Work Text:
Two months
It always happened when Derek least expected it.
He was sitting in a full, Michelin-starred restaurant, eating coq au vin and chatting cheerfully but courteously with his boss. They were talking about the upcoming company merger with their main competitor, although Derek mostly nodded and agreed with whatever his supervisor - who was on his third glass of red wine - said. Erica was seated next to him, flirting casually with the new, hot CEO, a charming smile on her red lips. The woman was probably around their age, with strawberry blonde hair and a sharp gaze in her eyes that couldn't go unnoticed. She was introduced earlier as Miss Martin, but Derek had a feeling that she and Erica would be on first-name basis by the end of the evening.
All in all, everything was going fine. Business dinners weren't Derek's strong suit; he could manage being Pleasant and Polite, which had already turned into something of a routine, but acting like that always made him feel uncomfortable and awkward. Wide fake smiles weren't a problem for him, but he still felt guilty for using them. Tonight was no exception, but things had been going better than normal. His boss had kept on mentioning things like 'future aspects' and 'company promotions' to him all night long, making him fill up with silent and controlled excitement.
It was when the waiter came over and took away their empty plates, asking for possible dessert orders, that things started going to hell.
At first, Derek heard a low hum in the back of his head. He almost didn't notice it first, and when he did, he resolutely ignored it. The attempt didn't last longer than for a few seconds, though, and as his boss made a poor joke about the stock market, he nearly forgot to laugh. The hum got louder and louder, and he could feel something vibrating in his chest. He bit his lip and fixed his eyes on the white tablecloth, willing the familiar humming to go away. It didn't.
Someone, probably Erica, asked if he was feeling alright. He nodded his head quickly and said something about heartburn to take the attention away from him. It seemed to work, because the conversations slowly kept going on around him. For a fleeting moment he happily thought he might actually get away this time, could make it through the episode just fine. If he just kept the humming low and -
That was when something burst inside of him and he sang, no, shrieked the first lines of Abba's Dancing Queen in the air.
Derek slapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late; it felt like the entire restaurant jumped, turning to look at him in confusion. His boss had gone completely silent, and from the corner of his eye he could see Miss Martin staring at him with incredulous eyes. Embarrassment flushed through his veins and he could feel his face going red, a consistent mantra of shit-fuck-shit playing in his head.
Erica was the first one to spring into action, getting up and dragging him with her, excusing them while saying something about nervous habits. Derek could feel the entire restaurant's eyes on him as they walked towards the bathrooms, and in that moment, he hadn't been so ashamed in his entire life.
They spent over thirty minutes in the mens' room, Derek with his face in his hands, drowning in a pit of terror and hysteria, as Erica laughed so hard that her lungs almost gave out.
Six months
Doctor Deaton looked at him with a slight frown, pen tapping against the plastic back of Derek's medical file. It was the third time in a month he'd visited, and yet he knew that the doctor wouldn't have anything conclusive to tell him. Deaton put the file down, motioning Derek to stand up.
"Take off your shirt, please", he asked in a steady voice. Derek did as he was told, pulling the henley over his shoulders and turning his back to the other man, following the steps he learned a long time ago. Deaton stood closer and Derek knew that he was eyeing the somewhat large triskele spread across his back, reaching a few fingers to touch it, pulling some skin and trying to see if its pigment had shown any change.
Almost six months ago, last March, Derek woke up on a Saturday morning, alone and tired from a night of late paperwork. He'd stretched a little bit and taken a shower, the same things he did every morning, and thought about happy, casual everyday things like breakfast and his sister's birthday present. Nothing was out of ordinary, life was chipper and comfortable and normal.
Then he looked in the mirror.
