Chapter Text
Memories were fickle, hard to hold on to and even harder to get rid of.
The blessing services of Lacuna made the life long struggle with memories all the easier to manage. People could erase an event given the situation and evidence, why not the mental traces as well?
Lacuna and the advancing field of medicine paved the way for that vision. Living free from the shackles of painful memories.
At least, that's what the brochure said. And Scott had to memorize that paper before they'd let him test to be a memory technician. It was a long way from veterinary practices but it had just as much significance. Instead of helping the family dog overcome old age he could help the poor kids get past the pain of losing him. He was doing good work. He kept having to tell himself that. He wrote it on sticky notes and taped them to his bathroom mirror he said it so much.
He was directly responsible for memories so vividly forgotten you could taste then on your tongue without rendering the flavor. Memories were so misplaced like the twice removed great great grand father from a country that fell when the founding fathers were swearing on stolen bibles.
He was as great at his job as he would let himself be since no customers could give him feed back.
Scott remembered every memory he got gone, playing in his head like hand held camera footage. The things people wanted to forget were justified. That was for sure.
Sweet girls and boys came in often, wanting to rid themselves of ex partners who kept chipping away at their hearts. It wasn't company practice, but Scott managed to calm most of them down. Giving out the philosophies his mother passed on to him about love like candy. That if they could just replay the memories they wanted to forget, but turned down all the noise they would see it differently. If they let the arguments and petty insults get silenced in those replays, they'd see that the passion was worth the trouble.
But then a boy came in one day with the smell of cherry cigars on his shirt collar and a wrinkled photo warped in his hands.
His name was Stiles, this beautiful buzz cut boy with some memory shaking his composure like boiling water. His face was a permanent pale in deep purple bagged eyes and reddened cheeks, highlighting brush strokes on pure canvas.
"I need to get rid of him, this guy I've been..." He trailed off, turning away with panic on that canvas face.
Scott had the bedside manner of a southern angel. He eased in to their connection, giving tissues like it was a reflex and offering gentle shushes. No one was undeserving of quiet reminders of kindness. "We'll take this backwards, don't worry. Why don't you tell me how you found us?" He said, his hand on the arm of the patient chair, not making contact. He held a clip board in his lap, rolling a pen absentmindedly over his fingers.
He took a deep breath and replied, "There was an ad my coworker showed me about a month ago. I've been putting off coming in, sorry."
"Our services require a lot of consideration, its a big decision," Scott said, jotting down a few notes on the very last paper. "And if you're unsure about anything, you're welcome to ask questions and we can stop at any time."
Scott waited for a nod from Stiles confirming that he understood. A big part of memory erasure was the patient's understanding and acceptance. As much as a memory could ruin a person, forgetting had the same effect.
"Are you currently having trouble sleeping or experiencing anxiety attacks?"
"Yes, to both," Stiles nodded.
"Have you developed any nervous habits in relation to your experience?"
Stiles ran a hand over the nape of his neck, tracing the outline of his hair line. "No, just the not sleeping. I had panic attacks as a kid, that's not new."
"With memory erasure therapy you may go through a withdrawal of habits. Getting frustrated with not having an explanation to why you feel the need to do something regularly, or in some cases excessively. If you realize any during the therapy we do have exercises to help."
Stiles gulped and nodded, relaxing in to the chair. Most of the stark equipment in the office was like a dentist's or a standard issue exam room. Lacuna didn't exactly have catalogues for their kind of treatment.
"Is what you're here for related to any criminal activity?" Scott asked. Stiles looked confused but Scott added, "We ask for legal purposes. Its mainly for anyone in domestic violence cases or issues of personal theft. We run a background check with the police before therapy but we've never had to. Its rare enough that we've don't have any protocol."
Stiles nodded again, "that's a no, then. We never got violent. I mean we yelled...a lot. He's a good guy. I guess that's the problem. He's so good and... God, I sound pathetic. I'm such a girl about this. I just wanted to fall in love and it got so messy."
