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He is…
He’s…
Wait…
What was he doing? And where is he?
…where is this?
Stiles blinks again but the forest doesn’t change. It doesn’t become familiar. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, his palms going slick. God, where the fuck was he?
He tries to rub his sweaty hands against his t-shirt and realizes something else.
Not a t-shirt. A Henley. Red, faded and soft from the wash. There are thumb holes at the end of the sleeves, and Stiles slides his thumbs in, feeling a spark of something familiar at the movement. The memory is there, just at the edge of his consciousness… but it's too nebulous and slips from his grasp.
Shaking his head, Stiles pinches the fabric between his wrinkled fingers and peers down at it. This… isn’t his. He’s never owned a Henley. It’s far too large and it smells… it smells like the forest. Like pine and firewood and… leather? It’s nice, Stiles thinks. He likes it. He feels comforted by it.
Then his gaze travels further down and Stiles finds himself further mystified.
Is he wearing linen pants? He doesn’t own linen pants!
…does he? Fuck, he can’t remember. He can’t remember… but the linen feels nice against his skin, fluttering against his ankles.
Which leads to his third issue: he's fucking barefoot.
He’s in clothes that aren’t his, barefoot, and in a fucking forest.
What the hell is going on? Why is he here? Was he kidnapped? That hasn’t happened in a long time… right?
Was he sleep walking? That’s not a thing he does, is it? Maybe it is… he tends to forget things like that now. He forgets… why is he forgetting?
The fact that he doesn’t know sends another tendril of panic through Stiles.
No. No, he cannot panic. Panicking is not going to solve anything. What can he do? What does he know?
Well… he knows who he is. He is Stiles Stilinski. He has magic - he can feel the thrum of it in his veins. His father is (was? something aches in his chest) the Sheriff Noah Jonathan Stilinski. His best friend is Scott McCall, Alpha of the McCall Pack. The love of his life is Lyd–
The name stutters in his mind, a sense of wrongness overpowering everything else. Huh… it would seem that the love of his life is not Lydia Martin.
So... who is it?
Stiles’ neck twinges, right above his collarbone and he rubs a hand over it, feeling nothing but smooth ski– no, wait. Is that a scar? Why does he have a scar there? Did he hurt himself? He runs his fingers over the raised skin, trying to understand the shape of it. Two semi-circles equidistant to each other… what the hell?
Something snaps in the under bush, and Stiles turns to peer into the trees. He can't see much, though that might be because of his own eyesight more than anything else. The bright waning moon overhead means nothing to his sixty-five year old eyes.
Stiles takes another step, head turning this way and that. He’s in a circular clearing, edged with tall trees that hide secrets beyond the thick trunks. The ground is cool beneath his feet, toes sinking into the soil as he walks and tries to understand. Where was he going? What is he doing out here?
He can’t remember and the thought of that scares him. He’s out here in a forest, alone, it’s dark and he can’t remember. Why can’t he remember?
His hands come up, shaking, to press against his head, like that will help jog something in his memory, and that's when he feels it. Something cool on his temple, like metal.
Stiles pulls his hands away and feels something in his chest catch at the ring on his left finger.
It’s black, simple in design, and when he runs his finger over it, he can feel grooved Celtic markings under his fingertip. But what holds his attention is the ruby set in the center of the ring. It’s bright red, stark against the black and the sight of it knocks something loose in his ribs, makes him breathe a little easier. He doesn’t know why.
He hears a rustle to his left and Stiles snaps his head towards the sound. He strains his ears and hears it: twigs cracking under pressure, heavy breathing, a steady purposeful gait… there’s something here in this forest with him and it’s coming to him.
It’s almost second nature, the way Stiles feels his Spark light up in his chest, magic flickering gold and white at his fingertips as he brings his hands up. Whatever is coming for him, he will fight it. He doesn’t know where he is or what is coming but he will not give up wit–
The magic dies with a hiss and Stiles sucks in a breath.
Out in the darkness, two pinpricks of red blink out at him.
Glowing like rubies (like the ruby in his ring, he thinks), the eyes watch him steadily, blinking slowly.
Stiles should be scared. There is a creature out there and it could hurt him.
Yet, somehow… he knows that it won’t. He is afraid… but not of this beast. Somehow, he knows that whatever is out there is there to help him.
Which is why he drops his hands back to his side and asks, “Are you just going to stare at me all night? Come on out. Let me see you.”
Nothing happens. Not for a long moment.
And then the bushes shudder and between one breath and the next, the creature emerges from the forest.
A wolf, fur black as the night, muzzle streaked with grey. Each step it takes seems to reverberate through the forest, his body large and imposing. Its eyes are the color of blood, and the claws that gouge the earth are long and sharp, promising blood and pain.
This is a predator, the very monster that mothers frighten their children with before bedtime.
But Stiles isn’t frightened. He can’t be.
