Chapter Text
Stiles hates support magic. All it does is boost teammates, and most of the time, it’s a thankless job, an attacker just assumes that all the strength and speed boosts that the support mage busts their ass off to perform are worthless because, to quote his last party leader, Theo, “You didn’t even deal any damage to the enemy.”
Oh, don’t get him started on Theo, that stupid, manipulative asshole. By the time Stiles realized that he was being bullied and manipulated by his entire team into doing the most dangerous parts of missions and getting the smallest cut by at least half of any of the other team members, his self-esteem was whittled dangerously low.
He scowls down at his glass of water, the previously large ice cubes melted down to small slivers floating on the surface of what is fast becoming a glass of lukewarm water. Which, gross, he hates lukewarm water, just like he hates that his natural magical affinity is to support magic.
A waitress comes by and sees his sad glass of room temperature water and wordlessly takes it, coming back a minute or so later with his ordered meal and a new glass of water, this one filled almost to the brim with ice.
Stiles grins at her as she sets his food in front of him. “Thanks Louise.” He tells her earnestly.
“Anytime, honey.” She smiles down at him and gives him a fond pat on the head before wandering off to another table. Stiles loves everything about this diner, unlike how he feels towards certain other things like entire schools of magic. But his negative feelings don’t linger as he just grabs a handful of delicious curly fries and shoves them in his mouth, glad that he is sitting in the back booth so no one can judge him for inhaling his food.
It’s another negative trait Theo instilled in him; if he didn’t eat quick enough, Theo and the other team members would start to eat his food, regardless of if they were done with their own. The one time he tried to take food from someone else’s plate, they decked him so hard he passed out, and by the time he came too, the whole team had left him alone with empty plates to foot the bill.
As Louise passes by to check on him again, Stiles gives her a thumbs up, curly fries sticking out of his mouth. When she turns around to do another loop of her tables, Stiles reaches up to grab his focus, a small pendant in the shape of a sleeping fox, and calls up a little bit of magic, pushing it out towards Louise.
It’s a new technique he has been working on perfecting, distance support magic. Typically, a support mage has to make contact with the person or object they are trying to affect, but Stiles wants to go one step further and make his magic work without having to be right in the middle of a fight.
Louise gets a little bounce in her step and she seems to straighten up a bit, and Stiles lets go of his pendant, smiling around another fistful of fries. The shorter the distance, the more potent the effects, and he wipes his hands on his jeans before fishing out his small grimoire, a paperback sized, leatherbound book that he keeps all his findings in.
It used to be his mothers, before she had to give up adventuring and fighting because of her sickness, which she succumbed to not long after. Before her sickness took her mind, she gave him the grimoire, pushing the soft, aged leather into his hands and telling him how proud she was that he was a support mage, just like her.
But in the end, her magic couldn’t help her fight herself, and because it was a sickness of the brain and not a flesh wound, neither doctors nor magic could help her. If Stiles took a deep look inwards, he might find that this is at the center of his animosity towards his calling.
By the time he finishes his burger and the two sides of curly fries, Louise is back at his table again, and she levels him with a stern look that is undermined by the crinkles in the corners of her eyes. “Now you know how I feel about being a test subject, young man.” She chides, taking his plate and empty glass.
Stiles makes his eyes go wide and looks up at her from under his lashes. “Why, Louise, you know I would never!”
They both share a laugh, and Stiles gets another pat on the head, which she lands despite his attempt to squirm out of it. “Don’t be a stranger Stiles, it’s good to see you back home again.” She says sincerely, and Stiles feels a genuine smile stretch his face at the warm welcome.
He leaves a pile of cash on the table for his meal plus a generous tip to his favorite waitress, and makes sure to carefully tuck away his grimoire in the small dimension space it occupies when he isn’t actively using it.
As he walks towards his busted up Jeep, he can’t help but wonder what life would be like if he was born a mundane, like his father. It’s not like he couldn’t be one if he wanted to, there isn’t any physical difference between magic users and mundanes, and if he goes long enough without using his powers, his magic reserves just shrink, and if he decided to take up magic again, he would just need to train to make them bigger again.
But he can’t help but think of his mother again, and how happy she was the day he was tested for aptitude in the arcane arts, how proud she was that her only son was a naturally gifted mage in the support school of magic. For him to stop now, after everything, would be like letting her down, and Stiles doesn’t think he can take that.
So he climbs into his vehicle and after a few false starts, the engine sputters to life. Maybe if he could boost himself, he wouldn’t feel the way he does, but most support magic doesn’t effect the caster, and the coolest thing Stiles can do is make himself silent and invisible. Which sounds great, but then it makes anything he does creepy, like he is invading the privacy of anyone who can’t perceive him, so he doesn’t do that unless he needs to sneak past a sleeping giant or something.
Derek was having a very bad day. It started with seeing an Argent at his favorite coffee shop, Chris, by the name yelled by the barista that the man accepted. Not even the heavy aroma of coffee, tea and baked goods could cover up the metallic tang of old blood and gunpowder.
