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The irony of being shot by a werewolf, does not escape Stiles.
He's minding his own business, wandering around in the preserve. It's barely autumn and the temperatures are at a good halfway point between the Californian summer and winter. He doesn't expect the loud report or the brief bite of pain. He falls to his knees with a sound that is not a whine, thanks, and sees a man with shocking blue eyes. He's only alive for a few minutes more, but the man seems to first be appraising, watching him on the forest floor, then his expression dissolves into one of resignation.
"I hope you know, I hate digging graves. So time consuming." He sighs. "If you hadn't moved at the last second, I could have rushed you to the hospital and you'd have bled out on the table very much naturally." He shuffles the long militant gun in his hands. "I've gotten really good at this, you see. But you did move, and this won't been seen as an accident, so now I have to bury you." He smiles softly. "Don't worry, Mr. Stilinski, I got well paid for my efforts, so at least you've contributed to that." Then he raises the technical looking gun and shoots Stiles point blank.
Stiles doesn't wake for a long time. Head wounds heal much slower than any other he can sustain. Something about the brain not equipped to order bodily functions like healing with a giant hole in his forehead. It does happen eventually, and he's only a little sore.
"Mother Fucker." He hisses. He seems to be wrapped in a tarp, it crinkles as he moves, and under a couple thousand pounds of dirt. It's going to be a bitch to move from underneath, and he's used up what little air was kept in by the covering.
The point being, he has plenty of time to think, while clawing his way out of the ground. The man who shot him had said he'd be paid well. He also called him 'Mr. Stilinski' which although his given name, Stiles hasn't used in a good forty years. He comes to the conclusion of supernatural assassin before he's even gotten his arms free of the tarp. The man's eyes had been glowing blue, a signature of a killer werewolf. If he'd had air in his lungs anymore, he would have sighed. There were a few werewolf assassins in this century. Stiles likes to keep an ear to the ground regarding supernatural creatures.
It's light outside when he finally pushes through the last layer. He's not exactly sure how long he's been out. It could have been days or months, but from the slight chill in the air, and the fact that the trees are midway through orange, Stiles is betting it's been about a week. It goes like that sometimes.
He's in the preserve, that much is clear. He makes it to a nature path and dreads the thought of missing his baby. The jeep had to have been impounded by now. He'll have to go hunt it down and gather the hidden supplies inside. He's found in recent years, it's easier to just steal the car than to reclaim it. It's not worth much in monetary value, just sentimental. He finally allows himself a sigh.
Several days have gone by, he finds. Not quite a week and he feels more hope of finding his possessions. He doesn't leave everything in the car, there's also a storage facility outside of Beacon Hills he uses for his more illegal supplies and occasionally, he'll nap for a few years inside. As long as the invoice gets paid, they leave the locker alone.
He's lurching around with dirt and blood clinging to his entire body, so waits until darkness to go seeking. He doesn't have any cool werewolf powers, just the healing and immortality, which is fine by him, he doesn't want to know what he smells like right now anyways. He finds his jeep right where he left it, with no sign of interference, and settles in.
Dark comes quickly, and Stiles makes it to his unit, changing and receiving all the important documents he'd need to change his identity.
It was easier to do in the past, of course, less of a mess of checks and records. Currently, he's a 23-year-old man named Bruce Dwayne, from Delaware. He used to be able to be old enough to gain some respect. The man had called him Mr. Stilinski, and Mieczyslaw Stilinski had been 37 in 1978. He's found that people are vainer about their youth today, and he doesn't really pass as late 30's anymore. He remembers the good old Dark Ages, when he wasn't expected to live much past 30 anyways, so no one really cared if he looked roughly 18, regardless of what he said his age was.
He contemplates returning to his old life. The assassin, thinking he was finished with his job, would never go looking for him. The person who had ordered the hit in the first place probably would though. He gives another giant sigh in frustration, before he freezes in his tracks. Someone out there, in the real world, someone supernatural, placed a hit on him. Someone wanted him dead.
Mind racing, a plan quickly formed.