"You can't help who you fall for. Why don't you tell me about him," Scott suggested, tightening his grip on the chair arm. It was still a loose grip, more for his own restraint. He couldn't get too close too patients, even when they needed it. He couldn't supplement the love they wanted for his own, having to erase it all on the end to leave then empty.
Stiles hesitated again, like everything was making him sore and slow to move.
"Start with his name. How did you meet?"
---
Scott had been going in to Stiles' memories like a documentary series, enthralled by every natural detail and environmental consequence. He read over his history with the kind of enjoyment he saved for critically underrated artists and musicians. Stiles' life was pointedly boring at a glance, but it was the cracks filled with gold that refined his weary edges.
And he wanted to erase Derek. Who he thought was the world and the poor boy wanted to destroy an entire culture.
Stiles and Derek met in the heat of a summer when California wasn't parched from a drought. In the old parted country roads that lead to bigger cities, with roads signs sparse as bread crumbs, Derek took his whole heart in one great big chew.
He was a therapy baby, put with kind psychologists after the trauma of losses he never told anyone if they didn't already know. So Stiles spent their entire relationship regretting every fight and every easy mistake because he didn't want to be what sent Derek into relapse.
Stiles talked about what gave him sleepless nights around mother's day and unsteady breathes when he watched crime dramas. He knew his fears but Derek didn't talk about this own and he didn't allude to even having them.
He tried like mad to be the net Derek needed but when he finally fell, Stiles couldn't be there.
They hadn't gotten far enough in their first session that Scott could piece the whole story together. They would get there, but it took time to erase a boy so significant he could fill history books like unearthed tomes
Honestly, Scott was jealous. On both sides, seeing Stiles so twisted over someone and hearing about how lovely his Derek was. Everybody wanted a love like that. Not enough that is was this overwhelming, but to be loved at the highest setting was rare.
Scott didn't see it often in his line of business. Mostly, it was people looking for an escape. People rich on pain, hoping to god that the procedure and therapy would be covered by their insurance. He saw a lot of abuse cases, wanting to rewrite their scars on to something more noble. Surgical scars from reset ribs became shark bites and mountain lion scratches. Battered kneecaps were rewritten to starve the lingering thoughts on carpet burns because a story about falling off roller blades was more palatable embarrassment. Girls who believed they still could be mothers were erasing abortion clinic bruises from their minds.
Occasionally, he followed protocol to send someone away. If they were trying to escape a reality they would keep on facing, Scott just did what he could to listen. A fair amount of patients left after their own realizations and epiphanies. Everything was practical in the clinic offices, very soft spoken and understanding. Scott and some of the other therapists went through withdrawals of empathy at the start but there was always one case that brought them back down to their humble footing.
Stiles was the first lovelorn case he had seen in a month or so. They weren't his favorite. People who came in with clear problems needed kind words and a pep talk, something to remind them that they were good and didn't deserve the pain they felt. Love scorned and hurt people saw themselves as the problem, or their lovers as the problem, or society as the problem. They were harder to console.
---
Lacuna required three separate therapy sessions before erasing a memory. The first initial session is to plan treatment and the mental erasure map a therapist uses in the final procedure. Mostly its talk, a lot of talk to get it all out in the open.
The second session requires the patient to bring in, preferably three, items related to the memory. For some its as specific as the itinerary or beer bottle label they were tearing or as broad as a the mail they opened the day it all occurred. Interacting with the items, the patient is hooked up to a monitor and their brain waves create a comprehensive map where the memories are most prominent.
Stiles brought in a black tshirt, a ratty spiral notebook, a coffee ground spoon, and a wine bottle. It was obvious that they weren't his things.
"What we do with your things is make a map using this machine," Scott said, pointing to the computer behind him, essentially an old styled monitor outputted with an array of plush cords in non offending colors. He tipped two switches and a button. It immediately turned on, reading the passive reactions of Stiles through the gloves. "You interact with them, talking about them helps, and your reactions give us a way to pick the parts of the brain where your memories are stored."
"Sounds easy. How does it all...work, exactly?" Stiles asked, putting on the gloves he'd been given. They looked like failed virtual reality gear, all mesh and bulky.
