Work Text:
“Stiles.”
“Mhm.”
“Stiles.”
“Just a sec.”
“Stiles.”
“A literal second, okay? Just need to finish this-“
“Stiles.”
“-and by the way did you know there are like nine different ways a demon can possess you-“
“Stiles.”
“-and that’s only the ones that supposedly originate from Hell. There are like hundred-“
“STILES!”
The chair swivels when he jumps within it, turning to come face to face with his friend whose eyes are fading back to brown. He grips the armrests to contain the tremor wrecking through him from the roar.
“What the hell, dude?!”
“Maybe I should be the one asking you that?”
“What? Why? I’m fine.”
Scott’s eyes take on that sympathetic edge from where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed.
“No, I don’t think you are. Dude, no one’s seen you in like a week and your dad says he isn’t sure you went down for food for the last three.”
He leans back in his chair. The backdrop light from his laptop makes the shadows underneath his eyes deepen.
“You know no one blames you for what happened, right?”
Stiles crumples in his chair. “Yeah, I know.”
“Well maybe you should stop blaming yourself too then? I mean, she wouldn’t- she’d- Allison would never put it on your shoulders.”
“It’s not that, Scott. Well, yeah, partly it is, because doubting your sanity while possessed by a homicidal spirit kinda makes you doubt a lot of other things, and I’m still working on it okay, I am.”
Scott looks like he might interject, so he just steamrolls on.
“But you, Lydia and the rest of the pack had the time to grieve, and I can’t do that. Not yet. Not until I know that something like this cannot happen again. Like, yeah, maybe it’s a bit obsessive and not exactly healthy, but I just can’t, okay? I can’t.”
“Stiles.”
“And I know you wanna help, but let’s face it dude, you’re awful at research and just- this is something I have to do for myself. And once I’m done, I’ll be- I’ll be better.”
“You sure?”
“Dude, I’m not sure about anything these days. But yeah, this is one thing I’m pretty sure I’m sure about.”
That gets him a crack of a smile.
“Okay, then. But I’m always here if you need me, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And if you don’t take care of yourself I’ll sic my mom on you and you won’t do anything but eat, sleep and maybe watch movies. Maybe I’ll even sit down with you and let you lecture me about Star Wars.”
“Someone has to lecture your heathen ass on divine goodness that is Star Wars. But yeah, I might just take you up on that offer, when all of this is over.”
When he isn’t so tired. When the notion of going to sleep stops being so terrifying.
Scott smiles and rises from the bed.
“Take care.”
Three steps and he is out of the window.
“Yeah, you too.”
Stiles turns back to the bright screen and lets himself pretend that the fact that he is apparently missing three days’ worth of memories doesn’t bother him at all.
***
My name is Mieczysław Wiśniewski and I have never thought I would keep a journal. But, as unfortunate as it is, I seem to be losing time. There are moments, sometimes hours of things that I simply cannot recall. The Father of our local church suggested writing down my days in hopes it will cure my problem. He thinks I might be just overworked, that I’m not sleeping enough, so I will be trying to rest more, work less, or at least as much as my position allows me. I am the head of this family and as such will rather lose sleep than burden them with things I could have done on my own.
***
Stiles makes his way over to Deaton’s only after he has thoroughly scourged the Internet for all relevant sources.
Even after a few years working with the man he just simply cannot shake off the unease that creeps upon him whenever they (or in this case he) have to go to him for help. Comics and fiction have done well in instilling mistrust towards cryptic characters in him, and he’s not quite sure he wants to get rid of it. Then again, that might just be his newfound paranoia talking.
“Hey, doc.”
The man in question looks up from the paperwork he is working on.
“Stiles. I must confess that I was not expecting to see you so soon.”
“Yeah, well, I remembered that thing you told us about it being hard to break a habit of not sharing info, so I thought I’d drop by and help you out. You know, be productive. I’ve heard it helps with dealing with the aftermath of traumatic events. Not that there is a self-help manual for possession survivors.”
Deaton puts the pen aside. Stiles is pretty sure he sees Allison written on it.
“No, there certainly isn’t. So, what information do you think that I can share with you that will help with whatever ails you? Personally, I’d recommend a good therapist, but I guess there also wouldn’t be one equipped to deal with the… specific circumstances of your trauma.”
Yeah, no kidding. Beacon Hills has had no luck with emissaries and Stiles is not about to search for a possibly nonexistent exception to the rule.
“I wanna know what you know about countermeasures.”