***
Stile's plan goes something like this:
Wait until he's completely healed- He hasn't actually died yet in his long lifespan but healing all the way keeps him more or less sane. Keep to the shadows- play dead until he can find out who killed him, and who wants him dead. Take revenge on both the sons of bitches who'd left him rotting in an unmarked grave, werewolf pun intended.
It works out to happen something like this:
The werewolf who'd shot him strolls through Beacon Hills like he owns the town. And, since Stiles is not currently bleeding out, he thinks the man looks strangely familiar in other ways. He learns the werewolf's name is Peter Hale and everything falls into place.
Nearly half a century has gone by since he'd last seen Talia Hale. His brief stint with the Argent family ultimately ended due to differences in xenophobia. He'd thought he'd take a turn at trying to make the world a better place and had discovered that the hunting family hadn't wanted anything but chaos. He and Talia had spent a week in an underground bunker hidden away while the Argents had tortured them both. Talia had created a diversion, allowing Stiles to escape and he'd come back with the rest of her pack to reclaim her and found himself too late.
Peter had been young, Stiles remembers, barely 10, measured in years, and Stiles had thought he'd been too young to remember five decades later.
Stiles begins to make a new plan.
***
First, it's just little things. Many years ago, he met a witch with a spell to mask his scent. He uses this as he goes into Peter's condo while the werewolf is out and moves all the furniture a quarter inch to the left. The painfully boring day of snooping and then sitting on the fire escape is ultimately worth it when Peter gets home and knocks his shins on what sounds like every piece of furniture.
Next comes the short glimpse Stiles allows. Just a split second. Peter is walking into the coffee shop and Stiles pauses for just a fraction of time directly behind Peter. The shocked double take from the werewolf causes the woman waiting for the door behind him shuffle back a step.
It doesn't stop for months. Stiles continues the glimpse in the mirror effect until eventually, even he gets bored with Peter's stunned shaky expression. He's still not sure how far he wants to go with Peter's insanity. Yes, Peter had killed him, but being associated with making a werewolf insane would make it his problem in the future. 'Wolves are long lived, not as long as Stiles, but he's sure it'd come back to bite him in the ass.
He shows up in Peter's bedroom, while the werewolf sleeps and ever so softly begins a haunting chant. Even werewolves sleep like the dead occasionally, and as Stiles slowly increases the volume of the chanting, he can hardly stop himself from grinning. He's made it up to nearly a stage whisper when Peter leaps off the bed snarling. His defensive stance seems to short out when he sees Stiles hovering at the foot of the bed.
"You. I killed you. You're dead and buried." he gasps. Stiles had prepared this trick on the off chance Peter Hale would be too arrogant to consider any other explanations.
"Peter Hale." He says, chants slowly fading into the background. The witch who had sold him the haunting charm hadn't mentioned it would continue past the victim's waking from sleep, but he was more than pleased. "I have returned."
"You're dead!" Peter growls out. He sounds a few seconds away from wolfing out, but Stiles can clearly see the whites of his eyes.
"I have returned to right a wrong." He says again. The chanting swells in the background, and Stiles resolves to buy the witch something very, very nice. "You have killed me and now you will pay."
Peter growls for real and launches himself at Stiles. To Stiles' body, several hundred feet away being passed through in astral form felt like a tickle. "You have already killed me." Stiles points out. He feels like he might be laying on the 'Marley's Ghost' effect too much, but as Peter crowds into the opposite corner, he changes his mind. "You, Omega Peter Hale, are sentenced to insanity." Stiles waves his hands in Peter's direction and the grown-ass werewolf makes a squeaking sound in his throat.
Stiles goes on for a short while, longer than he would have originally, because of the stark terror in Peter's eyes. It's fun, in a totally demented way. As the spell begins to lose its hold, Stiles fades from Peter's bedroom, still going on about the punishment for killing. He's been sitting in a basement of the apartments two buildings down for about two hours and he cracks his back as he stands.
"Well." He tells the items around the room. "That was more fun than it probably should have been."
Peter moves from his apartment the next day, looking somewhat more spooked than an assassin should, and Stiles pats himself on the back. He'd show back up in another 15 or so years and look Peter up. Even if just to see the look on his face.