Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1050101.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Temporary_Amnesia,
      Amnesiac_Derek, Amnesiac_Stiles, Dubious_Consent, Bonding, Alpha_Stiles,
      Omega_Derek
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-18 Words: 2375
****** until we wake ******
by verity
Summary
     "It shouldn't have affected Derek," Lydia says over the phone. "But
     maybe—because of your bond."
     "What bond," Derek says.
Notes
     Dan wanted bottom!Derek in heat and possessive Stiles. Happy
     birthday, Dan!
     1001cranes wanted amnesia. ;)
      
     content notes: underage, see tags!
See the end of the work for more notes
stiles
Lydia is dressed more casually that Stiles remembers, looks older—there's
something about her eyes. She's sitting on the edge of his bed with her hand
covering his, alpha posturing forgotten for once. "You knew this was going to
happen with the nemeton, so you left notes for yourself," she says.
"I forgot a lot?" Stiles says. His head hurts and his stomach feels funny.
Lydia rolls her eyes. "Not that much." She pats his hand before she gets up off
the bed. "Get some rest. It's just for a few days."
—
SCOTT'S THE ALPHA.
The notes are scribbled, hasty, on a pad of legal paper shoved beneath his
pillow. Stiles has lost more than a year—he's almost a senior now. The last
thing he remembers is coming home after the game, after Gerard, bloodied and
beaten.
ERICA IS DEAD, future Stiles wrote. BOYD IS DEAD. DAD KNOWS. YOU CAN TALK TO
HIM ABOUT EVERYTHING. EXCEPT DEREK. DON'T BRING UP DEREK.
Well, that's helpful.
YOU CAN TRUST DEREK. YOU CAN ASK HIM ANYTHING.
And that's… weird.
—
The other thing that's weird is that his room smells like Derek. Stiles didn't
know he could pick out Derek's omega scent from any others—Stiles is a human
alpha, he doesn't have olfactory superpowers—but it's here, distinct from
Scott's, and in the most random places. The sheets on Stiles's bed, some of the
shirts in the laundry hamper, and another crumpled up beneath his pillow, a
plain black tee that's soft and worn with a small hole in the seam on one side.
That's the one Stiles has pressed to his nose when Derek lets himself in
through the window.
"Stiles," Derek says. "I don't remember—I don't remember—" His eyes flash blue.
"Oh, crap," Stiles says.
—
"It shouldn't have affected Derek," Lydia says over the phone. "But
maybe—because of your bond."
"What bond," Derek says.
—
Stiles is 16 (17) and he's bonded to a werewolf. Like, alpha-omega bonded,
which isn't legal even with parental consent if you're younger than 18 in
California. It's not like people don't do it anyway—there's paperwork and
there's reality—but Stiles doesn't know anyone who has. Not even Scott and
Allison, who seemed like the most compatible pair in history before she had a
breakdown and they went on a break.
That's in Stiles's notes, but there's nothing about this, barely anything about
Derek. Derek wasn't supposed to forget. Stiles was supposed to—he trusted
Derek.
He still trusts Derek.
"I'm sorry," Stiles says, spinning around on his computer chair. Derek's
sitting on his bed, hunched over and looking pensive. There's something tugging
in Stiles's gut and he doesn't know if that's biology, or memory, or what, but
he wants to go comfort Derek, to—something. "I don't know why you would—"
"You're just a kid." Derek doesn't sound angry, just—upset. "It's wrong. I
never should have—"
"Hey," Stiles snaps. "We don't know what you did or didn't do."
Derek swallows, ducks his head. "I'm an adult. It doesn't matter, I should have
known better."
"I'm not—" Protesting is just going to make him sound more like a whiny kid, a
teenager, which Stiles is. He sighs, scrubs his hand over his face. "Look. We
don't know. Can you just—"
"No," Derek says. "I'm—can't you tell?"
Stiles stares at Derek for a moment. It's not until he thinks to sniff the air
that he gets it, that pull in his gut, the urge to touch, to soothe. "You're
going into heat."
Derek nods, gets to his feet, unsteady. "I can take care of it myself."
Oh, no, no way, Stiles can't just let him— "You're mine." Then: "Wait. That
didn't come out right." Just because he's an alpha, that doesn't mean Stiles
thinks of omegas as property. The bond between them doesn't have anything to do
with thinking, though—it's some animal thing, hooked into the hindbrain, that
makes Stiles want to bend Derek over the bed and breed him. Stiles takes a deep
breath and tries again. "If we're—why wouldn't I take care of you?"