“Countermeasures?”
“Against possession.”
Deaton sighs, and Stiles already knows he will be getting nothing.
“Is that what this is about? Stiles, I appreciate your concerns, but you really don’t need to worry about that.”
“Not worry? Do you know how many different ways I came across that could detect or prevent such an occurrence? I mean, I’m pretty sure most of them are bogus, because it’s the Internet, but at least some of them have to be real, right? But I cannot pick those out because you people are so damn stingy with relevant information.”
Deaton reaches out, and Stiles startles at the contact. He keeps his eyes firmly focused on the druid’s and cracks the finger joints of his free hand. It’s become a habit, an alternative to counting fingers, and he’s not quite ready to kick it yet.
“Stiles. Even if I could give you the information you seek, I wouldn’t because it seems to be fueling a case of paranoia you seem to be developing.”
He tries to snatch his hand back, but Deaton doesn’t let go.
“However, I can reassure you that you really have no reason to worry. When Noshiko Yukimura was initially chasing the Nogitsune, she did some extensive spell work that essentially made Beacon Hills a no-possession zone. It is nice that you are concerned, but nobody in this town will ever suffer the same thing you did.”
After a nod to reinforce his statement, Deaton lets go of his hand. The speech might have been intended to be comforting, but it just sounded condescending instead.
“Yeah, alright.” But it’s not like he can do anything about that, other than get really annoyed.
“And Stiles.”
He looks back from halfway to the door.
“Try to meditate. It should help you… rebuild the parts of yourself you may feel you have lost while you were possessed. Get to know yourself again, it will settle your mind.”
“Sure, doc. You’re the expert here.” He hopes it stings the way he intends it to.
He hasn’t really lost a part of himself, not form what he can tell anyway, but there is an empty space inside him that he isn’t sure how he is supposed to fill. And with what. If he really has lost something then he’s probably lost it for good.
But he listens to him anyway and tries.
Lies in bed, eyes closed, and tries to empty his mind. When that doesn’t work (not that he expected it would. He might feel emptier, but his thoughts haven’t gotten any less loud or chaotic), he tries to focus on calming scenery. A meadow full of colorful flowers; maybe with a tree whose branches sway in summer breeze. But then that tree turns into a stump, and no matter how hard he tries to will it away, he finds himself surrounded by white tiles. Even though it is endless open space and the tree stump is now missing, it makes him feel claustrophobic, like he can’t breathe. From somewhere, a stray thought reminds him that white is supposed to represent cleanliness and innocence. It makes him feel violated.
He barely makes it to the toilet before he throws up.
***
I would seem that more sleep is not helping. Father is almost as confused as I am. He knows how strong my faith and belief are. He reassured me that it probably has nothing to do with me personally. And that if something is causing unrest in my soul, it can only be sins of my ancestors. He has encouraged me to lay all past grievances to rest. However, that is easier said than done.
My family, for all that I love them deeply, is small, and secretive, and not at all wholly familiar to me. My father died when I was but a child. I scarcely even remember him. It does not help that mother refuses to talk about him. I fear that he has hurt her in a way that I cannot help with and which my mother does not wish to share. My uncle and cousins of from my mother’s side do not speak of him either. Sometimes, it seems as if they have never even met him.
The only living relative from my father’s side is nana Izabela, but mother and she have never gotten along. I do admit to finding her a bit strange, at least from what I remember of our last interaction, but I think that can be said for all old people. I will make time to visit her next week. It will take a bit of planning to fit going to the other end of the town into my busy schedule.
***
Though he’s not really feeling well, Stiles drags himself to the next pack meeting. Well, it’s less of a pack meeting and more of a comfort group, which means coming isn’t high on his priority list, but he figures he can handle Malia aggressively cuddling him for an evening. It will probably make others relax a bit, the fact that he’s shown up. And maybe, if Scott and her separate for a moment, Stiles will get a chance to corner Kira and try and weasel out whatever lore books her mother might have. If he’s honest with himself, that’s pretty much the only reason he forced himself to show up.
It goes just about how he expected it would. Scott looks like Christmas came early when he walks through the door, and Kira flashes him a timid smile from under his arm. Whatever divide Allison’s death might have put between them, they seem to have bridged it. Or at least narrowed the gap. It kind of makes it hard to look in their direction.
Malia immediately snags a sofa for them, and Lydia takes the little free place that is left at the other end. Both manhandle him, Malia physically, and Lydia intellectually, forcing him to interact with his surroundings. He both loves and hates them for it.