At first, everything appeared the same as always. He saw his face, the still tired eyes and stubble of a beard, and sighed wearily. He reached for his toothbrush, and as he glanced in the mirror, he saw it - barely, but still. Something black and round on his back, like someone had ambushed him over the night and drawn on it with a Sharpie. A very thick, very wide Sharpie. Derek jerked, surprise and the beginnings of scared concern awakening in him. He tried to turn around and see the figure better, but only ended up nearly pulling his neck. It wasn't before the help of two hand mirrors and a respectable amount of physical effort that he could finally see - and understand - what the hell was on his skin.
A triskele, black and innocent-looking, like a tattoo. Derek could almost pinpoint the second his entire brain went what the fuck; he was hundred percent sure that he hadn't been with anyone last night and that this thing hadn't been on him when he went to sleep. And who the hell would break into someone's apartment just to draw a fucking triskelion on their back? If it had been one of his friends, the symbol would've been something much more vulgar. Derek stood in the middle of his bathroom for a ridiculous amount of time, eyebrows rising and then burrowing again as he tried to undestand what was going on. He had only heard of mysterious figures appearing on people's skin during one occasion, and that... That couldn't have been... No. That was impossible.
So, instead of accepting what seemed like a dawning truth, Derek spent the better half of an hour trying to scrub the thing off of him, like it would magically go away if he lathered enough shower gel over it. It didn't.
The next Tuesday Derek met Alan Deaton, the state's leading expert on spirit imprints (it was a stupid name, if you asked Derek - thankfully no one did). The man had kind, patient eyes and a calming demeanor; it was difficult to feel freaked out about anything when looking at Deaton. That might have been the reason he got into this business in the first place. Deaton's office supplied a fair amount of professionality to his image, all mahogany and overly large, intimidating furniture. Behind him were different kinds of pamphlets that doctors often gave their patients, with titles like "Finding Your Spirit Animal - Just Pray It's Not A Mantis Shrimp", "Recovering From An Exorcism - Complete Demon's Guide" and "That's Not Your Baby! - Changelings In The 21st Century". Derek had always tried to keep his ties with magic as short and few as possible, even though it seemed to be almost impossible to avoid nowadays. Three years ago leprechauns had been given full labor rights in Ireland, and his grandmother still complained about it.
This was the one thing Derek had never expected to encounter, though. He'd heard stories - there was always a friend's friend and someone's second cousin who had gone through it, but never anything actually concrete. It hadn't even been an option. It was in Deaton's office that Derek learned the truth he had tried to hide from, and it was also in Deaton's office where the rest of his life was officially fucked.
"To put it simply," Deaton said, "you have a soulmate."
Derek wanted to slam his head against the wall and just black out.
-
After visiting Deaton he had done what any mature, responsible adult would have done in face of a life-changing, sudden event - he hid in his apartment for a week. Many people tried to get him out of his pit of despair, namingly Erica and Laura. Neither of them really managed, though, since Erica couldn't stop laughing in his face and Laura just told him horror stories of people whose soulmates had totally ruined their lives.
Eventually the person to finally drag him out was his mother. The said dragging out, which involved forcing him in a shower and then deliberately pushing him out of the apartment and onto the street and feeding him McDonald's, was preceded by him resting his head on her lap while she combed his hair with her fingers, and just whining about his terrible, terrible fate. She had listened peacefully, never interrupting him for anything else than a soft word of support. Derek loved his mom. She was the nicest (and at the same time also scariest) person in the Hale family. In some ways Laura was a lot like her, except with more michievous glee and less tolerance for the nervous, brooding mess that was Derek Hale.
"I just, I don't understand," he said with a shaky voice. "Things like these never happen to me. I mean, I knew that it was, like, a technical possibility, but no one ever said... I don't want something like this just handed to me."
"Many people would be delighted to know the love of their life is somewhere out there, dear," his mother said soothingly.
"I know, I know," Derek said. And he did. He knew that finding your soulmate was supposed to be a good thing. Spirit imprints (which was still a stupid name) were unique patterns that sometimes appeared on the skin of two different people. These people, at least according to the legends (and, well, the scientific studies by Oxford) were soulmates, connected through whatever the hell was holding the universe together. Those with the same imprints were said to share mental states and feelings, sometimes even thoughts. Telepathic communication didn't seem to be possible, but that didn't really comfort Derek. Usually the shared states got less invasive once the soulmates met each other, but even that wasn't a full guarantee. Everything was unpredictable.