Because he knows this wolf. Not its name - no matter how hard he wracks his brain, he cannot think of the wolf’s name - but he knows this wolf. He knows that this wolf will not hurt him. That he can trust this wolf.
Also - and this really is the biggest reason why he isn't afraid - the wolf is holding a pair of shoes in its mouth.
The laugh that bursts from Stiles is sudden and loud, causing a flock of birds to take to the air with a squawk. “You look ridiculous! Are you carrying shoes?”
Hilariously enough, the wolf looks affronted, and he comes close enough to drop the shoes right near Stiles’ feet. His head comes right up to Stiles’ chest but he dips it to nudge at Stiles’ hip, then paws at the shoes, looking at Stiles with a grumpy sour look.
A sour wolf wants him to wear shoes.
What an absolutely bizarre turn of events.
Oh, well. Stiles isn’t going to turn down shoes. He awkwardly dusts his feet against the pants, keeping his balance and then slips his feet into the loafers. They are extremely comfortable and fit surprisingly well . Almost like they were made–
“These are mine, aren't they?” The wolf lets out a rumbling boof, having plopped down on his haunches as he watches Stiles.
Somehow, Stiles knows that the wolf is telling him yes. And he should really have more questions about why a wolf is bringing him his shoes and why a wolf can fucking understand him, but Stiles is tired, and he still doesn’t know where he is, and he wants to go home.
So, despite how absolutely silly it is, he asks the wolf, “Do you know why I’m here?”
The wolf dips its head again.
“Show me then.”
He leads Stiles, staying close enough to brush against Stiles' arms as they leave the clearing behind and walk into the forest. After a few moments, the beast nudges Stiles towards a tree, moving forward to press a paw against the trunk. Uncertain, but willing to trust his companion, Stiles reaches out and presses his hand against the bark.
And then he gasps as his Spark lights up beneath his skin. Electricity thrums in his veins, pleasant and known to him as a glow emanates from his hands and sinks into the tree. In response, a carved sigil gleams golden white back at him. His finger traces over it and the heat of it is familiar. Like a friend welcoming him back home.
“These are my runes?” He asks. The wolf nods again.
Stiles looks at the markings again. “I put these here. I… I’m an emissary.” Another soft boof and nod.
“For the McCall pack?”
There’s no boof or nod this time. Instead, a whine emanates from the wolf, loud and mournful, and the very sound of it makes Stiles flinch. He immediately reaches out to smooth a hand over his… sour wolf’s head in apology.
Why is that name so familiar? Why does it fill his heart with warmth?
“I’m sorry. I can’t… I don’t remember.” His wolf whimpers softly, pressing against his palm. Stiles wishes he could remember the wolf’s name. It is something important, he knows. This wolf is someone important to him.
A moment later, the wolf shakes his head, dislodging Stiles’ hand. But it doesn’t feel like a rejection. More like he’s trying to center himself. Trying to remember what he’s here to do.
His sour wolf trots ahead and Stiles follows obediently. Every few trees, the wolf paws at a tree, and Stiles reaches out, watching as his markings light up in answer to his touch. His protection over… some pack. That’s why he was out here; to ensure the wards held.
They go at an even pace, not too fast but not slow enough for Stiles to feel like the wolf is babying him. The glow of the moon and a bouncy ball of fire that he conjures lights their way, allowing for Stiles to see where he’s going. For the most part, his wolf clears the way for him, pushing branches out of the way or pawing at rocks to ensure a clear path. Sometimes, Stiles steps away from the beaten path. He doesn’t mean to; he’s always been curious and sometimes, something in the forest piques his interest. His wolf is always there though, letting him explore, but slowly herding him back to the path they’re meant to take. He does it with minimal growling, a few exasperated rumbles, and one bark when Stiles nearly trips over a root.
Stiles never falls though. His wolf is there, supporting his weight carefully, nudging him upright.
An hour later, Stiles finally calls for a break. He might be energetic but he’s still fucking sixty-five and his feet ache. The way his knees crack as he lowers himself against the bark of a tree makes him wince because oof - that’s not a sound anyone wants to hear. He’s tired but he’s happy, letting out a content sigh as his wolf settles nearby, his great head resting easily on Stiles’ lap.
Carding his fingers through the fur, Stiles exhales slowly, looking up at the break in the trees. The stars are bright above him, twinkling around the waning moon. Crickets chirp, birds make their call, and the forest breathes around him. It’s a comforting sound.
It happens in the span of seconds.
Stiles inhales and blinks, and the next moment, the memories return to him, sharp and clear.
It hits him hard - the realization that he’d forgotten, the realization of how much he’d forgotten. It curls around his lungs with an unforgiving grip and does not let go.
How could he forget? These woods, the trees unknown to him mere moments ago, now resolving into familiar landmarks, a land that he’d sworn to protect. A pack that he’d sworn to protect.
A pack that he’d forgotten.
And with that, comes the most heartbreaking realization.
His mate. His husband. Derek.