Derek shoots him a few worried looks when he thinks he isn’t looking that Stiles pretends not to notice. Peter sulks around his corner where he has commandeered a single sofa and only comes around to pass the popcorn because no one makes popcorn like Peter does. Apparently, pack meetings have for the time being turned into movie nights. Stiles voices a halfhearted complain that they aren’t watching Star Wars. Scott’s smile almost blinds him from across the room.
In the end, Kira turns out to be a bust. Whatever books her mother might have, she doesn’t share even with Kira, so chances of Stiles getting them are nigh impossible. And to be honest, he is half convinced that if he showed up on her doorstep, she’d slice him in two. Preventive measures and all that.
But he doesn’t count it as a complete failure, because as exhausted as it left him, he comes home feeling just a little bit better.
***
I have just returned from my visit to nana. It was strange, to say at least. It would seem that nana enjoys somewhat of a reputation; the residents of that part of town call her baba. She is old, and what she speaks is mostly nonsense, so they believe her to be a practitioner of blasphemy, of witchcraft. A small blessing can be found in the fact that no one believes her capable of any truly horrendous magics. It is also why they leave her alone for the most part. I feel that I can now understand why mother did not want our names associated with hers. It would have hurt our small store immensely had anyone believed us to be in cahoots with a baba.
When she is not speaking nonsense, she is strangely fierce. Though she does sometimes aim that sharpness at things that aren’t there. She argued with thin air for about a quarter of an hour about how lazy and slow it was in preparing tea, before getting up and doing it herself. I did not come after her into the walled off part that serves as her kitchen, but I could swear I heard far more clinking than should have been present in making a pot of herbal tea. Due to the talk of the local folk I was half afraid to drink it, less what they said be true. I needn’t have worried. It tasted exactly the same as the one my mother often made.
The visit, however, did prove fruitful in the sense that nana was more than happy to talk about father, even if she did scorn mother the couple times she mentioned her. She’d loved him, that much was obvious from the fond way she talked about him, but she didn’t think much of him otherwise. From what I had gathered, she’d even approved of marriage to my mother, though it would strengthen him. How, I am not exactly sure, but it seems he’d been of a somewhat fragile character. After my mother had on one occasion accused him of being void of emotion, he’d thrown himself out of the church window following Sunday. That’s how he died.
Now, knowing this, I can understand my mother’s refusal to talk about him. I will strive to never cause her that kind of pain.
From this information I can also gather that Father was most likely aware of this unfolding and that it is why he pointed me in the direction of my history. I will do what I can to rinse his sins out of my blood.
***
Though it terrifies him to the core, he still makes his way to the Yukimuras the next day. He does not get any helpful information, only a disdainful look and irritated instructions to go away, but he gets out of it with his life intact. If it didn’t leave him so thoroughly frustrated, he would have celebrated.
As it is, he is in a pretty sour mood when he makes it back home. Thankfully his dad is not home so he doesn’t need to suffer through an emotional inquisition his foul mood would most likely cause.
He hates days like this; when the house is empty, even though he is glad it is. Especially during twilight. It bathes the rooms in dying light with shadows changing shape by the minute. Sometimes he feels as if he can catch them moving in the corner of his eye; sometimes he thinks he can hear them laughing. Sometimes they have teeth.
He cracks the finger joints on one hand and drags himself to his bedroom only to stop in the doorway and stare at the pile of books lying on his desk.
“I thought that you might find them useful.”
He startles, but not as badly as he usually would. Lately, even his reflexes don’t have enough energy to manifest properly. Still, Peter Hale standing by the bookcase in his room and inspecting his comic collection is not something he’s ever expected to see.
“And you just had to break into my bedroom to give them to me? Seriously, is there something about the fangs and claws that makes you guys allergic to front doors?”
But even as he says that, he’s made his way over to the desk and is leafing through tomes on void creatures and possession.
“Well, I did think about giving them to you during the poor excuse of a pack meeting yesterday, but I thought giving them to you in front of Kira might be… in poor taste.”
“You’re not fooling anyone creeperwolf, I saw you tear up near the end. Actually, I’m kinda surprised that-“
It realization of what exactly he has in his hands crashes into him full force.
“…How did you get these?”
“I am a man of many talents.”
Even struck by awe, he cannot really resist an eye-roll.
“So you stole books from Kira’s mom?”
“I didn’t steal them, I just temporarily appropriated them.”
