat, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He places two quick kisses along your jaw and lands on your neck, right beneath the bend in your jaw. Your head falls back as he leaves chaste kisses there too.
“Is this good?”
You laugh with your eyes still closed, tears actively falling down your face. It was good, you remember. So good you actually have a crisis in thinking you might’ve made a mistake. You were in denial of any feelings you had for him.
Even when Allison and Lydia questioned you before the dance.
Your mind swims to the desired memory that you had forgotten. Projected stars fill the space as the band plays a soft song. You hold onto Stiles in a beautiful starry dress. You’re hidden from him as you’re pressed together, swaying to the music.
You wonder if that’s part of the reason you two have courage to talk. Neither of you were looking.
“What else?” you ask with a puckered brow. A warmth you now know to be likeness enters your chest.
He grips your sides, “I like… being this close to you. And smelling that wonderful fruity stuff on you.”
You laugh, “You’ve said that before.”
He smiles, “I like you in this dress. I like that your scars are out. I like the fact you came without a date because I get to dance with you like this. And I like knowing you’re smiling right now without me needing to look because I can feel it against my cheek.” He pulls away to see proof of that smile. “I like you, (Y/N). Like a lot.”
Your cheeks start to feel itchy with salty tears, a quiet sob making your breath stutter.
“Like a lot a lot.”
Before watching the aftermath of that dance play out in your mind, you force yourself to the present. Claws rip out of your neck, and you wince, wiping at the tears that had dripped down your chin.
“How…” you sniffle, “How did you do that?”
Derek looks serious, searching for side effects in your crying, “It’s just something werewolves can do.”
“Never heard of that one before.” You cover another sniffle with a laugh, “Thank you,” you say, “Thank you.” You jump on him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He’s frozen for about three seconds before placing his hands gingerly on your back, “You’re welcome.”
You’re on your tiptoes to reach him, but it’s the perfect height to hide your face in his chest, “He was so devastated when I didn’t remember.” You recall Stiles when he first saw you in the hospital, “He has to be so upset.”
“He’s miserable,” Derek says gruffly, pulling you away. “I need you to fix him. I didn’t think he was capable of being any more annoying.”
Your smile suddenly drops, “I never got the chance to tell him.” Your hands fly to your hair, completely ignoring the pain still pulsating in your temples. “I went to find Lydia before I…”
Derek raises his eyebrows, “Before you…”
You look at him with red eyes, “Derek this is so important. I need a ride. Please!”
~~~
The rain is in full force behind you, providing a backdrop to your panting silhouette. Just traveling from Derek’s car has you soaked in rainwater. The sleek black car drifts away under the cover of thunder.
You’re shaking terribly, water dripping from your hairline and down your face. The porch at least gives you some cover while you wait. It was ridiculous. You left the house in such a hurry, you hadn’t thought to change.
You wear comfy sage green pajamas, matching with little white daisies on them. A sunflower yellow knitted cardigan lays wet and heavy over your shoulders. One sleeve is dangling further down your arm than the other.
Anxiously you check that the police cruiser is absent from the driveway. Then you hear the door creak open.
Stiles is there in dark blue loungewear himself. It brings out the purple circles under his eyes.
“(Y/N)?” the dull expression in his face suddenly changes to one of deep concern, “What are you doing here? Did you walk in the rain?” He’s reaching for your cardigan, wishing to pull you into the shelter.
But he hesitates – not knowing if it was okay to touch you so forwardly. Not knowing if you’d find it a violation that a near stranger lays his hands on you.
It breaks your heart.
“I need to talk to you.”
He blinks, hand falling to his side, “Yeah, of course.” He opens the door further and ushers you in. “You must be freezing.” He jumps to find a towel to cover your shivering figure.
You’re pulling the wet cardigan off when he returns with a giant fluffy towel. He sees the straps of your pajama top and immediately averts his eyes, wrapping the towel around your shoulders. He rubs up and down your arms for about two seconds before catching himself again.
He takes three steps back, rubbing at his face harshly. “What do you want to talk about?”
You aren’t sure if the tears ever stopped since regaining your memories; it was too hard to discern what was from the rain and what was from you. But you look at Stiles now with a deep warmth in your chest.
It was so large and so warm it was constricting your lungs. Looking at him was making it hard to breathe. “Are you not sleeping?”
He clenches his jaw, “I try to sleep as much as possible. It’s probably not very restful sleep,” he runs a hand over his shaved head, “But… it’s nice to dream.”