"Mom, someone could hear my thoughts," he moaned. "Do you know how stressful that is?"
"But it's still your soulmate," she said. "And you'll meet them any day now, I'm sure of it. You know these things don't happen unless the other half is somewhere very near."
Derek was quiet for a moment.
"You really think so? You think I'll meet them soon? In a couple of days, maybe?"
"I'm sure you will."
Derek didn't.
One month
The shared states had slipped into his life gradually. Sometimes he would feel happy for no apparent reason, or find himself strangely annoyed when there was seemingly nothing wrong. It was easy to notice when the feelings he had weren't his own; they were real and definitely there, but there was also something foreign about them, like pieces in a puzzle that didn't quite fit. A few times he woke up from a dream he knew wasn't his own, and as the weeks and then months pushed forward, he could sense more and more foreign ground in his own being.
Then the singing started.
Derek couldn't rationalize in any other way than that either his supposed soulmate somehow did this for a living (which, considering his very odd and irregular song choices, seemed unlikely) or he was a shower singer. Derek hated people who sang in the shower, and now he was getting practically married to one.
Even the universe was fucking with him.
The first time was when he was trying to pull an all-nighter, drowning in all the paperwork his boss had delegated to him. He had been in the process of proofreading a contract they were offering a smaller company; it gave out a sunny image of a joyful come-together of two different parties, but he knew that in truth their corporation simply wanted to own the other in order to destroy it. The more people were laid off, the better. Sometimes he questioned why he had wanted to work in the most cruel and heartless profession known to man - accounting.
First he could only hear a hum. He didn't pay attention to it, and when it got louder, he didn't even bother to wonder if it was coming from the apartment above him or from somewhere else. Then, slowly, the foreign feeling trickled into him, calmly and silently, and the humming got louder. He blinked and shook his head, trying to race the sound away. Instead of disappearing, it turned into actual singing, and he wasn't even sure if it was his own voice or someone else's. He didn't recognize the melody or the lyrics, but he still felt desperately like opening his mouth and actually singing aloud, letting it all out.
He did. Badly, and without any sense of note whatsoever. He sang the song all the way to the end, feeling mildly horrified and still weirdly comfortable with it all. It wasn't until the song was over and he sank back in his computer chair that he fully realized what had happened.
Someone else just sang. Someone else sang in his head. And he had joined them without even properly realizing it, or even controlling it. It had just happened, as naturally and seamlessly as all the shared states did.
He groaned and buried his head in his hands.
-
Derek was standing in a Starbucks line, going over his order, when he started hearing humming. He felt like cursing the entire world to hell (and really might have, considering the scared look of the sleepy college student standing behind him) and tried to will it out, just focus on anything else but the growing sound in his mind. It was easier said than done, but he managed to keep it down as the line moved forward - it did make him look like a murderous villain, but that felt like a small sacrifice compared to the other alternative, which was having him recite Celine Dion's entire discography in the middle of a crowded coffee shop. There were children around, for Christ's sake.
When he finally got to the counter, he was almost certain that the worst danger was over. The cashier looked at him with what could be called a flirtatious smile, and leaned forward ever-so-slightly.
"Good morning", she said. "What would you like to have?"
Derek glanced at the printed pictures of coffee mugs above the woman - or girl, really, since she looked to be barely out of her teens - before flashing a small smile.
"I'd like a tall peppermint mocha," he said. "Oh, and uh, one of those cookies."
The gitl tilted her head and nodded.
"Chocolate chip or caramel crunch?" she asked, and wow, how could someone make cookie orders sound so dirty?
Derek considered for a few seconds before opening his mouth. He was going to say 'chocolate, please', since Starbucks never really followed through with their promise of 'crunchiest caramel ever', but that wasn't what came out.