At Stiles’ look, Peter rolls his eyes. “To copy them. Though, for being in possession of a being widely hailed as a master trickster, they were fairly easy to acquire.”
“Oh my God, only you would get off on stealing books from a kitsune.”
“A 900 year old one at that.”
Stiles shakes his head as he continues to leaf through them.
“When do you want them back?”
“Oh, you can keep them indefinitely.” Stiles shoots him a look. The werewolf looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You just have to come with me a town over to get them copied. Cannot have the original owner getting suspicious.”
He’d snark back, but this is entirely in line with something he would do, what he has done before. Strangely, having something in common with Peter of all people doesn’t bother him at all.
“Yeah, sure, wolfman. Just make sure they have proper accommodations for us fragile humans.”
“All this time and you think I would purposely lead you into harm’s way? I’m wounded.”
Stiles snorts, but doesn’t answer.
Anyone that he can handle in larger doses is a blessing these days.
***
For a while now I have thought that I would never have to pick up a pen for this godforsaken reason again. But I do. Following the learning of my father’s sin and consequent cleansing done by Father, I thought that this nightmare was over. But it isn’t.
For days now food has tasted just slightly different than usual. It wasn’t something that would be a cause for alarm, but now that I know the things that I do, it is impossible to ignore the metallic aftertaste of every swallow. Being aware of it turns out to be a bigger curse than suffering it is. And there is no doubt in my mind, this is a curse. I have not been able to retain a meal for two days now, and drinking even plain water is a battle when I want nothing more than to never have to swallow again. To never experience that foul taste again.
But, unfortunately, this doesn’t happen to be my only worry. What set this malignity on course was a chance encounter. A little more than two days ago, I came upon nana on the street. I hadn’t seen her since that time I intentionally sought her out, which was now easily at least a month ago. I’d meant to just say hello, but she’d told me I was awful. That same striking ferocity she exhibited before is that much more terrifying when you are the one facing it. She accused me of being a neglectful grandson, which is true so I wasn’t going to begrudge her that, but she went on to praise my brother, my brother! How laughable it had seemed in that moment. I had asked her if she’d meant my sister because that would have at least meant some sense. But she’d just looked at me, like I was despicable and walked away, holding in high regard a brother I do not even have. Following that, a nearby merchant asked me if I would buy the usual, and I understood.
Whatever sin my father has invited into his blood had just hidden better after the attack Father waged on him, and has been biding its time until there showed up a chance favorable for it to seize. The only trace of his presence in the taste that now lingers in my mouth after every swallow.
I swear upon what is left untarnished of my blood, I will free this family from it, even if I have to follow it into early grave.
***
“That doesn’t look very intimidating,” are the first words out of Stiles’ mouth when they stop across the street from the occult shop Peter claims deals in copying of old texts.
“No it does not. But you never know how rotten something is from the inside until you peel away the outer layer.”
Stiles winces, as internally as he can keep it. Usually he’d love to make a quip about some people taking eating apples way to seriously, but after the whole darach debacle, it might just be too soon. Especially when he considers just what Julia/Jennifer/whatshername kick-started with her little vendetta run.
“So, how do you wanna do this then? Since I’m here I’m guessing were taking a lower key route? No eye flashlights and fangs and claws?”
“Exactly. No need to anger people we can make use of even in the future.” At this he turns to look at Stiles. “If it all does go to Hell, and it could – a lot can change in seven years, you break the ash circle and I tear them apart.”
Stiles stares back at him for as long as he dares to.
“Sounds good.”
The smile he gets in return is more than a little bit predatory.
“Glad we’re on the same proverbial page.”
The shop is almost exactly as he pictured it would turn out. Cluttered but clean, with functioning technology. The only thing that throws him off is how clean it smells. Despite everything, he’d expected to walk into a contained cloud of incense. He’s skimming over the knick-knacks on display, when a woman emerges from somewhere between the shelves. He’s about to force a smile and utter a greeting, but the look on the woman’s face stops him. It doesn’t stop Peter.
“Hi. We’re-“
“Get out.”
“I’m sorry. I think-”
“I said. Get out.”
“Now, don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty here? We’re-“
“I don’t care who you are. You reek of death and I will not have your filthy smell contaminating my shop. Get out.”
Something that feels like a force wave bites at them. It’s obviously meant to be just a warning, but it is enough for claws to make an appearance. Stiles is by Peter’s side, grabbing his arm before the shop owner can make any other obvious move. Peter stays keyed up for a few seconds longer, and then relaxes, just a little.
