Chapter Text
Stiles Stilinski’s hands shook as he stirred the fragrant herbs together in the dew he collected under the full moon. His head ached from lack of food and sleep as he pushed his belief into the potion he was making.
This would work. It had to work. He could hear his father’s pained wheezing from bed in the corner of their tiny cottage. Stiles had corresponded with doctors three times his age and experience, exchanged gifts and knowledge with Fae and other learned creatures, had traded everything he could and risked his life to gather the things he couldn’t afford to make this cure.
It would work.
Stiles couldn’t lose his father.
Stiles had lost his beloved mother to a brain illness that turned her from the loving, vibrant woman he knew into a violent nightmare who didn’t even recognize him towards the end. John, his father, was captain of the city watch who had been too busy with his duties to see the bruises and broken limbs until the fateful night he had returned home early and found her holding a knife to their 10 year old son’s throat, spewing vile words of hate and malice. He watched in frozen horror as her mind cleared for the last time. In the space of those few seconds she elected to end her life rather than put her child at risk again.
John was never the same.
That was the night Stiles stopped being a child and started taking care of his father, swearing to never let anything take his remaining parent away from him. He worked tirelessly to keep their tiny home clean and in order. He cooked healthy meals and went without when times were lean. John’s uniforms were always washed and well mended, even as Stiles’s clothes were barely better than rags.
It wasn’t that John didn’t love Stiles; it was just Claudia was the love of his life, his soulmate. Without her, he became lost and could only focus on what he knew, his job. He didn’t know the words to say to the hurting son, old beyond his years. So he let it happen.
The door to the cottage slammed open and Scott McCall ran in. “I need that cure.”
Stiles looked up at his only friend. “What?” He asked, his mind dull from exhaustion.
“Allison’s grandfather is sick! If we cure him, she’ll finally notice me!” Scott said looking at the pot Stiles was stirring with crazed eyes.
“No!” Stiles said shaking his head. “I only have enough for my dad. Once he’s cured, we can get the ingredients and make another batch. Then you can give some to Allison. But this batch is for dad.”
Scott made a strangled sound. “Stiles! It’s Allison’s grandfather!”
Stiles’s snorted and carefully started decanting the potion into a glass vial. “And he’s a terrible person. Seriously Scott. My dad’s not going to make it to the next full moon. He needs this now. Gerard can wait.”
“Stiles! This is my chance! I love her!”
“She doesn’t even know who you are!” Stiles shouted. He took a calming breath. “Look, you’re my brother. I’ll help you. You know I’ll help you even though I despise Gerard. But my dad first, okay?”
Scott’s eyes scoured the room looking for a answer. “Stiles!” He whined.
“No!” Stiles put the potion down and went to get some water for his father. He knew his dad would need something with which to wash the potion down. When he looked back up, Scott was in from of him holding the mortar he and his mother had given Stiles on his 13th birthday.
“I’m sorry,” Scott said before hitting Stiles on the head. Stiles went down hard, his temple bleeding. Scott carefully sealed the vial and ran out the door with it.
The next day Melissa McCall was holding John’s hand as Stiles frantically mixed up another batch of a potion that had been keeping John stable. It had been losing its potency but Stiles prayed that would be enough to tie him over until the next full moon. His head swam from both his headache and the loss of blood, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t give up hope.
John’s coughing grew worse.
“Stiles,” Melissa said softly.
Stiles steeled himself before he turned around.
John was deathly pale. Melissa held up a rag that was spotted with blood. Stiles’s stomach twisted. Blood was bad. Really, really bad. “Mel,” his voice cracked. “Melissa.” He said again. “I need some mint. Please. Can you…”
Melissa stood up and put her hand on Stiles’s shaking shoulder. She had found him that morning, crying and almost incoherent, and was able to pull what had happened from him. She reacted in anger toward her son, but Stiles beg her to help him instead. They could talk to Scott later; his father was priority Stiles said, tears falling down his blood stained face. Melissa marveled at his heart and agreed. Scott could be dealt with later.
“I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“I don’t have…”
Melissa smiled through her tears. “Everyone in town will be happy to give you what you need, Stiles. Payback for all the times you’ve helped them.”
Stiles nodded and turned back to what he was doing. Melissa kissed his cheek and quickly walked out the door.
Chop. Stir.
“Stiles.”
Stiles’s tears flowed freely at how weak his father’s voice was.
“Yea, dad?” He said with a false cheer.
“Come here.”