"Your body is a wonderland," he blurted, voice strangled and carrying something resembling a melody. "Your body is a wonder --"
He clasped a hand over his mouth, the tips of his ears reddening by the minute. Suddenly the cafe seemed a whole lot quieter than before.
The cashier stared at him, clearly unable to decide whether Derek was hitting on her or just clinically insane. Or perhaps both.
"Okay," she said, eyebrows reaching her fringe.
Derek lowered his hand in order to apologize.
"I'm so s-- Something about the way the hair falls in your face," he half said, half sang, and could've died from embarrassment immediately afterwards. He didn't stay to wait for the cashier's response, and instead turned around on his heel and pushed through the people behind him, making a beeline for the door.
He sang all the way home, mortified and trying to hide his face. Someone on the bus stop took a video of him on their iPhone. If he found it on YouTube later, he'd probably have to move to another country.
-
"John Mayer," Derek said with a trembling voice, slumped on the edge of his bed. He had retreated to the only coping mechanism he knew, hiding in his room until the world decided to just give him a break for the day. "My soulmate made me sing John Mayer."
His mother held his hand and nodded with understanding eyes. Boyd, who was sat on a wobbly Ikea chair a few feet from him looked at him just as sympathetically. Between the two of them Derek felt a bit better, like there was truly some justice in the universe. However, that feeling was slightly hindered by Laura's loud, cackling laughter that kept coming from the bathroom. Mom had had at least the courtesy to banish her from Derek's room after she had howled in joy when he first told about his most recent moment of horror, but that didn't really help.
"It could have always been worse," Boyd offered, and Derek lifted his hopeful gaze to him. The man shrugged and pointed at the stack of 'healing albums' Erica had brought over earlier just to mess with him. "Your soulmate could have sung Who Says."
To be fair, that was a pretty good point.
Three months
Three months after the triskele had appeared, Derek was sitting on Erica's couch. The opening screen of Legally Blonde was playing on the TV screen, and Derek stretched his legs, turning his head towards the kitchen where Erica was pushing a bag of popcorn into her microwave, cursing silently as it refused to cooperate. He felt like making a sarcastic remark, but she had been nice enough to get that night's movie for him (out of the two of them he appreciated Reese Witherspoon's career in film more than Erica ever would) and he was afraid that she would let someone know about it if he misbehaved. His sister, mainly.
It had been a nice evening. Derek liked hanging out with Erica; she was probably the only person whose couch he could just take over without a warning if things got bad. They had gone out for dinner (the drive-through of McDonald's, because they shared a wounding weakness for their chicken nuggets) and then rented a movie. It was so normal and delightfully domestic that it made Derek actually feel calm for a change, rested and peaceful.
Of course that didn't last.
For a moment, he zoned out, eyes glossing over as he stared at the ceiling. He didn't snap out of it until his heart suddenly started beating faster than it had before; he frowned and sat up on the couch, looking around him like something could explain the reaction. The heartbeat got faster and louder, and something cold and unfamiliar was slowly oozing through his skin. He shivered, a heavy, dragging anxiety pressing on the base of his spine. He wasn't sure what happened, because the following moments were all nothing but a blur; suddenly he was afraid, so afraid and he couldn't think, couldn't move, could only gasp for air as the dizzying rush of feelings he couldn't recognize as his own washed over him. He felt like he was drowning, losing touch with reality; something was ending, and something was so, so, terribly, terribly wrong, but he couldn't grasp what it was. He wanted to cry, but the sobs choked in his throat, never getting out.
He wasn't even sure when Erica had gotten out of the kitchen, or when she had kneeled over him, grasping on his shoulders (bad move, bad move, all he wanted was for her to let go and not touch him) and asking in a voice that seemed muffled and distant what was wrong. He could hear her trying to calm him down, panicked and confused, but he couldn't answer her, couldn't explain what was happening to him.
