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97.86% of the time, you remember facts and can recite them immediately.
The other 2.14% of the time, it takes you a minute or so to suss out what it is that you’re trying to remember.
People think you’ve gotten more contemplative, wiser in your pain, but you’ve just gotten a little blurrier, burying things so they don’t punch you in the gut while you’re trying to make coffee or do your homework.
But, oh god, you can still remember the feel of her fingers laced with yours, the way her hair smelled right after she showered, the weight of her gaze when it settled on you, the brush of her fingers against your cheek. That smile. Those collarbones. The curve of the small of her back.
And on bad days, all you can remember how hot her blood was against your skin, even though it should have been cold by the time you got to her because you were trapped in the basement with Stiles or not-Stiles or Stiles’ body – don’t scream again, don’t scream again…
And your eyes were so dry when they lowered her body into the ground.
And half the pack didn’t even show up because – of course – two headstones over, Kate’s name seems to glow on the marble headstone, pulsing with her sadistic spirit.
-----
Everything is so numb.
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But you can’t dwell for long. You save Stiles. It should be over after that, even just for a little bit, but there’s always something in Beacon Hills, always another monster, another murder, another thing that wants to kill or maim or devour.
And you settle into the rhythm again, researching and looking for Derek and what’s going on with that and everything is crazy again and Derek leaves and you can tell how crushed Stiles is, even when no one else can.
Then, when it seems like things might be calming down, you go to sleep in your bed, maybe a little tipsy, and wake up with dirt clenched in your hands and the smell of destroyed grass tickling your nostrils.
And all you can think is No, no, not again, who’s in my head this time? Peter is gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.
Gone, but not dead.
You look up and you know where you are, you see the headstone, the graceful swoop of the letters carved there.
Dead, but not gone.
Dead, but not gone.
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Stiles looks at you like you’ve grown another head when you ask if he can find Peter.
You’re all at a pack meeting, something that Scott’s decided is important to have, even when nothing’s happening, and you give Stiles a look, one that he can surely interpret, after all these years.
Stiles’ mouth twists minutely before he glances subtly around and motions you closer with two twitching fingers.
You lean into his side, resting your arm around his waist and your head on his collarbones, and he whispers into your hair.
He knows what you’re doing and that you don't need Peter.
He says he’ll hold your shoes for you and you pinch his side, though not as hard as his yelp makes it out to be.
You’re grinning for the first time in a while as you two separate and the others look at you and it’s somehow easier to slide in between Kira and Malia and talk about the movie that they want to see, to eat and drink and be normal – just for a bit.
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You check the almanac.
Just twelve more days.
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Just eleven more.
You and Stiles gather the things you’ll need – he’s been texting someone and you hope it’s not Peter but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Ten.
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Nine eight seven.
You can’t eat. You barely sleep. When you do, you dream of her. You’re reaching for each other but your fingers don’t touch.
Six five fourthreetwo…
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One.
You wake up and feel like you can breathe again.
Finally.
Soon, soon, so soon.
-----
True to his word, Stiles lurks by the cars as you walk barefoot across the grass, your sling back sandals hooked over his finger as he swipes through his phone and hums something under his breath.
The absence of the moon makes the sky look unfinished, even as the stars twinkle in their sprawling grace.
Even without the moonlight, her marker seems to glow. Not with the writhing, ugly force that Kate’s has, but something softer, more raw, like her eyes right when she woke up or the way she pressed your palms together in terrifying moments.
The ceremony is rather simple, simpler that you’d believed at first, but it’s easy enough to perform. You’re still learning everything there is to know about your powers but this is easy enough.
It’s not as if you’re exerting yourself. If anything, you’re loosening the hold on the waves of light that reside in your chest.
You press your hands to the earth, digging your fingers into the soil, and you call her.
Just once, just a whisper, but it’s enough.
You feel the ground shifting, little rolling waves that make your knees sink a little but your hands remain solid until you feel fingers slithering between your own, gritty with dirt and rough with calluses and you pull hard enough that it knocks you flat on your back.
Her first breath comes from where she’s sprawled next to you in the grass, her eyes blinking open and taking in the dark night, the dirt, and then – you.
She breathes your name and you almost have to close your eyes because it hurts to hear it.
But you can’t look away.
The smile that curves her mouth is just like it should be, her hair messy with dirt but still holding curls, her arms strong as she pulls you closer.
You know that eventually you’ll have to get up, to meet up with Stiles and figure out what to say to the others. There are people to call and questions that need to be answered, but for now, just for this moment, it’s just you two.
As her shaking fingers move along the lines of your face, it’s like all the haziness has been cleared, the fog has lifted, and all those other stupid phrases that make so much sense because everything is so clear that it hurts and it’s clean and it’s right.
It's her.