"Basically, we use a radio wave that induces amnesia in your temporal lobes. Which sounds really intense but our founder, Dr. Deaton has been a lead developer in amnesiac cures. Essentially, he found out how to induce it same as you can cure it."
"So, if you can cause it and cure it, could you reverse this?" Stiles asked, gripping and relaxing his fists at nothing. The gloves made him feel weirdly powerful.
"We've had two people come back," Scott said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "And that's only from when I've worked here, I never performed any. But it's available, if you feel incomplete or start to develop depersonalization or disassociation. If you find out that you sought out our services we'll have you listen to the session records and you can decide from there. Which reminds me," Scott trailed off, flicking on a small switch on the white coffee table they sat at. A cheap voice recorder had been bolted in to the table, painted over except for the little red light at the top. They recorded the sessions for a number of reasons; legal and research purposes but mainly for the sake of the patient.
"But its possible to reverse it?" Stiles asked again.
"Are you having seconds thoughts?" Scott asked.
Stiles didn't say anything. The first sound on the tape would be his unsure voice asking if he could undo his possible mistake.
Scott went on, "its possible, and just as safe as the procedure. We suggest an alternative set of memories for what we erase. You, most likely, won't seek us out unless you really want to. And I'll be here for you."
"That's good to hear, really."
"Do you have any other questions? Now's as good a time as any."
"Umm...does it hurt?"
"I've gotten no complaints. It should feel like anesthesia wearing off when you get home."
"Right. Ok, I can deal with that."He paused again, rubbing his eyes with the bare tips of his fingers, the Velcro scratching his cheeks.
"Are you ready to start?" Scott asked, his hand on the canvas bag Stiles had brought in. Stiles nodded, gulping.
Scott pulled out a notebook, its red edges faded and taped together so that the spiral binding was almost useless. It had "RECIPES" scrawled at the top in big girlish bubble letters. He set it in front of Stiles and glanced at the monitor behind him where it showed high peaks and few low points, a good reaction.
"Can you tell me what that is?" Scott asked, folding his hands together.
Stiles picked up the notebook, his index finger sticking inbetween the pages to a familiar spot. He opened it, habitually going to a page entitled 'polish thing', written in his handwriting.
Stiles sighed heavily, shrugging like he didn't know how to explain it. "Its not mine, that's for sure. Derek would kill me if he knew I had it."
He turned from the middle page to the front, a note stapled to what looked like an introduction. The page read like a child's version of academia, using sparse redundant words in neatly illegible cursive. The note, attached with care, was a letter, written like an in class secret on sweet lavender stationary.
"This was Laura's. She was Derek sister. He didn't talk about her, ever, but he loved this notebook. It took two years for him to let me even hold it. And I didn't write in it until a couple of months ago. The very last time we spoke it was because he couldn't find it. It was after he moved out. He didn't want me to know where he was going so he did it while I was at my dad's. He took a box of my college research notes by mistake... He didn't call immediately but, after maybe two weeks. It wasn't even him, it was his cousin. But I said I didn't have it, she believed me and he didn't.
"I...didn't know I had it. But he thought I was mad. I wasn't. But he came back, and he yelled… and then I was mad. I don't actually remember the last thing I said to him." He paused for a moment, "But…then I was mad. So I when I found it, I didn't tell him or Malia…"
Scott wanted to ask why, it looked like he needed to. But the less Stiles realized now the easier the procedure would be. Scott didn't really have the luxury of being anybody's shrink.
"What's in it?" He asked.
Stiles flipped to the first few pages where the writing slowly degraded from cursive to print, growing older the farther he went through it. "It's all recipes. Laura really liked to cook and bake. Derek wrote half of them and there's two of mine. I really liked looking through here when he let me use one of her's."
"What was the first time like?"
"I uh, was roped in to making cupcakes for this bake sale one of my ex-students was holding. I don’t really bake much so I came home, complaining about it since I'd be forbidden to use any box mixes. They 'had' to be from scratch. Then Derek goes to his stack of books, pulls it out and flips to this," Stiles searches through the top corners, looking for a page that has been splattered with cake batter. He holds it up for Scott to see. It's filthy, partially yellowed at parts and missing the bottom half of the page. The top reads 'Black Magic Cake'.