It felt like ages before he finally calmed down, Erica sitting on the floor and looking helpless, trying to call for him. "I'm fine," Derek choked out, although he wasn't entirely sure himself. There was something so vulnerable in his friend's eyes that he had to say something, had to tell her that it was okay, he was going to be alright.
"You're not," Erica said, and her voice was a mixture of worry and relief. "What the hell happened? That was a panic attack, wasn't it?"
Derek thoughts were still messy and tangled, and he didn't quite catch everything she said, but he nodded anyway. She was usually right. There was still something, though, something that was distracting him, nudging at him from the dark.
"It wasn't me," he said, voice breaking between the words. "It- It wasn't mine. It was -"
"It was your soulmate's," Erica supplied, and he nodded again. She sighed deeply and brushed the top of his head, probably only making it look messier than it already was. His scalp ached, like he had been pulling on his hair, but he couldn't remember doing that - in fact, he couldn't remember doing anything at all. "Do you need anything? Water? A beer?"
Derek shook his head. "I wonder what happened to them," he said quietly. "That- That was really bad."
"I don't know," Erica hummed. "But it's over now. You will be fine, both of you." She got up and walked into the kitchen, bringing him a glass of water. He drank it in silence, mind still trying to gather the lost pieces.
The foreign feeling was still lingering on his skin hours later.
-
There weren't any more panic attacks. Sometimes, though, when he laid in his bed at night or sat on the bus on his way to work, Derek could feel something strange and empty settle in his chest. There was an unshakable pressure in his fingertips, and when he tried to take a deep breath, it came with more difficulty than usual. Those times always left him feeling anxious and worried, the knowledge that somewhere out there something was inherently wrong lurking in the back of his mind.
Eight months
Doctor Deaton's assistant, a young man with warm, brown eyes and a bright smile, was looking at Derek with great interest. Scott McCall, his name tag said, please say hello. Derek gave him a curt nod and let the corners of his mouth twitch a little in a vain attempt at a smile. He was sitting in the waiting room of Deaton's private clinic, tapping his foot against the recently waxed floor. There was a counter that seemed to work as an info desk, and behind it sat McCall, all puppy-dog eyes and enthusiastic smiles, staring at him like Derek was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. He had to be a student working part-time, no one actually in this business could be so overly glad to be there - besides, Derek had been visiting the clinic for months now, and he hadn't seen the assistant ever before.
"So, what are you in here for?" McCall chirped, looking at Derek expectantly. If he had had a tail, he surely would've been wagging it by now. Derek tried to hold in the frustrated groan he was bound to let out; he was nervous and annoyed and tired and didn't want to socialize with nice people. He always said something rude and then felt even worse.
"I'm sure you can see it in a file somewhere," Derek said and leveled him a stubborn look. The words - or the glare - didn't have the desired effect on McCall. Instead of backing off, the man just shrugged, his grin widening.
"I could, but I like hearing the stories from people themselves," he said. "So, why are you here? You look like a curse case. Did you piss off a witch?"
"Maybe I am a curse," Derek pointed out, giving McCall what he hoped to be a feral grin. It wasn't, judging by the way the man's expression never faltered - in fact, he only looked happier when what was probably his first human interaction that day began responding. "I could be a werewolf for all you know."
"Nah, man," McCall laughed, like Derek had just told him a funny, casual joke. "Trust me, I would have smelled it on you miles away."
Derek wasn't sure he wanted to know what that meant. Instead he just decided to give in; it wasn't like he had a personal vendetta against this kid. "I have an imprint," he said, sounding almost resentful, like he was talking about a major injury. "You know, that soulmate thing. I woke up one morning and whoops, there goes my future."
"That sounds cool," McCall said, seemingly sincere. "You should be really happy about it. Like, now you know that there's someone for you out there, who can take your shit because they're meant for you. You're connected. It doesn't always necessitate your future or anything, no one is there to tell you what to do. My friend has that thing too, he doesn't really like it either."