You want to touch his face, touch the circles beneath his eyes. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. I completely forgot and then there just wasn’t any time to.” You hold the towel around your shoulders, taking a few steps toward him.
He looks scared, his throat bobbing as you approach.
“That night at the dance,” you start, “We were on the dance floor, and you were saying such wonderful things.” You shiver, “And I was afraid to admit the things I was feeling.”
Stiles’ eyes were growing wide. Wide and desperate. They were silently pleading with you. The very air surrounding you two seemed to be sucked out. A hitch is in your chest as you continue:
“I never got the chance to tell you… how I feel.”
His eyes were growing warm, tears lining his bottom lashes, “(Y/N)…”
“I like you too, Stiles,” you say with a proud smile. “I like you a lot.”
You watch the breath leave his lungs – like his chest had collapsed. He’s screwing up his face like he’s trying not to cry, but a tear falls anyway. “Really?”
You give a breathy laugh, voice choking on the emotion in your throat. “Really.” And you let the towel drop from your shoulders, launching yourself forward to crash your lips against his.
He stumbles back and grips your waist for support.
You stand in the entryway, holding his face and kissing him deeply. You tilt your head and make the kiss deeper; he follows a second behind you, still recovering. He’s shaking just as much as you are now.
Goosebumps erupt on your bare arms, and you pull away to look at him. Tears are smeared on both your cheeks.
“You remember?” he whispers softly, moving his hands to hold your face.
You run your hands down to his chest, “There’s this little trick with a werewolf and my spinal cord,” you shrug, unable to stop smiling. “It pulled everything back for me.”
He’s still trying not to cry, twisting his lips, “Thank god,” he gasps a sob. “Thank you god.” He pulls you in for another kiss, soft and tender this time. He wipes away the wet strands of hair framing your face.
You take a deep breath, tracing a finger up his chin to the soft skin beneath his eyes, “You really need to sleep.”
“I do,” he licks his lips, eyelashes sticking together with tears, “Just to see you.”
You take ahold of his wrists near your face, “You need real sleep.” You tug on his hands and lead the way upstairs. The rain continues to fall, accompanied by rumbling thunder. It gives you something to listen to as you enter Stiles’ bedroom.
You take a quick peek at the disarray: clothes strewn about the floor, old books open and stacked precariously on scrap paper, lacrosse equipment dirty with soil and grass piled in the hallway. The bed is scrambled like he was kicking in his sleep.
Pushing him to sit down on the mattress, you turn to move toward the dresser, but his hand clamps down on yours.
“Where are you going?”
You look back at the instant terror that envelops his face. “I’m just going to change out of my wet clothes.” You lean down to kiss his forehead, “I’ll be right back.”
At the dresser, you find a pair of plaid pajama pants and a shirt with a Doctor Who logo. In the hallway bathroom you change and comb through your hair. You’re hanging your wet clothes on the shower rod when you hear stuttered breaths coming from Stiles’ bedroom.
In a few quick steps you’re back in the room and see Stiles struggling to maintain his breathing. His eyes are still wet with tears and he’s holding his chest like it hurt. His head snaps to you when you enter, and a micro change happens in his expression – the smallest amount of relief.
You’re at his side in an instant, running your hands over his chest and to his face, “Stiles, it’s okay. I’m here and I remember. This isn’t a dream. We’re okay – I’m here.”
He nods his head, but still struggles to draw breath. He is fully panicking.
You grab the covers and pull them over you, crawling onto the bed and laying yourself over his body. Like a weighted blanket. You take deep breaths and hope he can mimic the feeling as he feels it against his torso.
One of his hands goes to your back, holding you to him. With his other, you intertwine your fingers. You pull your hands under your chin, giving them a kiss. With your head nestled into his chest, your free hand raises to be up by his pillow. You’re able to reach his short hair, running your fingers over his head in a soothing motion.
A tangle of limbs, your body holding his down, he starts to calm. He holds onto you like his life depends on it. Like if he lets go you’ll float back into his restless dreams.
It feels like hours later you both fall asleep, holding each other.
And it was the best sleep either of you have had in weeks.
~~~
Research Websites
Atrioventricular Canal Defect
Atrioventricular Canal Defect
Ventricular Tachycardia
Ventricular Tachycardia
Implantable Cardioverter-defibrillators (ICDs)
~~~
Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912 @iloveyou2mia @everrrsincenewyork @gisellesprettylies @dullypully @taylordaughter @greenoliveslover @nataliambc @anehkael
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Chapter 1: A New Prophet
AO3 Link | Masterlist
Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader
Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.