“Alright then. I can understand that my presence might unsettle you, but surely you are not afraid of a skinny little human? He could-“
She takes a step forward, and Peter’s eyes flash. Stiles grips his arm all that harder.
“That skinny little human reeks of even fouler magic than you do.”
“Hey! I resent the implication that it was done intentionally. Crazy fox spirits don’t exactly go around asking for consent so whatever it is that you can smell, totally not this skinny human’s fault.”
“A fox spirit?” She takes a step back. “You were possessed?”
“Yeah, so now that we cleared that no intentional foul magic was performed, can we actually get to talking business? You know, the thing that might earn you some money? Means of survival?”
She takes another step back and takes a moment to take their appearances in in full. And then huffs out a breath.
“You really must be new to this.”
Stiles relaxes a bit at that. “Uh, well, when you look at it from-“
“You are new to this,” she reiterates, tone colder than it was before, “because if you weren’t you’d never admit to being possessed so easily. Not when you happen to at least appear fully intact.”
A wince has him moving a step back, and he can feel muscles in Peter’s arm tensing again.
“My cousin was possessed.” She takes a menacing step forward. The air suddenly feels oppressive, shelves unsteady, like they’ll topple over them any moment. “It took a three weeks to exorcise the demon, and even with it gone, what was left of my cousin was a broken shell that could only remember her family three days out of ten. And she was considered a fortunate case. The fact that you are standing before me as you are makes you an abomination, one most likely beloved by chaos.” She spits the words out like they are sludge in the back of her throat. “And we do not serve your kind here. Get. Out. Take everything of yours with you and don’t show your face here again. You will not be shown the same kindness again.”
Before either of them can get a word in edgewise, another sweep of power sends them crashing out of the shop. A dusty codex follows, hitting the pavement in a cloud of particles that quickly gather together into a wispy creature that might pass for a cat if it didn’t have two tails. With a screech it lungs for them, but then vanishes under the swipe of werewolf claws. Everything stands still for a moment as they wait to see whether it will reform itself again. It doesn’t.
“That was horrible customer service.” Peter breathes out as he picks himself off the ground.
“Yeah, total zero star experience.”
He makes his way over to where Stiles has cautiously picked up the no longer dusty book.
“And what is that?”
“I have no idea,” Stiles turns to face him. The look he wears is unsettling. “But the owner and I share the first name”
On the binding it says: Journal, property of Mieczysław Wiśniewski.
***
The situation seems to be direr than I expected. I probably never would have found the incentive to go digging through family history if this curse hadn’t befallen me. And it is a curse, I can now say that confidently. My search, which was spurned from the hopeful notion that whatever my nana, the baba, did to me could be reversed, led me to a story about an old ancestor of mine.
In the written records of our history, somewhere between the stories of a clumsy well maiden and a ferocious knight that popularized the name that I carry sits a story about two women. Teodora, my ancestor, fell in love with another woman named Próżnia even though her family had already promised her to a man. Since Próżnia had returned her affections, the two plotted to run away. And they did. However, the man Teodora had been promised to was furious when he found out and cursed her in his rage. That if she loved emptiness (what Próżnia’s unfortunate name happens to mean) so much, then it should always follow her and settle deep in her and all of her blood. And I am of her blood. The records indicate as much, though never mention how exactly it is that our line lived on. And while I never would have described myself as bearing emptiness inside, the fact that I have not even realized that something else has taken place in my soul indicates that there must have been an empty space it could utilize.
So tomorrow I will strive to end this. My sister may yet suffer from the same fate, so I will ask Father to perform a proper exorcism, as the first cleansing has obviously had an impact on whatever dwells inside. If all goes well, tomorrow we’ll be victorious in our freedom.
***
When frenetic knocking starts somewhere after three AM, Peter is more than a little annoyed. The feeling instantly vanishes when he finds a distraught Stiles on his doorstep.
“I think I might be cursed,” is the explanation he gets for this late night visit, but it is enough to get him to step aside and let Stiles in.
It takes an untouched glass of water and almost an hour for Stiles to recount his findings.