"Well, tell your friend I feel his pain," Derek sighed.
"I will," McCall said with a smile.
Seven months
He had been dreaming.
He had, he was sure of it. There were still traces of it echoing in his ears, faint, ghostly touches on his skin he wasn't quite ready to forget. The familiar and still foreign buzzing was going through him, and in the darkness of his bedroom he couldn't tell which feelings were his and which weren't - or if any of them were his, if anything even remotely him was still around.
He was breathing harshly through his nose, like he'd been holding his breath; there were shivers curling themselves around his spine, whispering sweet nothings to him, drawing him further away from the edge of sleep. He could have sworn someone had touched him, had pressed a dry kiss on his skin, but when he lifted his fingers from the mattress he couldn't reach anything, meeting only the cool night air. He felt good, but he didn't know why; his entire body was anticipating something, but he couldn't tell what that was.
And then he felt it.
He could feel nails tracing his skin, drawing invisible patterns on his stomach and making him arch his back, going lower, lower, lower. He gasped, lips parting, waiting for someone to catch them in a kiss that never came. There was something almost electric in the air, making him lift his hips and fall back on the bed, eyes fluttering closed as he let it all in. The nameless ghost of a tongue touched the skin of his stomach, and even through fabric he could feel them running their nails to his legs, scratching his inner thighs lightly. He spread his legs almost unconsciously, and had to bite his tongue to fight back a sound when the nails softened into fingertips, brushing where he wanted to be touched the most. He could feel himself getting hard, his body responding to the teasing breaths and touches as they became bolder, more aggressive.
Suddenly there was a tongue on his cock. His eyes flashed open, and a choked sound escaped him as he felt it tease the veins, reaching all the way to the tip only to close a hot, waiting mouth around it in one move. An invisible person was giving him head and Derek was definitely going crazy now, but oh shit did it feel good, oh fuck.
He had to press his nails against his palm to simply keep from coming. There was a light scrape of teeth and a hint of a tongue; he wanted to touch and grab and push, but there was nothing to reach for. He hit the back of a throat and let out a strangled moan, forgetting to control the sounds he made. The pace of the mouth around him quickened, trying to bring him into an early climax, and fuck, he was so close, it was -
Not there. Just as suddenly as they had appeared, the touches were gone. Derek pulled in a sharp breath and sat up, ready to order whoever it was to keep going, but saw nothing. It wasn't there, never had been - all he'd felt was the moment of someone else, like a stranger in another person's home. Uninvited, unwanted. He fell back again and groaned, trying to will the rapid beat of his heart to calm down. It didn't. Derek could feel frustration build in him, and all he wanted was for the shared state to continue, to whatever moment they had to come back and finish what it started. He was fully awake now, eyes getting used to the dark and recognizing familiar patterns, and he knew that he couldn't sleep again that night. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to.
In the end he had to finish himself off, pushing desperately in his hand and gasping in the mattress. When he was back to lying down and staring at the ceiling, all he could feel was an odd churning in his stomach. It had felt good, it really had, but at the same time it made something cold lift its head inside him. He felt lonely and misplaced, like something had been stolen from him. Someone else had been touching his soulmate, someone else's hands had traced the lines of the imprint on their skin. Derek felt sick.
Five months
In the early days of August he was sitting on a bus on his way to work.
He was tired and anxious and unable to let go of the warm buzzing underneath his skin. It was like a whisper in his ear, a knock on a door he couldn't find, and it kept him awake. Always repressed.
When the bus drove past a stop without stopping, there was a sting of heat on his back, a warmth curling around the imprint. Out of the corner of his eye he could see someone waving after the bus, never quite catching the driver's eye. Derek felt a strong tug in his stomach, like he was supposed to do something, be somewhere, but when he turned to look properly, the figure was already gone. He was left with the anxious sense of nausea and an empty regret he couldn't place, a hollow in his chest where something else was supposed to be.