Tags/CWs: angst; slow burn; enemies to friends to lovers; animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/injury; cutting (not to self, but still); religious/cult-like ideas
Note: So the idea for this started as a prequel to my first fic (linked here), but ended up turning into something different. It basically follows the plot of Abby’s Seattle Day 1, diverging from canon where necessary and using dialogue from the game wherever possible.
This is a lot of build-up (important to the story and hopefully enjoyable to read), but I promise romance is on the horizon!
Also, the idea of deadnaming or misgendering Lev—even in the flashback part where they’re little kids and wouldn’t have known otherwise—physically pains me, so we’re going to pretend that reader has been calling Lev “L” as a nickname for forever.
Hope you enjoy! :)
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April 2038
Abby knew as much about the Scars as any of her fellow WLF members.
She knew that the group was founded by a woman who claimed to have a vision after the initial outbreak of Cordyceps brain infection in 2013, and then started spouting some bullshit about how it was all just a punishment for the sins of humanity. Said that the way to move forward was to go back to the basics. Live off the land. Reject technology and progress and pretty much all the good things in life.
She knew that they live on the island but they wouldn’t fucking stay on it, and that there was once a truce but they broke it, forcing the WLF into an endless war.
She knew that they fought hard and killed brutally, without hesitation or remorse.
She knew that, especially now that Joel was taken care of, killing Scars was pretty much her life’s purpose.
And she knew that the woman who started all of this became known as The Prophet. And that Isaac gave the order to have her killed ten years ago.
It was for that reason that Abby thought Isaac must have misspoken when he opened with:
“The Prophet is on the move.”
He was standing over the large map of Seattle in the center of the room, hands braced on the table, head down in thought.
She didn’t know what to make of that. Or how to respond. A quick glance over at Manny confirmed that she wasn’t the only one who was confused.
One of them had to ask. It seemed Isaac wasn’t going to fill in the gaps unprompted.
“The Prophet?” Manny questioned hesitantly. “Sir… respectfully… She’s been dead for years. Died before we even joined.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I’m the one who killed her.” Isaac was always calm and measured, almost always spoke quietly. But sometimes there was something beneath his words, just below the surface. Something seething and kind of terrifying, although Abby would never admit that out loud. This was one of those times.
“My unwilling informants downstairs,” he said, referring to the captive Scars being held and interrogated on the building’s lower levels, “tell me that they have a new Prophet. One their Elders have been quietly grooming for the role for the last decade, maybe even longer.”
“Okay so… What does that mean?” Abby asked, finding her voice. This was not the conversation she was expecting to have when she heard that Isaac wanted to talk to them. She had hoped to get some answers about what was going on with Owen.
“There’s a reason why they’ve been more resilient lately. Bolder. Even more bat-shit than normal.” He clenched his fists on the table. “This… Neo-Prophet,” Isaac almost laughed, the words coated in venom, “is about to fully step into her role. She is of age now. Or so I’ve been told.”
Abby stared at Isaac, still waiting for him to tell her what all of this meant. And what exactly he wanted her to do about it.
Manny jumped in. “What? So the Scars are… celebrating? You’re saying that’s why they’ve been ballsier? Killing more of us. Pushing further inland.”
Abby let out a short laugh. “If this is what it looks like when they’re happy, I don’t want to see what happens when they’re mad.”
Isaac remained stoic. “They have a renewed sense of purpose. When we killed their first Prophet, the Scars were enraged. They fought hard for vengeance. But people will only fight on behalf of a dead woman for so long. Passion for the cause wanes without something tangible to fight for. They need that higher authority to look to. They need someone to honor and defend. Their Elders were smart enough to know that their people need a unifying symbol. A living one.”
“Right, and you said that unifying symbol was on the move so…” Abby said. “Want us to hunt her down? See what they’ll do when we take away their new favorite toy?”
“No,” Isaac said quickly. “She’s not our target. We’ll get to her in due time.”
“Then wha—”
He cut her off. “The Prophet will be leaving the island soon, for the first time. In fact, it’s possible she’s already here. One of our captives tells me there will be some sort of initiation for her. I don’t know what that entails, but I’m sure it will involve attempting to kill some of ours. I’ll spend some more time with our friends downstairs and see if I can’t get any more information on that. We’ll try to prevent it if we can, but that’s not our main focus right now.” Abby opened her mouth to protest, only to be cut off once again. “With the Prophet away and many of their best soldiers traveling with her, the island will be more vulnerable than ever.”