"They're really fucking good. I make them every couple of months. You use coffee and extra oil to get them really moist… Derek said they were his mom's favorite and that Laura would make them on her birthday. Mine were apparently not as good but pretty up there…"
"What did he let you write in it?"
"Bialy Barszcz and zakwa." He smiled to himself, opening up to a dog eared page. "It was my grandmother's. She lived with us before my mom died. She on hospice and mom didn't want her in a nursing home. Sh-"
Scott interrupted, "it's important that you don't stray too far from the memories you want to erase. There's always the risk that we may tamper with what you want to keep."
"Right, right, that makes sense….she I want to keep," Stiles trailed off, the prickling sensation of anxiety coming out his pores. "I…So, it was…Wow, okay, now I'm terrified I'm gonna talk about her on accident. She died when I was 7, I barely remember her as it is."
Stiles didn't seem like the kind of person who panicked. He looked sure. He looked like he could hold himself up when wind battered at his knees and told him to give up. Despite how he looked, he was very weak. He was exhausted, the constant kind of tired that left purple bruises under your eyes and the palour of flushed skin like curdled cream. It made him look like he use to be stronger.
"Stiles, it's alright. We'll move on, we've gotten enough there. You're doing fine," Scott leaned forward, placing his hand on top of Stiles', the clamminess radiating through the gloves. He gingerly took the notebook, handling it carefully and placing it at the edge of the table. "We can always come back to it. I'll re-adjust your recording and we'll move on."
Stiles swallowed and nodded, the colour looming in his cheeks like it might fade out completely again. Scott quickly turned back and manually set the recording back three minutes, well enough away that he'd be able to keep the significance of his grandmother's recipe and the taste of the cake.
He went back to the bag again, picking out the plush black band shirt nestled at the top. He placed it in front of Stiles, unfolded and with the dense scent of oil in the collar. A sweet grin spread over Stiles' lips, like he remembered a joke only he would find funny.
"That’s…. Derek wore that on our first date, or I guess the first time we met, actually. He stayed over and I wore it the next morning because I thought it was mine," he picked it up, searching for the dainty tear at the top of its shoulder. "I told him I thought it was mine but…I do that when I meet a guy I like. I'll wear their shirt when I wake up and that’s how I know if I should stay for breakfast. He saw me and did that stupid movie scene trope where he kissed me and ran his hand up my back. He said I looked good in it….That's when I knew. That's when I thought I knew."
"Why do you still have it?" Scott asked, stone faced and understanding.
"I absolutely stole it from him. When we got serious, it would be my go-to sleep shirt. We're around the same height, he's just more muscly than I am. He stretches out all of my shirts but we can share pants….Shared." He coughed to clear his throat, moving past the hiccup of realizing what he was doing. "But it's comfortable and really soft and…smells like him. He had…he smelled really nice, like really musky BO and fabric softener. Sometimes he'd use my soap and then smelled like honey. It'll be weird not knowing what that smells like."
He set the shirt back down without folding it, pushing it toward the notebook. Scott pulled out the little black coffee spoon, ti had hooked itself to the top of the wine bottle. It had a looming scent of lemon soap, like it had been recently washed.
"That caused a lot of fights." Stiles said, leaning forward with his knees pressed up against the table.
"I've seen smaller things do the same," Scott joked, laughing alongside. He handed it to Stiles, the nylon catching his fingertips. "What's the story behind it?"
"I," Stiles patted his chest, "am a coffee drinker. All around, too much caffeine for my own good. I've got like seven different bags at once and some pre-ground stuff on hand. But I don't buy in to all the accessories crap. I've got a garage sale coffee maker and this one scoop, that's it. It's like, standard, it came with the machine. But it's also pretty much the same kind that gets sold at vitamin and body building stores." He rolls the spoon over his fingers, tapping it lightly against his nails.