Derek rolls his eyes. "You don't care about me. Not here, not now. It's—I don't
expect—no one would expect that of you."
"Come on, I held you up in cold water for hours," Stiles says. "You think I
don't—"
There's an awkward silence. Well, it's awkward for Stiles, who woke up this
morning expecting a different set of bruises on his body, a different kind of
headache. He wasn't anticipating to fall into this weird future where he's
basically married to Derek—wait, did Prop 8 get repealed? could Stiles marry
Lydia now?—and now they're—but if they're bonded, Stiles has tied Derek. The
whole deal, the whole enchilada. They've gone all the way.
Stiles has never tied anyone before in his whole life besides his own hands,
except he has, he just can't remember it. Was it for werewolf reasons? Was it
because they just cared about each other? What if they can't ever remember?
What if—
"What's wrong?" Derek was inching toward the window, like Stiles wouldn't
notice, but now he turns around and crouches down in front of Stiles, places
his palms on Stiles's knees. There's sweat beaded on his brow.
Stiles presses the back of his hand to Derek's forehead. "You're burning up,"
he says, struggling with the need to move his hands lower, to cool Derek down.
"You can't—you can't just go around like this, you could get hurt."
"I could get hurt any time," Derek says, but he doesn't get up. "It doesn't
matter, I don't—I don't want to take anything from you."
"We've already done this." Stiles looks down to Derek's bowed head, drops his
hand to cup Derek's jaw, to tilt his face up so Stiles can meet his eyes. "I
want to."
"Okay," Derek says, finally. "I—okay."
—
It's not as simple as just knotting Derek, of course. Stiles has to text some
bullshit to his dad, buy condoms, and drive them across town to Derek's loft,
because, no, Stiles is not fucking Derek for the next three days with his dad
down the hall, it's just not happening, whatever truth-sharing has gone down.
The drive is—probably Stiles shouldn't have tried to be in an enclosed space
with Derek right now, between the fact that he smells fucking amazing but also
looks like he's dying, and Stiles hates that he knows what that looks like,
still wants—well, Stiles is not the most focused driver.
"Calm down," Derek says at an intersection. He's slumped down in the passenger
seat, sweating through his shirt. "There's—it doesn't start right away. We've
got another hour, probably."
"Do you think there's stuff at your place? Like… food?" Stiles says. "Should
I—"
"I'll call Boyd if we need anything," Derek says.
Stiles inhales sharply. "How about Scott," he says. "He's our capital-A alpha,
this is his responsibility."
"Fine," Derek agrees.
—
There are plenty of frozen dinners and protein bars and protein powder in the
kitchen of Derek's loft, which makes Stiles suspect that Derek eats this crap
all the time and not just when his body requires it. Stiles grabs a handful of
Clif bars and a few water bottles and shoves them into his backpack to take
upstairs. To Derek's bedroom.
"This is—I'm sorry," Derek says. He's already stretched out on the bed in a
shirt and briefs, head pillowed on his folded arms.
"I'm the one who erased both of our memories." Stiles lies down, stretching out
vertically, spreading his arms just far enough that the tips of his fingers
brush Derek's shoulder. "It's my fault."
Derek growls and all of the sudden he's on top of Stiles, eyes wide, skin pale,
fevered. "You don't get it. I want you and it's wrong."
Stiles can smell how wet Derek is, wet and ready, and all Stiles can do is arch
up against him. "I don't care," he says, snaring Derek's t-shirt in his
fingers. "I don't think I could leave even if you said no. You think that isn't
fucked up?"
Compared to his track record with, say, Lydia, Stiles has spent a lot of time
quality holding Derek, lying on Derek, touching Derek, passively or otherwise.
Derek's hot and all, but Stiles never went oh, let me put my dick in this
before. There's all those stories people tell where alphas are these raging
beasts and omegas drive them out of their minds, but Stiles has been around
omegas all his life, at home and in mixed public school with betas, in grocery
stores and movie theaters, and it was never like this. Scott's heat scent is
warm, too-bright, and Stiles drove him home from school the first time, waited
for him until his mom came home. Derek smells ripe, musky, sour-sweet, like the
wetness between his legs that Stiles wants to lick out of him.
If Stiles were a wolf, he'd sink his teeth into Derek: you're mine.
Except Derek already is.