He fell asleep before his stop, and had dreams about late trains and narrow corridors and walls closing over him.
Nine months
There was a New Years' party. That was really all Derek had to say about the whole ordeal; there was a party. It was like most parties are, except with more excitement and fireworks. Erica threw it, because there was always someone around who threw parties; there was a handful of people Derek knew from beforehand, mainly Erica, Boyd, their friend Isaac and, surprisingly enough, Miss Martin. Whose name was Lydia, apparently, if he heard Erica correctly when she tried to introduce them over the thumping of Sir Mix-A-Lot. From the calculating look she gave him, Derek was sure that Miss Martin hadn't forgotten his episode at their shared business dinner. He didn't blame her.
In the end, he couldn't remember much of the evening. There were drinking games, and singing, and holding someone's hair while they threw up in a garbage can. Derek got competitive over Twister, trying to outdo Erica at what was literally her own game. He had fun; it was nice to forget everything for a moment, to just be a part of something more positive than his day-to-day life. The nagging, whispering feeling in the back of his mind was still there, just the way it always was, but now it was subsided by so many other noises. For the first time in a long while he could focus completely on something else. It was both great and kind of scary at the same time.
It was nice. Really, it was.
And that was why he felt so strange, almost guilty, when they were standing outside on the street, counting the last seconds with dozens of other people. Because when the year changed and fireworks colored the sky, all he could do was simply stand in the middle of the uninhibited joy around him. People were kissing and hugging each other, pointing at the fireworks, wonder written all over their faces. They were beautiful, even Derek couldn't deny that. But no matter what was happening, all he could think about was the aching, hollow feeling somewhere deep inside his chest. It was the kind of endless loneliness you get when you look at the night sky, and despite all the life and love going on around you, all you can think about is the neverending universe and the one person you're tied to being somewhere far, far away. It was like he was missing home, except he couldn't remember where it was or what it looked like. All he knew was that he wanted there.
A buzzing in his pocket revealed a text message from Laura.
happy n ewyear bro, hope its a good one <3
You too. Love you.
And for a moment, just for a fleeting second, he wondered what it'd be like to receive texts like that from someone else. From someone he truly connected with, who understood him. What it could be like to have something of that scale in his life. Oddly enough, the thoughts weren't entirely laced with anxiety and the nauseating feeling of dread; instead, he was filled with something fond, something longing. Something sad. A part of him wanted to think that it wasn't all his, that somewhere out there there was a person just as deeply in love with their own solitude as he was, but there was no buzzing underneath his skin. It was him, all of it.
He wasn't sure what to think about that.
Eleven months
The nights were harder. Different. The dreams were gone, like a door had been closed in front of his eyes, but he would still wake up to the feeling of someone sleeping beside him. He knew it wasn't real, knew it was only the ghost of someone he had never met and perhaps never would. He could feel the otherness, the foreign thoughts surrounding his own. If he had wanted to, he could have opened his eyes and gotten up, shaken it all off. He didn't.
Instead he just laid there, drifting in and out of consciousness, the comforting weight of someone next to him imaginary but still painfully real.
Twelve months
Yearly check-ups were something Derek hadn't anticipated. It all seemed so normal, so ordinary, like he was treating pneumonia or a particularly persistent fungus, not a spirit imprint spread all across his back. However, when Deaton's assistant called him and asked him to come around, he didn't hesitate for longer than a few minutes. Derek hadn't been to the clinic in a while, mainly because he'd given up on the thought of Deaton having anything new to tell him - and also because apparently literally no doctor was cheap, and his parents weren't too delighted about the idea of him blowing their family funds into a guy who called himself a soul counselor.
The idea of a check-up didn't sound bad, though. At least he would feel like he'd done all he could. The buzzing had become more constant, now surrounding him when he woke up and sometimes when he went to sleep. At first it had been quiet and soft, non-intruding, but soon it had become nothing short of invasive. Loud and pestering, but for seemingly no reason. Derek didn't feel anything that wasn't his own, he didn't see anyone else's dreams, and he certainly didn't sing any John Mayer. And yet, the feeling of someone's presence didn't leave him alone. It wasn't that annoying or even scary, it felt almost pleasant, but not knowing where it came from unnerved him.