"Derek is…a gym…brat, fiend, whatever. He's a real jock and buy these huge containers of protein powder. And he'd lose the spoon they come with in the actual huge, gigantic, tornado-when-you-open them jars. So he steal mine and I'd have to go spelunking to get it back because its mine and I like my coffee to be a certain strength. But the spoons look so similar that he thought it was his and we stole it back and forth from each other for about two years. I don't even know if this is mine or his, actually…" He stares at the curve of spoon's back, so black and shiny that he clearly saw the scratches and divots where it hit the edges of jars and knives in the dishwasher.
He set the spoon down, the light clatter of it hitting the table, and pushed it away again. "There's not much there to say, honestly."
Scott nodded, glad they were almost done. This session was always the hardest for patients, unfolding secrets that needed to be rid of and then getting showered in the waves. It was the breaking point for some. They'd go through photo albums and tear up, completely beside themselves with disgust that they'd want to get rid of any of it. Sometimes patients dropped out, too mortified to live without the memories and experiences. If they did, they were always angry at themselves. No one ever left happy to keep what they so desperately convinced themselves they needed to omit.
He pulled out the wine bottle, the bag deflating to the ground beside him. Setting it on the table, he noticed a flinch in Stiles' posture, moving away to the back of his seat.
"I…I didn't mean to bring that. I just wanted to recycle it…" Stiles evaded, not making eye contact like a scared toddler.
"Stiles," Scott said gently, the smallest bit of anguish on his tongue. He hated having to make patients talk. It was as much an act of sadism as dentistry.
"Stiles, if you brought it then it's important." He coaxed again when Stiles remained unmoved.
"I don't…I don't remember what happened. It's from a fight but…I'd had the whole thing and I can't remember what the fight was about. I didn't have anything else and I didn't want to risk remembering it by accident…if I didn't mention it." Stiles said, avoiding Scott's face.
"Why don't you tell me about what happened before, then," Scott offered, not expecting Stiles to bite.
They stayed silent for a good few minutes. Stiles stroked the velcro on his gloves over and over, tracing the seams like top stitches were interesting. He wasn't going to budge.
"I said this when we first met but I'll reiterate, you won't remember talking about this in three weeks. You won't remember me, this building, or feeling this awful. That's the point of doing this all, Stiles. No one can understand what you're going through except you and you know that you don't want to live with it anymore. That's your decision and I'll help you through it as much as I can. But we have to get through this session if you want anything to change. It'll be a little bit of pain and then a lot of relief. We've only got a little bit more to go before we can finish... But I think you need a break.
"I'm going to get us coffee. You can stretch your legs or walk around for a few minute if you want." Scott stood up, adjusting his shirt collar. He didn't like to lecture, it wasn't in his nature, but from time to time he had to.
He left for the hallway, the automatic lock shutting it with a soft click. It was a useless feature aside from the gentle shut. None of the doors locked in the day, computerized to only shut down at 6pm unless manually opened.
The break room wasn't really there for the sake of patients, but occasionally Scott would break the unspoken rule and fill someone up with chamomile in a funny mug. Anything to make to set them at ease.
He didn't know how Stiles took his coffee. He assumed he didn't know, but he felt he could guess. He seemed like the kind of person who liked sweet cream but no sugar, savoring the texture and warm aroma. He seemed like the person who would try to explain coffee flavored creamer, flustered that anyone wouldn't take a preference to taste if it meant less sugar.
Every patient that saw Scott had some story that he had to get to know. Most had great stories, hard wrenching and stomach churning upset. Even though Stiles' didn't, his being so much more typical of loving boys who didn't get along, he was still interesting. He was wishing he could have met Stiles under different circumstances.
Scott made two cups of coffee from the K cup, pouring less sugar into one on the chance he wasn't as good as guessing people. All the clean mugs were the boring Lacuna ones Deaton's assistant ordered when they first opened. Little cheap ceramic cups, a little bigger than what the curve of a palm is use to. The Keurig single serves left a gap from the top that made them seem half empty.
He took both mugs back with him, the desk receptionist catching him when he passed the corner of her eye. She was a pithy person, bird like with gangly limbs and trail mix she munched on every morning. She noticed the mugs and offered a solemn nod of approval.