 
derek
Derek wakes up dizzy and disoriented, in an unfamiliar apartment, on a soft
bed. He's wrapped in sheets that smell like him and—someone. It takes him a
while to place the scent, sweaty musk and alpha, to figure out it belongs to
Stiles. Why would Stiles be here, in his—? Derek shivers, curls further in on
himself, willing himself back to sleep. Maybe it's a dream.
Except—Derek's slick between his legs, like he's—
He reaches down, beneath his damp boxers, and his fingers come back clear and
glossy.
—
Derek's phone says it's August 2012. He knows it's his phone, because the
passcode is the same—Laura's birthday—even though it's shiny and sleek. Someone
has put on a screen protector, put the phone in a case, which Derek never
bothers with. Someone did this for him.
Derek can't remember who. He can't remember. And he doesn't—he's always taken
heat suppressants, contraceptives, he doesn't know why he wouldn't—
He looks at his phone again, goes to the contacts. Stiles is first on his speed
dial, then Scott, then—the sheriff? and Cora? Must be someone with the same
name, but Derek shivers. He doesn't know.
Stiles will know.
Stiles will know what to do.
—
"Oh, crap," Stiles says. "So you have amnesia, too."
"Does everyone have amnesia?" Derek says.
Because this is his life.
"No." Stiles holds up a notepad too quickly for Derek to see anything written
on the page. "Apparently, I left notes for myself. Lydia didn't say anyone else
was affected."
Derek has to sit down on Stiles's bed. "Call Lydia," he says.
—
Kate was 22 when Derek was 17. She was pretty, and Derek was—Derek didn't even
know why she'd look at him, why she'd—he didn't trust her, he just didn't care.
About her, about anything. He didn't ask questions.
"You're just a kid," Derek says. "It's wrong. I never should have—"
"Hey," Stiles says, sitting up straighter in his chair. "We don't know what you
did or didn't do."
It doesn't matter. Stiles is still a kid, and yet that doesn't stop Derek from
wanting. Derek wants Stiles to tie him, to fuck Derek until his thighs tremble,
until his whole body aches from exhaustion; he wants Stiles to hold him and
soothe him. He wants all parts of Stiles.
Stiles says, "Let me take care of you."
—
Stiles makes sure they have food, takes Derek back to his apartment, gets into
bed with Derek. The next part is easy: their bodies know what to do.
Derek's head is quiet, empty for once, when Stiles rolls him over and takes
him, ties him too quickly, swelling up so fast it hurts. When Derek whimpers,
Stiles pulls him to his chest, says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," presses gentle
kisses to Derek's neck and strokes his arms until Derek relaxes. Then he
strokes Derek's soft cock to hardness, jerks him off until Derek comes, too,
clenching endlessly around Stiles's knot, filled up, tied, safe.
—
There are periods of lucidity, where he lets Stiles feed him granola and Clif
Bars and hold bottles of water to his lips. "Why?" Derek says. "Why are you—?
Is it just—?" He can't say it, the word for what's between them, forever,
irrevocable without painful intervention. It makes Derek sick to think about
it, what he's dragged Stiles into, so Derek tries not to. Instead, he lets the
instinct to submit take over, baring his neck, opening his body to Stiles. How
simple it is, to let Stiles claim him like this.
Stiles sticks another pillow behind Derek's back, so he can sit up more
comfortably. "Do you think I don't, um, care about you?"
"Not like this," Derek says.
"I think future me must," Stiles says, carefully not meeting Derek's eyes. "I—I
told myself I could trust you. That I could ask you anything."
—
Derek's heat breaks late on the third day. Stiles changes the sheets on the bed
again, throws the mattress pad in the washer, too, with all the latest soiled
ones. Maybe Stiles, the future Stiles, bought the mattress pad; Derek never
thinks about stuff like that.
Stiles tucks Derek into bed like he's a little kid, like his mom used to do.
"I, um," he says. "Can I stay until we remember?"
Derek scoots over, and Stiles climbs in next to him, curls up into a tiny ball.
He looks tired, smaller in the light from the waning moon outside. Derek rolls
onto his side and pulls Stiles in, spoons him. Stiles tenses. It takes him a
while to relax. Because it's dark, and there's no one else to hear them, Derek
says, "I don't know if I want to."
"We'll remember this," Stiles says. "We'll—"
Derek wants to be young and stupid. He wants to believe that there's a good
reason for this, that he loves Stiles, that he loves anyone, that this is
something they did together. He wants to believe he's better than he is. He
wants to believe this is about more than their bodies.
"I know," Derek says, tucking his face against Stiles's neck. "We will."
End Notes
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