It only got worse when he left without getting his daily tea, which made him grumpy, and even more unfriendly to people who tried to interact with him. Then, his favorite booth was taken when he went to have lunch at his favorite diner, by some kid who ate like if he didn’t put the food in his mouth then it would be taken from him. But he was eating alone, so he probably didn’t have manners.
Luckily, Louise knew by his face that he wasn’t having a good day, and she knew exactly how to make it better, with a giant bacon cheeseburger and a vanilla milkshake. He didn’t have to say one word the whole time, she just brought him the food and when he was done, he left a wad of bills to pay for his meal plus a generous tip. With one last glare to the stupid kid sitting in HIS booth, Derek stomps out the front door.
He didn’t even get a reaction from the kid, he was too focused on scribbling in a book or something, and it just made Derek even more mad. Now he was going to have to go train with Peter, and that never went well, so there was nothing left to look forward to except going to bed at the end of the day.
But the thing that really took the cake and made this one of the worst days in Derek’s memory is the wolfsbane bullet lodged in his fucking arm. The fact that he forgot his cell phone and didn’t take his car into town today also contribute to this, because not only is he in agony, with a deadly poison slowly coursing through him, he now has to walk home.
With a great sigh, Derek starts ambling towards the preserve, stumbling every couple steps and hoping that one of his family members drives by and happens to see him.
That man does not look good, Stiles thinks as he sits at a stoplight for a few moments to watch a very grumpy man stumble his way down the street. A horn behind him makes him move, but a feeling in his gut has him pulling over next to the guy and seeing if he needs help.
“Hey man,” Stiles calls out the passenger window, “You all right?”
The guy turns to snarl at Stiles, and it would be scary if the guy didn’t look like he was ten steps from passing out. His face is white as a sheet, and covered in a sheen of sweat. Looking closer, he has blood dripping down from his left hand, probably from a cut or something further up his arm.
Given that this is the middle of Beacon Hills at around one in the afternoon, Stiles can safely say that the man probably isn’t a drug user, or a plague victim. So that’s two off the list of possible scenarios going down here.
When Stiles doesn’t make to get out of the car, or talk to him any further, the guy turns to keep walking. Stiles watches him for a couple steps, then summons his grimoire and flips it open, thinking of the situation so that the book could tell what he is looking for and give him something.
What he gets is a page on werewolves, which would normally be cool, but Stiles doesn’t see how it helps right now. When he flips the page again, he gets a dossier on strains of wolfsbane, and different ways of curing it in different species, but large letters at the top of the page let him know that it is fatal to werewolves if not treated in one to ten hours of exposure, depending on how it was applied.
So the book is a bust, Stiles thinks, sighing as he skims over a couple of spells to either cleanse or expel the poison, when he hears a distinctive thud.
Looking up, Stiles can see the sick looking dude has tripped, and he stares, waiting for him to pick himself up. He doesn’t, and the longer Stiles sits there, the worse he feels, until he curses to himself and opens his door to get out.
He keeps the book in his hand, it’s a comforting weight and gives him something to focus on other than the dead looking guy that is passed out on the side of the road.
“Uh, dude? You still kicking?” Stiles calls out as he gets closer, and just as he reaches his hand out, the guy honest to god growls and Stiles flinches back.
Choosing not to get withing touching distance of the weird growling dude, Stiles instead focuses on what looks like a bullet hole in the guy’s shirt over the back of his shoulder. It’s a black shirt, but when Stiles looks closely, he can see the wet shine of fresh blood staining the area.
“Dude! Were you shot?!” Stiles exclaims, and the guy on the ground struggles to lift himself so he can turn on Stiles and he is so glad he backed up because those are fangs, and this guy is pissed, and also his eyes are glowing, and wait.
Glowing eyes and fangs? Growling? His book giving him information on werewolves and wolfsbane?
“Woah! Are you a werewolf?” Stiles blurts out, putting the pieces together. If possible, the guy, werewolf, growls even louder, and it looks like he might try to lunge at him, but his arms give out and he falls back onto the ground with a whine.
“Ok, no problem, don’t worry, I can help.” Stiles says, opening his grimoire and getting the werewolf and wolfsbane pages again. A quick perusal of the contents lets him know that an injured werewolf is one of the most dangerous predators to approach, even if your attempts are pure, because if you aren’t pack, to an injured wolf that means you are an enemy, and even a fatally wounded werewolf can easily shred an unsuspecting mundane or mage to shreds.
Ok, makes sense, Stiles has seen Princess Mononoke, cut off the head of a wolf and it can still bite, yadda yadda yadda. The wolfsbane page is less helpful, telling him that unless he has the specific strand of wolfsbane that was used, then he would need to use a healing support spell to either cleanse or expel the poison.
“Cool, cool, cool, everything is fine, I just need to know how much poison was used and how far it has spread, Ok big guy?” Stiles tells the werewolf. As he expected, all he gets is a growl, so he thinks its best to stay safe and go with the expel poison, which his book says is more painful, but faster acting, and if the poison gets too far, the cleanse poison spell would be useless.