“And I know it applies to me, okay, I know. I checked. I even got my dad to pull out some of my mother’s old stuff out. Like, that whole side of my family is a big fucked up mess of unusual circumstances and freakish deaths. I mean, out of the family from my mom’s side, my grandpa is the only one still alive. And no one’s really noticed because it’s mostly daughters, possible side effect of the curse, so the name changes are rapid and hard to follow. But they can be, if you are persistent enough. My mom was.” He still hasn’t come to terms with exactly what being cursed implies about her death. “She traced back her family tree for centuries, and a couple of those back the name Mieczysław Wiśniewski showed up. I’m actually really freaking cursed.”
Saying it out loud makes his breathing glitch. He can’t go through this again, can’t get out of possession intact only to find out that the reason he even survived it is because he is cursed and highly susceptible to it happening again. Hell, with how his surroundings have interacted with him lately, maybe it already had.
A warm hand finds its place on the back of his neck. “Breathe Stiles. Just focus on my hand and breathe.”
He shudders and tries, cracking his finger joints to count them without looking. Another hand takes one of his own prisoner, so he counts Peter’s fingers instead. The ones in his hand, the ones on his neck. He counts them and then counts them again, counts them four times, just to be sure, before he manages to relax enough to breathe properly again. Peter’s touch lingers until he really has no excuse for it and then keeps lingering. They sit in silence for a while.
“So,” Stiles forces out once he feels capable of speech without breaking down, “got any stolen books on curse breaking by any chance?”
Peter smiles. It is a wicked thing, but somehow softer around the edges than any expression Stiles has seen on his face before. “I just might.”
Later, when morning light has started breaking out on the horizon, and they are both noses deep in piles of books, notes scattered everywhere, Peter voices a previously overlooked thought.
“Though, if the shop owner could sense it on you…”
“Then Deaton probably could too.”
***
“You knew.”
Deaton looks vaguely confused, so Stiles grits out an elaboration.
“You knew that I was cursed.”
The slump of druid’s shoulders tells him more than words could. Not that Deaton uses any to deny it.
“Why?” did you not tell me, why did you not help, why did you think this information was not relevant-
The heavy sigh Deaton lets out makes his nails bite deeper into the skin of his palms.
“You have to understand that this curse you refer to has a far bigger outreach than might seem at first glance. I am actually unaware of the specific requirements of your curse-“
Stiles isn’t. Because there aren’t any. Just ‘you love emptiness so it will love you back’. No unless, no recompense me for what I feel wronged about, no teaching a lesson, no nothing.
“-but I do know that it attracts. Chaos. Strife. The same things that it feeds on, creating a vicious circle of misery. When your mother died-“
And this makes Stiles wince, because hearing what he suspected thrown into conversation so casually, it stings.
“-it did not immediately haunt you, because other types of suffering happened to be around.”
He wants to protest, wants to rage, claim that no one’s pain could have been bigger than his, but
“My dad.” He remembers the downward spiral of drinking that lasted for nearly two years, pretty much until the Hale Fire.
Having that thought is like being doused in cold water.
“And Peter.”
Deaton nods and Stiles feels ground shift beneath his feet.
“It seemed advisable at the time to try and keep it contained, anchored to one person. It didn’t prove to be a very wise decision.”
And suddenly so many things just make sense. Why Peter went insane after the fire, why Deaton – who’d never once left town during that period and had, on top of that, been the pack emissary – had never lifted a finger to try and help him.
Deaton can obviously feel the judgement coming off from him in waves because he continues.
“You have to understand, even before the fire Peter had never been a poster boy for good behavior. His own sister, his flesh and blood, considered him dangerous enough that she recommended precautionary measures against him in case she died first. And after all that he put you through, I think you would agree.”
But Stiles doesn’t. He vehemently does not agree.
“You know, what you just said sounds suspiciously like a doctrine I have heard before, one spewed by Gerard Argent.”
Deaton visibly recoils.
“Wasn’t it supposed to be ‘we don’t hunt them until they do something to deserve it’, and I mean yeah, Peter is a grade A asshole with self-interest standing firmly on top of his priority list, but he’s always, always- anytime that it did not directly endanger his life and sometimes even then – come to help us when we asked. Us, not Derek. Because Peter’s loyal, and his actions might be questionable on a morality scale, but they are never against the pack.”
He looks at Deaton, who seems smaller now somehow, and continues as calmly as he can manage.
“Do you know what is the one thing most frequently mentioned in books that talk about curses? That they are primarily used as means of settling debts. In making sure that if someone wronged you, they do not get off scot-free. And you owe them, you owe the Hales. Because making sure that the Hale Fire wasn’t even a possibility is something you were responsible for. And you know the only reason they haven’t come in to collect is because Peter died before he could, Derek didn’t know about you for the most of his tenure as an Alpha, and with Scott formally in charge of territory they can’t, it’s not their right. So don’t try and take moral high ground on this topic - it’s just going to crumble beneath your feet.”