Manny gestured to the map, reinserting himself into the conversation. “Sir, we’ve tried attacking their island and—”
“Not like this,” Isaac said. “Not with everyone. There’s a big storm a few days out. We’re going to use it to mask our approach. And you two are going to lead the first wave. Pick your squads. Start prepping.”
“And the Prophet?” Abby asked.
“One battle at a time, Abby.”
“Are we sure it would be a battle?” she pressed. “Isaac, she’s just one girl.”
“You would be foolish to underestimate this unknown enemy. Besides the likelihood that the best of the Scars will be at her side, I don’t doubt that she will be a very skilled fighter in her own right.” Abby huffed. Isaac continued, “And if she’s anything like her predecessor, the greatest threat is in her words. Not her actions. I watched some of my most loyal soldiers abandon our cause for theirs after just one conversation with the one who came before her.”
At this, Abby raised her eyebrows, ready to argue. A look from Manny shut her up.
“We’ve only got one shot at this… And this is bigger than any of us.” Isaac pushed off the table, walking over to Abby and placing a hand on her arm. “I need you, Abby.”
She shifted uncomfortably before relenting, giving a curt nod. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Good.” He pulled away, heading toward the door. “Look over the plans and go through your rosters.”
“I want Owen,” she said. Abby thought Isaac could at least give her that.
When he denied her permission to go look for Owen, Abby went anyway.
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March 2030 (8 Years Earlier)
The day of your scarring had been the first time Haven saw the sun in weeks.
Your mother said it was a sign. But your mother thought everything was a sign.
She told you that, no matter what, you were not to cry. That you, her only child, would not disgrace her by shedding tears during your ceremony.
You were to be brave. And strong.
The Prophet herself had ordained the act of scarring for all of her followers. A symbol of the innate imperfection of mankind. And so her people would never forget their own failings, even in the midst of their unending efforts towards perfection.
No one was meant to question the Prophet’s teachings, or the Elders who had taken on the responsibility of interpreting those teachings and carrying out Her will since Her death two years prior.
You could feel your mother’s breath against the back of your head as she huffed and decided that she was once again unsatisfied with your hair, roughly taking it down and beginning again for the fourth time.
While she worked, you sat still on the wooden stool in front of her and stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to memorize your features as they were now.
This was the last time you would see the face you knew. Next time you looked in the mirror, you would be different. Would you feel different?
You tried to picture yourself scarred, with two thin lines running from each of your ears to the corners of your mouth. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to fall at the thought.
But there would be no crying today.
Instead, you let your eyes wander to your mother’s reflection, hovering just behind and above yours in the mirror. You examined her face. Of course, you had never seen her without her scars, but you’d always thought your mother was beautiful.
Maybe the change in your appearance would not be so drastic. Maybe it was vain to care.
You were not supposed to be vain.
Once your mother was satisfied with the look of the braided crown of your hair, she gently placed her hands on your shoulders, meeting you gaze in the mirror.
“We are imperfect beings,” she recited. You joined your voice with hers for the second part, “And thus we make ourselves imperfect in Her eyes.”
She smiled softly, squeezing your arms lightly. “Good girl. I’m proud of you. I know you will do wonderfully today.” You tried to return her smile. “Now. Get dressed. I laid your clothes out on the bed.”
She turned to leave you, pausing in the doorway. “Remember what I said, child. No tears today. Do you understand?”
You nodded quickly. Obediently.
She seemed pleased as she left the room.
You changed quickly, wondering if she had been able to tell that you’d spent the whole night before crying. You hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep.
The stool squeaked as you sat back down, not sure what to do with yourself while you waited. You met your own eyes in the mirror once more, this time immediately averting your gaze. You felt sick. And close to tears. And so very scared.
On the other side of the door, you could hear Yara and her mom greeting your mother. The eight-year-old asked if she could come inside to see you. After just a moment of hesitation, your mother allowed it, and you could hear the slight creak of the door as she came in.
Yara said your name quietly, standing just inside the door. You turned to look at her. She smiled, happy to see you, just as always.
“Happy birthday!” she whispered excitedly, closing the distance between you and wrapping her arms around you tightly. You squeezed her back, holding her close for longer than usual. Yara, never one to be the first to break a hug, lingered for as long as you wanted her there.
You were neighbors, and your mothers had grown up together and had always been close. And although Yara was four years younger than you, the two of you were close too. She and five-year-old baby L were your siblings, as far as you were concerned.
