“Don’t come over, alright?” Stiles pleads to Scott. “And
keep the others away too. Please. He’s okay, I swear, but just… no people.”
“For how long?” Scott asks.
“I-” Stiles’ voice breaks. He powers on before Scott can say
anything. “I’m not sure. Just give me time.”
Stiles hangs up, then gets into the jeep.
Derek’s in an old hoodie of Stiles’. It’s pathetically thin
from age, but better than nothing.
Whatever memories Derek has lost, had taken from him, or
suppressed, he knows enough to have put his seatbelt on already, so Stiles gets
the jeep moving and starts the heating.
“Thank you.” Derek says; softly and without effort.
Stiles can’t speak. The ease of acknowledgement is not Derek.
He nods, then focuses on driving and keeping the wheel
steady though his hands shake.
Derek is quiet on the drive, and Stiles tries not to stare
at him like he wants. To reassure himself over and over that Derek is alive and
breathing and back with him. He doesn’t want to make Derek more uncomfortable
than he already is, a state apparent to Stiles from Derek’s nervous habit of
tracing his thumb in a circle over his palm.
Seems some things go deeper than memory. The question is,
what things? If Derek doesn’t know he’s a werewolf, there’s going to be one
very frustrating conversation in Stiles’ future, and he’ll need outside help,
which he wants to avoid for as long as possible.
First step though, reacquaint Derek with his apartment. With
a shower and a warm bed and his own clothes and enough food that he’ll feel it
for hours afterwards. That’s Stiles plan.