They stare at each other, unmoving, and let silence fill the room. Deaton breaks it first.
“Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”
“Yes, one thing: how do I break this curse?”
“You don’t. You won’t have to. The substitute sacrifice ritual rendered you dead in a magical sense. Whatever magic had clung to you before, should be long gone by now.”
“Then how come the nogitsune possessed me anyway?”
A wry smile plays on Deaton’s lips. “I think that had more to do with you being purely human, fresh out of a death ritual and available than your no-longer-there curse.”
He takes in the dead still figure standing in his clinic.
“Go home, Stiles. Live your life. No sense letting past take more than it already has from you.”
It doesn’t answer. It does turn around and walk out of the clinic.
***
Following that conversation with Deaton, Stiles drives around. It’s something he hasn’t done for a while now, because it was something nobody, not even him, had considered to be wise. But molten rage is still running through his veins and it sharpens his focus, makes fear of shadows inconsequential for the time of being. So he drives as he tries to figure out what to do next.
He definitely does not think the curse is gone in full, no matter how many of the things he notices can be written off as trauma symptoms. Deaton is going to be of no help, Scott won’t either because he’ll see it as Stiles sabotaging his own chances at happiness. Lydia might help, but she’ll manipulate him into doing it her way and this is something he needs to do on his own terms. So no Lydia. Malia and Kira aren’t even options, and Derek and his dad would probably fall under the same category as his dad. That leaves Peter, who’s been helping him anyway.
-
“Why have you been helping me?”
Peter rolls his eyes and moves aside to let him in. Stiles walks past him and lets himself fall on the sofa.
“Is showing up at my door with dramatic one-liners some kind of a new trend?”
“I’m serious.”
“Of course you are.”
“Peter.”
Another eyeroll.
“Why do you think I’ve been helping you?” The exasperation behind the utterance makes Stiles quirk an eyebrow.
“Because you’re bored, because copying illicitly begotten books is easier with two people, because any of the other hundred thousand reasons that I have no way of deducing myself and am therefore asking you?”
“Well, none of the reasons you mentioned is untrue, but surely you know me better than that by now?”
“Know you better? The only thing that I know about you is that you’re an insufferable asshole that helps us only if we ask and offers only if there is something in it for you too.”
“Exactly.”
Energy visibly drains from Stiles at that response, and he slumps back.
“And what exactly do you get out of helping me?”
“An ally. If only a temporary one. A possible packmate.”
That answer makes Stiles’ eyebrows furrow.
“Packmate? But-“
“Even though I could probably formally pass as being part of Scott’s pack, in truth I am an omega in every other sense that counts. No bonds, no mutual reliance, no loyalty.”
“And you want me to be all that?”
Peter flashes him a smirk.
“And why exactly did you think I offered you that bite when I was the Alpha?”
“Uh, because you needed three betas to have a stable pack.”
“Mostly true. I did need them. You, I wanted.”
“But why?”
Peter rolls his eyes at how much this reasoning seems to stump Stiles.
“Because you still possess the same qualities you did then. You’re practical, loyal beyond measure, and utterly vicious if somebody dares to touch something you care about. So I offered you the bite, because I wanted you to give that to me willingly.”
Stiles is still looking at him as if he’s not hearing the words.
“I wanted you because I thought you could understand me, and in return I would have given you all the appreciation you deserve, but do not seem to get. People like us are only ever useful, and seeing you brilliant as you were – and still are – I wanted a chance to give you more. To let you realize everything you could or wanted to be. ”
Stiles stares at him for a second longer before he finally opens his mouth again
“And you still want me?”
The question is so heavily loaded, but the only proper response Peter can muster is a sigh of fond exasperation, and-
“Have you not been listening at all? Yes, I still want you. Even though your sudden lack of comprehension is making me wonder why.”
Stiles almost laughs out loud. If he had, it would have been a high, borderline hysterical laugh, because out of all the things in the world, he’d never expected it to be Peter Hale who would offer him everything he’d ever wanted. He wants to doubt him, claim it’s all an act to get on his good side. But he can’t. Because he sees that in Peter too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have defended him before Deaton earlier that day. So he manages a smile. He’s sure it is a small, pitiful thing, but it seems to be enough.