He’d forgotten Derek.
The grief latches onto him like a leech and Stiles sucks in a harsh breath, hands pressed to his face as he sobs. The tears burn his eyes, even more so when he feels the sleek metal of his wedding ring against his face.
And then the weight on his lap is gone and there are hands curling around him, moving him until Stiles is no longer pressed against the tree but on a lap, his face tucked into a heated human neck. Fingers card through his hair, stroking down his arms, and the heartbeat beneath his ear is steady as a familiar voice says, “It’s okay. You’re okay, sweetheart. I’m here. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Stiles says, face wet with tears as he finally pulls away to look at Derek.
Seventy years old and he’s still as gorgeous and strong as the day Stiles met him all those years ago in the preserve. Time has turned Derek’s hair and beard to a silvery grey, but there’s no mistaking the strength in his arms as he pulls Stiles closer, his hand coming up to wipe away the man's tears.
“Baby,” Derek starts, and the endearment sends a sharp ache through Stiles, causing him to whimper and try to hide his face in Derek’s chest. The Alpha doesn’t let him though, cupping Stiles’ face gently. “No, look at me. It is okay that you forg—”
“How can you say that? How can that be okay? I forgot you! I forgot our pack, our son— God, I forgot Eli, Derek! How could that be okay?”
Derek’s touch is gentle as he strokes a thumb over Stiles’ cheek, no doubt tracing the moles there. “Because you remembered what mattered. You remembered that you are an Emissary, that you’re here to protect this land. And you remembered me, darling.”
“I didn’t th—”
“You remembered my wolf. You knew that he was there to protect you, that he wouldn’t hurt you. As long as you remember that, it doesn’t matter. We can figure the rest out.”
Stiles doesn’t feel convinced, but he pushes his face against Derek’s left hand, feeling centered by the cool metal of Derek’s ring. Stiles knows it’s black too, with an amber stone set in the middle, the same color of his eyes.
“I was trying– I could remember certain things. My name. That I had magic. That my dad is—was the sheriff," The ache of remembering his dad is no longer here is sharp, and Stiles sucks in a shuddery breath. Derek squeezes him tighter in response. "I... I remembered that Scott is my friend. I was telling myself that Lydia was the love of my life, but it didn’t feel right. I couldn’t even think her name. I knew there was someone else but I… I couldn't remember who.”
Derek shifts under him, and Stiles is abruptly aware that his husband is very naked right now but he’s far too exhausted to give it more than a passing thought. He wraps his arms around Derek, tucking his face into the man’s neck and inhaling deeply that known scent of pine, firewood and leather. He presses a kiss to his husband’s collarbone, nuzzling the skin where the impression of Stiles' teeth sit. Derek's chest rumbles under him.
“You remembered you were mine,” the werewolf says, his thumb tracing the mate mark on Stiles’ neck, making the human shudder. “That’s more than enough, Stiles.”
It doesn’t feel like enough, but Stiles is too tired to argue now. He curls further into Derek, knowing the wolf can take his weight, and they exhale at the same time, the forest alive around them.
Being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s had been a devastating revelation to them all, and though the episodes were few and far in between, they always left Stiles shaken. He dreaded the day that he wouldn’t come back, when he’d look at Derek and not know who this man was. He dreaded not being able to remember his son, his pack, himself.
But as Derek strokes a hand down his back, humming softly, Stiles breathes out and lets that fear leave him. Just for a little while.
He can’t control what will happen, but he can be here now, with that man that he loves. With the wolf that he loves.
Dawn is breaking overhead when Stiles finally decides it’s time to go back home. He pushes himself to his feet and feels something close to arousal and joy spark through him when he finally gets a good look at his naked husband. Derek’s nostrils flare and he sends a smirk towards Stiles. “Not too old to jump my bones, huh?”
“Maybe after a nap. And a shower. You’ve got mud on your butt, Sourwolf.”
The nickname causes Derek to smile, open and warm, and it makes something burn in Stiles’ chest. He reaches out at the same time as Derek, humming softly as the wolf kisses him. It's sweet and affirming in it's own way, a claim and a reminder. When they pull back, Derek kisses his forehead, his nose, and finally the bite mark on Stiles' neck.
"I love you," he says softly, and Stiles smiles, reaching up to cup Derek's face in his hands.
"I love you. Now shift for me."
Derek takes a step back, breathing in deep as the shift takes over him. Even after all these years, the sight is a marvel to Stiles.
When the black wolf stands before him, Stiles reaches out and runs a hand through the greying fur, cupping the great wolf’s maw.
“My Sourwolf. Take me home.”
Derek woofs at him, butting their heads together before he turns and starts to guide Stiles home.
They walk in silence, Stiles’ left hand buried deep in the soft fur of his wolf.
In his chest, his heart beats steady with the knowledge that he might not always remember Derek, but he will remember his Sourwolf.
For now, that will be enough.
Ooo