Reading over the spell one last time, Stiles nods to himself and puts the book back in its pocket dimension, rubbing his hands together to focus.
“Alright big guy, let’s get this party started. You just stay right there, this might hurt a little, but I should be able to patch you up, capiche?” He gets a growl and shrugs, having expected nothing else.
Stiles takes a deep breath to center himself and grips his fox pendant again. He focuses on the expel poison spell and sends his intent to the prone werewolf laying on the pavement not five feet away.
A dark mist starts to hiss from the wound on his shoulder, and the werewolf lets out a shout of pain, but luckily Stiles has a little bit of practice with distance casting, and he was still almost within touching distance, so the spell should be working fast.
Sure enough, not even a full minute goes by before the werewolf lets out one last pained grunt and then sighs as the last of the poison leaves him.
The sickly pallor is gone, but the guy still looks far from well, and Stiles has magic to spare, so he goes ahead and gives the guy a boost of energy, and watches in awe as the wound on his shoulder just heals, like on its own, without any magic from Stiles.
“Woah, that’s useful. Self-healing. Wish I had that.” Stiles laments, watching as the guy gets up slowly, as if he is confused by why he doesn’t feel like shit. Stiles can’t help but chuckle at the way the guy side eyes him, as if sizing him up.
“Good god, dude.” Stiles sighs, shaking his head. “I’m not going to attack you, I literally just helped you not die.”
After looking at him in silence for a few very long and uncomfortable seconds, the guy says, “Thanks, I guess.” And then turns and books it into the woods, like some kind of maniac. Or werewolf, so that makes it a little easier to accept that sad excuse for an apology. The guy was literally raised by wolves.
Laughing a little at his joke, Stiles gets back into his Jeep and heads home, thinking on healthy meals to force upon his dad that night.
Peter is about to lose his patience. He swears upon any and all gods that are listening to give him the strength and patience to not grab his nephew by the shoulders and shake some sense into his head.
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Peter says slowly, “So you got shot by an Argent, and then saved by a mage? One you have never seen before, and who was able to use support magic without touching you? That’s the story you are going with?”
Derek surprises Peter by flashing his eyes, a direct challenge. “You can hear my heartbeat, Uncle Peter, you know I’m not lying.” He snarls, and there is a part of Peter that feels proud of timid little Derek finally growing some spine, but the majority of him is angry that he is choosing now to do it, and not a more convenient time for Peter.
“I just can’t believe you were stupid enough to try and walk back to the house with a fatal wound! Would you have rather died walking in the woods than ask a stranger to use their phone for two minutes?!” Peter yells, his words slurring slightly as his fangs come down in his anger. “Do you truly value your life so little?! If that mage hadn’t helped you, then who do you think would have been sent to find you? Huh? Who would have found your body, who would have had to tell your mother?”
Derek has tears in his eyes, and at the mention of Talia, he starts to sniffle. Peter ignores the stinging in his own eyes as he wraps his train wreck of a nephew up in a bear hug. Derek melts into it, and Peter gets the faintest whiff of caramel and apples, there and gone in a moment. He shrugs off the sweet scent and shushes Derek as he tries to apologize through his tears.
Ever since the incident with Kate Argent, where she manipulated a young Derek and tried to burn their house down, the boy has been distant, blaming himself for what was done to him and what was almost done to their family, so Talia set up these training sessions with him, thinking that if Derek went adventuring with Peter, like he always wanted to do, he would cheer up.
But Peter will not take a teammate adventuring with him if they do not value their own life. Peter feels like Derek would spend the whole time jumping in front of Peter to take hits for him, and purposely drawing attention to himself so that others can get hits in. Which would be fine if Derek were a tank. But the kid took one look at the armor sets in the Hale Vault and blanched, much like Peter did when he was first shown his options.
Werewolves are a fairly flexible species when it comes to adventuring. They have advanced healing, which is a huge plus, and enhanced hearing and smell, which is helpful in many scenarios. If a werewolf were to don armor, they would be ranked among the top most effective tanks in combat, but werewolves are, by nature, averse to confinement. There have only been two members of the Hale family who ever donned the armor tucked away in the vault, and they have long since passed on.
Mostly, werewolves make great rogues and berserkers, with their natural stealth and enhanced strength. Peter always fancied the berserker path, but he never really clicked with the unrefined and messy fighting style, so he trained with both, picking parts from each style and blending them into his own, personalized style, an in-your-face brawler with a more precise and calculated fighting style. He recently just got back to Beacon Hills after training under a few martial artists, so when Talia asked him to teach Derek a little about fighting, Peter agreed, because naturally he has experience with many different styles of fighting, so no matter what style Derek chose, Peter could at least get him started and teach him the basics.
As he continues to hug his nephew, Peter wonders if the boy really needs to learn how to fight, or if he needs a different, less violent method of working through his problems. Peter has contacts for all kinds of walks of life, and he makes a note to talk to both Talia and Derek, separately of course, about therapy for the poor kid.