Stiles may not be able to feel pack bonds, but he thinks he could get used to judging their strength by intensity of Peter’s smiles.
***
Despite last night being the best thing to happen to him in months, Stiles wakes up feeling not quite comfortable in his skin. He’s told Peter about Deaton and they’ve kept on searching for a way to break a curse, but so far they haven’t found anything useful and its- its gnawing at him. And he wants it to stop.
Rising from the bed, he wanders aimlessly around Peter’s apartment for a minute, before quietly slipping out through the front door. It’s been a while since he’d woken up early enough that morning air bit at his exposed skin.
A meow to his left breaks him out of the serene mood. He stares at the black cat on the pavement. The cat stares back, expectantly. Stiles thinks it might be demanding food all up to the point it swishes its tail and he realizes it has two. For a moment he just stands there, frozen, but then the cat turns around and saunters away. A shuddering breath escapes him and he laughs a little to himself as he makes his way to the car. There is a flyer tucked beneath his wiper.
-
The drive to his grandpa’s nursing home takes only about twenty minutes. He remembers they arranged it that way so that they could visit him often, but after mom died they’d done so only twice. The road that leads to it feels familiar anyway.
Even though it’s early, the nurse at the reception greets him warmly and he finishes giving his info without much problems. To his luck, it turns out his grandfather is awake, and apparently outside so he follows the nurses instructions and finds him sitting on a bench in the backyard with a black cat with two tails comfortably demanding to be pet in his lap. His footsteps stutter at the sight, but he forces himself to make his way over, cracking his finger joints inside his hoodie pocket.
“Mieszko!”
Stiles has to smile a little at that. Since mom died and they stopped visiting there has been no need for the reappearance of that dreaded nickname. He’s kind of amused that it sings a fond note in his chest now. He’s sure he’ll be back to hating it by the next time he deigns to come around to visit.
“Hey grandpa.”
“It’s been a while since you came around to visit this old man.”
Stiles shrugs limply.
“A lot of things have happened lately.”
“Mhm.”
They sit like that, enjoying the morning breeze until silence starts suffocating him and Stiles has to break it.
“Never took you for a cat person.”
His grandfather gives him an unreadable look.
“Your mother was too, you know.”
“Yeah, I figured she might have been.”
“It’s a damn shame though, that she visits me more now than my only grandson.”
Stiles looks at him in disbelief. His grandpa just smiles like he told an award-winning joke.
“I died once when I was young, you know?”
“What?!”
His grandfather laughs.
“Yeah. I was about fourteen, my father took me fishing for the first time. I stumbled over the edge of the boat and went flying into water. By the time he’d gotten me out, I’d swallowed far more water than was advisable. Didn’t have a pulse for whole 12 seconds. Terrified my pops so bad he never took me fishing again.”
“That’s… nice.” Because really. How do you react to that? “I drowned once, too. I think.” The substitute sacrifice ritual did contain being submerged in water.
His grandpa laughs again.
“It made some things easier for me, and some harder.”
Stiles doesn’t know how to react to that either so he stays quiet. He has millions of questions, but somehow he just cannot force them past his lips. He settles for watching the cat. It stares right back at him for a while, but then seems to get bored and jumps to the ground.
The backyard is empty. There’s only him and the cat.
It heads for the building, and after a few seconds of internal debate, Stiles follows. They pass through the deserted hallways until they reach a door without a door. It’s made of white tiles and white columns, and Stiles knows it very well. They enter. The cat leads him forward and they walk the endless room until they reach the point after which the space kind of wraps. Stiles tries to stare and see behind it, but it only makes his brain hurt.
A meow directs his attention to a coil of wire. He picks it up. The start of it leads somewhere into wrapped space and seems to glow blue if he stares at it long enough. Another meow startles him and they walk back, the wire uncoiling behind them. When they step through the open door, the amount of wire on the coil seems to be the same as when they started.
Stiles finds a storage room and bolts the room shut. He keeps the coil of string in his pocket.
“Mieszko.”
The voice startles him. His grandfather is smiling at him. Sitting next to him on the bench, he is petting thin air.
Stiles gets up.
“Come visit again sometime.”
“Yeah, I will grandpa.”
“Mhm. I’ll tell your mother you said hello.”
“You do that.” He smiles to himself. “You do that.”
-
When he enters the nursing home’s parking lot there is a blue eyed werewolf waiting for him. Walking into that hug is the easiest thing he has done in a long time.