Stiles’s hands stilled. He swallowed over the lump in his throat and wiped his hands on a rag. He grabbed a glass of water. “Yea, pops?” He said walking over to the bed. He helped his dad take a sip of water.
John reached up with a weak hand. Stiles quickly put the water down and took the hand in both his. “You’re hurt.”
Stiles smiled. “You know me, always clumsy.” He brought his father’s cold hand to his cheek.
“Love you,” he father whispered.
“I love you,” Stiles said, kissing his dad’s hand. “Don’t leave me, please.”
“Son, I’ve…”
The door was suddenly kicked in, silencing John’s words.
Four brawny men and Scott McCall quickly stepped in, slamming the door behind them. Stiles stood, putting himself between his father and the unwelcome, heavily armed guests.
“Is that him?” A man Stiles quickly recognized as Gerard Argent asked.
“Yes,” Scott mumbled, looking unsure.
Gerard smiled unpleasantly. “You’re just a child.”
“He’s 15, like me.” Scott said quickly.
Gerard snorted.
“What do you want?” Stiles said, gritting his teeth.
“Young Scott here said you made the potion that cured me,” Gerard said looking around the room. “I’ve come to offer you a job.”
Stiles glanced at Scott who was pleading with his eyes.
“All the doctors told me I wasn’t going to make it through the night. My family,” he said spitting out the word as though it was a curse, “even called for a priest. Imagine my delight when this boy came through with something that worked. I feel better now than I did when I was in my twenties. I can get rich off that cure; selling it to the highest bidder.”
Stiles had heard enough. “I’m glad you’re feeling better but I’m not interested in a job working with you. Now, I need to…”
John started coughing. Stiles quickly turned around and helped ease his father through his coughing fit, gently wiping the blood from his lips and easing him back down. “Stiles,” John whispered.
“Sh, dad,” Stiles said soothingly. “I’m almost done with your medicine. Why don’t you rest?”
John looked worried.
Stiles flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He turned back around and saw Gerard still grinning at him. “I said no. Please go.”
“I never said anything about working with me,” Gerard said. He turned to his men. “Take him back to the house. He’ll change his mind with the right pressure. And if that doesn’t work we can try that old medal again.”
Stiles went cold. “But… my dad,” he said as the men stepped forward.
“I don’t see anyone here but a dead man and my new slave,” Gerard sneered. He turned to Scott. “Kill him.”
Scott looked sick. “But…”
“If you are going to be one of my men, you’ll have to learn to follow my orders,” Gerard said with mock patience. “Kill him.”
Scott slowly drew out the short sword John had gifted him on his birthday. It shook in his hand. He took a small step toward Stiles and his dad.
“Scott,” Stiles whispered in shock.
“Oh for god sakes,” Gerard jumped forward and shoved Stiles out of the way. He grabbed Scott’s sword hand and plunged the sword into John’s chest until his and Scott’s hands were pressed against John’s nightshirt. Blood quickly soaked the white material staining their skin. Gerard grimaced and held up his dripping hand. He wiped it callously on Scott’s white face and turned to his men. “Grab the boy before anyone notices and bring him to the house. Take pains not to break anything that won’t heal,” he smirked, “eventually.” With that he turned and walked out the door.
One of the men snorted and grabbed Stiles’s arm, yanking him up. He started dragging Stiles away from his father when suddenly Stiles stopped moving. “No.”
The three men and Scott looked at Stiles in various degrees of surprise and amusement.
“No,” Stiles repeated. His warm brown eyes drained of color and flashed a cold violet. The man holding his arm suddenly screamed and disintegrated into dust that blew away in an icy wind that kicked up inside the house. Glass, plants, rags, and furniture started flying through the house, crashing into walls and people. The rug and bedding caught on fire that quickly spread.
The men and Scott stared in fear as Stiles looked on, detached, the center of the storm.
“No.” Stiles said again.
The table over turned and the glass bottles holding his potion ingredients shattered. The man closest to the door caught on fire and started screaming, falling to the ground trying to put it out but the flames ran up his beard, into his hair like dry grass after a drought. The other man fell to his knees and started praying.
“Stiles,” Scott croaked.
Stiles finally turned to him, his eyes flickering back to their normal warm amber. They took in the blood on Scott’s face and hands. Stiles looked around his cottage in horror, then rested his eyes on his dad.
“Stiles.”
Stiles tore his eyes from his father’s body and looked at Scott again.
“Run. Stiles. Run.”
Stiles ran.