In the quiet warm office, Stiles was laying back as far back as his spine could bend. His hands draped over his face, gently tracing slow circled on his eyelids. He'd taken off the jacket he'd worn, lain askew on the ground next to him. The hitch of his cotton grey shirt came up high, showing the heavy trace of hair over and below his belly button.
Scott didn't say anything, just let the close of the door and the squeak of his chair quietly stir him. He set the cups down, side by side. Then he waited.
"….I wrecked his car. I wrecked this beautiful four year old black camaro. The car that I don't know how he paid for because it's worth twice my student loans. The car that I don't even know why he had because he can't even hold a conversations about muscle cars. The car that I told him I would protect with my life which he just shrugged off like a big stupid…tree! I drove it to get groceries and some lunatic t-boned me." Stiles put his head in his hands, struggling to comfort himself with the feeling of nylon running over his scalp. He reached out for the bottle instead, squeezing its neck, knowing he wasn't strong enough to break cheap thick glass.
"The passenger side was caved in, a gallon of milk exploded in the seat and I didn't have a goddamned scratch except for a bruise on my shoulder. I was a lucky son of a bitch and I was covered in milk for 15 minutes before an ambulance came because I refused to get out of the car I was so damn scared. Not even that I might be hurt, I ruined that car. I mutilated it. It wouldn't move in a straight line it was so twisted… it could only do donuts…" He chuckled at his own joke, the irony like chewing on rocks it still pained him
"They get me out, I'm fucking fine and somehow they get it towed and….some card for a lot, I don't know. The girl who hit me wouldn't stop crying and I just called a cab home and the guy thought I was high because I kept fidgeting. And I…Derek wasn't there and I was too scared to call him so," he gestured wildly at the bottle, releasing his grip and setting it back down. "From what I remember, this was a very good wine but it just tastes like regret now. I don't remember when Derek got home, I just have this hazy memory of him being really angry. Which is why I got drunk, he's surprisingly patient with drunk people…"
"Do you remember what happened the next morning?" Scott asked, sliding the mug of coffee further over and facing the handle toward Stiles.
With a shaky hand, Stiles grabbed the handle and brought the rim to his lips. It was too hot to drink but the smell and heat grounded him. He cradled it in his hands, the gloves like oven mitts to protect him. "I didn't see him for a week. When he finally came back around he didn't say anything about the car and…I was feeling too guilty to ask. But things were very weird after that. He didn’t seem as protective of me."
"What changed?"
"He didn't check up on me as much. I didn't get good mornings or good nights when we spent the night apart. He didn't offer to help with errands or cooking or…anything. He never offered to do anything, actually. It was frustrating, he'd been attentive before that and talkative. I got the feeling that he was waiting for the day that he would walk out, just needed the right opening," Stiles mused, breathing in the steam with long calm breaths. "He, y'know, did, eventually."
"When did he leave?"
"We got in to a disagreement. It wasn't a fight, we didn't yell or anything. I was packing my suit case to go see my dad. He doesn't ge-…sorry, no, not gonna get off topic again. We make trips every labor day instead of big holidays, easier on him. And anyway, I told Derek that it was weird he hadn't met him yet, that he should soon. And Derek says, to quote him and this is something I'd love to forget, 'Is that even a good idea?'. Is that even a good idea? Like he had already decided we weren't going to make it, like there wasn't any point.
"And it wasn't that he thought or even that he doubted. I could work with doubt. But he already made up his mind that he needed to give up…" Stiles sipped the coffee, humming in the taste and sighing. "I really tried to be open and…transparent with him. I wanted him to talk to me like I talked to him. But I'd honestly like to erase his memory more than mine."
There's a pregnable pause before Scott says, "Thank you….for opening up. We're actually just about done, that puts us with one last thing to cover."
He went back to the old spiral notebook, with its faded red cover and girlish block letters. It had the vague lingering smell of stale flour and worn edges from cooking oil and finger oils. The fraying discarded edges from its perforated seams hung around in the spiral. Those little bits of paper were probably older than Scott's college diploma, older than his first kiss.
He set it in front of Stiles and asked, "What did Derek make?"