Yara was mature for her age, even more so than most of your other friends. You knew you could trust her, so with her you were honest.
“I’m really scared,” you said quietly into her hair, still not releasing her from the embrace.
“I know,” she whispered back, squeezing you even tighter. “You’re the bravest person ever though. I know you can do this.”
You finally let go, retreating back to your stool, but Yara stayed close by, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly with one hand.
“She will be with you through this, and for all the days of your life,” she said, earnest. “Our pain is Her pain, and Her pain is ours.”
You couldn’t help but make a mental note of the fact that the Prophet actually did not receive the same scars as all of her followers, so perhaps this one specific pain is one that was not, in fact, shared between to two of you.
But Yara’s comment was made with a level of sincerity that you couldn’t help but admire—and borderline envied—so you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself.
Her presence was always a comfort, so you allowed yourself to relish in it for a quiet minute before your mother reentered the room.
“It’s time to leave,” she said simply. Firmly.
Behind her, just outside the door, you could see Yara’s mom standing there, holding a quiet but curious little L’s hand. They would all be walking over with you to witness the ceremony.
You forced yourself to stand, brushed your hands down your thighs as if to clear some nonexistent dust and smooth the phantom wrinkles. For a moment, you considered taking one last look in the mirror, but ultimately deciding against it. It would feel strange to do so, now that everyone was watching you and waiting.
For the briefest moment, you thought about making a run for it. Stealing a boat or even attempting to make the swim to the mainland. You could survive on your own, or maybe even join the Wolves. You weren’t scarred yet. You could lie about where you came from, and they would probably take you in…
The hiss of your name from your mother’s mouth ripped you back into reality, along with a gentle nudge from Yara.
You took a deep breath and started walking.
Once the home of the Prophet herself, Sanctuary was one of your people’s primary places of worship, second only to Martyr’s Gate on the mainland. (You had never seen it – You’d never left the island – so Sanctuary was where you most often prayed.)
Scarring ceremonies were held there, always on a child’s twelfth birthday.
You had witnessed many friends receive their scars. It was customary to attend the ceremonies of those close to you. Family, friends.
The process was always the same.
Elder Constance would lead all those gathered in a prayer, holding the ceremonial blade. You would recite a version of the Prophet’s Prayer. The blade would be blessed. Then Elder Duncan would make the incisions before welcoming you as an official member, a child of the Prophet.
It never took very long. Everyone had work to get back to, tasks to fulfill.
You would soon come to find that your ceremony would not be like any of those others.
The first indication of this was the sheer number of people who were gathered at Sanctuary. You had never seen this many people gathered in one place at one time, many of the faces you did not recognize.
As you approached the dais, the crowd silently parted for you, all eyes examining you carefully as if looking for something unseen. You couldn’t begin guess what it was.
You wanted to go home. You wanted to cry. To hold your mother’s hand. You wanted to not be here at all. Ever. For this to be a horrible nightmare.
Why were there so many people here?
Your eyes met Elder Constance’s. She was stiff and serious, as always, but there was a brightness in her eyes that you were not accustomed to seeing. A quick glance at Elder Duncan revealed a similar expression on his face.
The other five Elders also stood on the stage. Another thing that was unusual for a simple scarring ceremony.
Had you done something wrong? Were you in trouble?
You looked ahead, and your legs continued to carry you forward, despite your internal protestations.
When your feet were nearly touching the first step up, you stopped. And although your mind went blank, your body remembered what to do.
You bowed your head to each of the Elders, silently waiting to be greeted and invited onto the dais.
“Welcome, child, on this most joyous day!” Elder Constance’s voice boomed, carrying enough for everyone gathered to hear. “Come. Join us.”
You fought the urge to turn around and find your mother. You wanted to look at her face, to see if she knew what was happening.
But you knew that any moves you made in this moment other than exactly what was expected of you would be seen as hesitation, and therefore disgraceful. And you didn’t want your mother to be angry.
So you did as Elder Constance said, and you climbed the steps.
Your vision blurred. You tried to focus on your breathing.
“Two years ago, the ignoble Wolves took our beloved Prophet from us,” she began once you were standing center-stage. The reaction from the audience was instantaneous, full of outrage and despair. Elder Constance allowed this to continue for several moments before holding up her hand; and the noise stopped just a quickly as it began.
“But She is not dead! For the Prophet’s spirit cannot be killed by the evils of mankind.” The crowd hung on her every word as she continued, “She lives in all of us. In our actions and in our virtues. In Her teachings.”