He pulled up in front of the clinic on a Thursday. There were only a few cars around, and when he walked in, he could see that the waiting room was inhabited by only two people; an elderly woman who had what looked like horns on her head, reading a knitting magazine, and Scott McCall, the assistant made of puppies, rainbows, sunshine and uneven jawlines. The man perked up when he heard someone come in and shot a bright smile at Derek, clearly remembering him. Of course he did. Derek nodded politely and sat down, choosing a seat at least fifteen feet away from the horn lady. The way her eyes were fixated on an unusually complex pattern wasn't very promising, and he could have sworn he saw a flash of red in them.
"You did come, huh," McCall said, kind smile still on his lips. The tone of his voice seemed to hint that there had been a discussion (perhaps several) of whether he really would. McCall didn't seem to be the betting type, but neither did Erica at first glance, and she had broken her own leg for twenty bucks and the pride of a true winner.
"It would appear so," Derek answered. "A check-up can't hurt, after all."
He paused for a split second and then continued, for some reason uncomfortable with the remaining silence. "Is Deaton in? I just, I don't know how long I should wait."
"He is," McCall said. "I don't know for how long, though, the last client he took in seemed pretty wrecked. Insulted a water sprite, poor guy. I'm off to lunch as soon as my friend gets here, but Deaton will call you in, you're next in line."
Derek glanced at the horn-headed woman sitting in the corner. McCall followed his gaze and grinned, laughing Derek's wordless question off.
"Oh, that's just Mrs. Jefferson, don't worry about her. She doesn't have an appointment, she just comes here every two weeks, says the spirits are calling for her. I think she's here for the magazines. She can't even hear you."
All Derek could muster in return was a quiet 'oh', but that seemed to substitute as a response, since McCall nodded and pulled back, concentrating on his papers. For a moment the whole waiting room was somewhat quiet, the only things disrupting the silence being the rustling of McCall's files and the non-stop, haunting sighing Mrs. Jefferson seemed to let out. Derek leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to find comfort in his own presence.
It was all broken when he heard another call pull up on the small parking lot. When he heard the door being slammed shut, the buzzing still curling around him suddenly got much, much louder, almost too strong to bear. And when the quick but oddly cautioussteps outside got closer, there was a familiar pull in his stomach. Derek tried to breathe, but couldn't; it felt like the beginning of a panic attack, but he wasn't scared, wasn't even upset, he just was, and everything was spinning and when the hell did he stand up?
That was when the sliding doors opened.
The buzzing, the sounds, all of it stopped. In a snap of fingers it was gone, filling the air with an almost overwhelming void of calm quiet. Like something had slipped into its place. Derek wasn't sure what was going on, and at the same time he knew exactly what it was, knew with every bone in his body.
He turned around, and it was like swallowing ice cold water, numbing his throat and leaving him gasping for air.
There was a man, a bit younger than him, standing in the doorway, and God was he beautiful. Golden eyes and long fingers and slightly parted lips, the nervous air of a person who never quite stood still all around him. Except for now. Except for right now.
"Oh," Derek said, his voice sounding odd and foreign, tongue too big for his mouth. The man didn't answer, only stared back at him, eyes filled with unabashed awe that made something inside Derek warm up and curl around his heart.
That was when another door slammed open, and Derek flinched. He turned his head to look, only to see Deaton stepping out, and if the man was wearing a blue gown and pulling off bloody latex gloves, he didn't notice. Seeing the scene in front of him, Deaton looked completely and utterly unsurprised. In fact it seemed like the last train of the day had arrived five minutes late, and he had already gotten bored of waiting.
"Well, I suppose I don't have to introduce you two now," he said.
He was right. He didn't.
What a dick.