“Here before you are all of your Elders, appointed to this honorable position by our Prophet, most wonderful and wise. She speaks to us, and it is our duty—our privilege—to share her words with you.”
“But today, She does not have words for us.” Elder Constance paused, the audience hushed, waiting for the reveal. “It is Her heavenly desire to give us a new source of hope. An advocate. A champion… A new Prophet.”
Elder Constance’s hands landed on your shoulders.
“Today, She has chosen Her successor.”
The crowd erupted in celebration.
You went completely numb and tuned them all out.
The Elders continued to speak, and the people continued to celebrate. All the while, your mind was reeling and your face was blank.
A new Prophet?
There can’t be a new Prophet.
What does that even mean?
There have never been any prophets except for THE Prophet.
And if there does need to be a new Prophet, why would it be you?
Why you?
Why you?
Why you?
It can’t be you.
If any of your questions were answered, you didn’t hear it above the ringing in your head.
Your attention was drawn to the blade that was now in Elder Constance’s hands, and you forced yourself to again begin to listen.
“…The Neo-Prophet will take on her full responsibilities when the time is right. But until then…” She continued on with familiar words, ones used in a typical scarring ceremony to bless the blade before it was used.
The knife was then passed down the line of Elders, each of them lifting it above their head and reciting the same words.
Your legs suddenly felt very weak.
Elder Duncan blessed the blade last and stepped forward, positioning himself just a couple feet away from you. You turned to him just as you knew you were supposed to.
This was the part in the ceremony when you would usually say a version of The Prophet’s Prayer. You weren’t sure if you were still meant to do that, given the circumstances, but you were operating solely on instincts now, so you began, “The world is not in balance, but I will do my part to right it.”
You weren’t speaking nearly as loud as the Elders had. You hoped you were loud enough. You hoped you were doing it right.
The pleased look on Elder Duncan’s face indicated that you had done well, but before you could go on with the next line, all of the Elders continued the prayer together:
“You will lead us through the storm
May the current be calm
May You guide us home.”
Their words had been slightly altered from the classic prayer, different than you would’ve said it if you had been given the chance. The strangest part was that they were speaking to you.
Almost like they were praying to you…
Elder Duncan took another step forward, gripping the knife.
You expected him to use his other hand to lift your face, to hold it at the best angle for the scarring. You’d seen him do the same to others many times before.
This was the part that you knew was coming. You had been at least attempting to prepare for it. You could handle it.
But you were thrown off once again when instead, he took your right wrist in his free hand and gently pressed your fingers down, making you form a fist. He then lifted your hand until it was by your ear, knuckles facing inward, arm bent at the elbow. His own hand gripped your elbow, holding your arm in place.
You were frozen, with no choice but to watch as the knife met the outside of your forearm and sank in. A slow, straight line was carved from the top of your wrist all the way to your elbow.
You didn’t look away. You didn’t cry. You did as you were told.
You wanted to go home.
“We are imperfect beings. And thus, we make ourselves imperfect in Your eyes.” Elder Duncan said, meeting your gaze. “It is for this reason that we proudly wear our scars on our faces.”
When his work was done, he released your right elbow and moved on to the left, lifting that arm into the same position. “But the Prophet, in Her kindness, bears the weight of our imperfections, carrying all of us in her arms. This is why You will wear your scars here.”
“Remember that You are part of us, but set apart.” The blade pierced the skin of your left forearm, and a twin incision was formed. “We look to You, Prophet. May She guide you. May She protect you.” With that, he took a step back, lowering the knife.
You slowly lowered your arms to your sides and turned back to face the enraptured crowd.
Finally, you found your mother among them.
And she was crying.
“My friends,” Elder Constance declared, gesticulating dramatically, “Your Prophet!”
The cheers were deafening.
As you scanned the masses, you felt the blood ooze down your arms and curl around your fingers, pooling on the ground by your feet.
You found Yara, who was somehow clapping and cheering more enthusiastically than anyone else. And then you saw L, held up on their mother’s hip, face concerned, eyes wide and wary.
At least someone was as skeptical as you were.
You wondered if you would get to go home now.
But Elder Constance placed her hands on your shoulders again, this time turning you and leading you in the opposite direction, into the Prophet’s grand house. Into Sanctuary.
There, servants’ gentle hands carefully cleaned your stinging wounds, took down and brushed out your hair, and helped you change into a new white dress.
You would never live in your mother’s house again.
And it would be eight years before anyone addressed you by your name.
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