inspired by "maybe the little bruises and cuts that show up on your body seemingly out of nowhere are actually little injuries that happened to your soul mate and you get the same marks on your skin as them" combined with a bit of Howl's Moving Castle. basically, soul mates fic with a twist sorta


It starts when Stiles is six and gets a bloody nose while doing his homework. His mother fussed over him for hours after that, debating whether or not to go to the emergency room even though the bleeding stopped a few moments after it started. When Stiles' dad comes home, he calms Claudia down, and they prepare dinner together.

However, when it happens every day, same time, for the next two weeks, that's when Stiles is forced into the hospital. The doctors claim nothing's wrong, and send them on their way.

Claudia worries about it, getting angry every time it happens, whispering under her breath about how "doctors are no help nowadays" and "my boy's bleeding randomly, that isn't normal."

The nosebleeds stop, finally, the week after they see the doctor. Stiles is too young to question it, and his parents are just glad it's over.

Six months after the nosebleed incident, Stiles breaks his finger going down a slide at the local park. Claudia rushes him to the hospital, and when she has to explain he broke it on the slide, the nurses don't believe her.

"Ma'am, tell us what happened," one of them, Linda, demands.

Claudia explodes. "I watched him the entire time! He went down the slide, and started crying at the bottom of it! That's all I know."

The police are brought in, suspecting abuse, but the parents at the park back-up Claudia's claim that she did not hurt Stiles, that her original story is true. Claudia doesn't bother sticking around, and finds her son getting his hand X-rayed.

"Clean break. As if he fell on it. It will heal within four to six weeks. He will have to wear a splint until then."

Claudia thanks the doctor, and as soon as Stiles has a splint on his finger, she whisks him away for milkshakes, not ice cream, so Stiles wouldn't have to use his hands.

The weeks pass, and Stiles' finger heals perfectly fine.

Another six months go by, Stiles turns seven, and there are no more serious injuries. Claudia wakes up early one morning, 5 o'clock, and walks downstairs. Stiles is already awake, sitting on the couch and staring at his hands.

"Hey, honey. Whatcha doing?" Claudia yawns as she pulls out the coffee grinds.

Stiles doesn't say anything, and she thinks he's sleep-walking. Then, Stiles stands up, and goes back to his room. Claudia chuckles as the bedroom door closes.

Three hours later, Stiles comes back downstairs to the smell of pancakes and bacon. He jumps on his chair, next to his dad. "Pancakes!"

"Pancakes," his dad repeats, possibly still half-asleep.

Stiles has the biggest smile on his face as Claudia flips four pancakes onto Stiles' plate. His expression dims, and he looks at his hands. Claudia sees they're littered with small cuts.

"Stiles, what happened to your hands?" Claudia says, leaving the pan on the table and examining his hands. Small cuts, some criss-crossing, are all over the back of his hands, as well as a few tiny ones on his fingers.

He shrugs. "Dunno. They just appeared."

Claudia tsks. "Don't lie to me. What happened?"

"I don't know!" Stiles pulls his hands back, hiding them in his sleeves. He's looking down, not meeting his parents' eyes.

Claudia and her husband sigh. They won't be able to force an answer out of their son, so they drop it, but no less determined to figure out what happened.

They never do.


Claudia gets sick a few weeks before Stiles' ninth birthday. It started with migraines, Claudia describes them as stabbing pain, and then she passes away peacefully in her sleep a few days later. Aneurysm, the doctors tell Stiles and his dad. Stiles is too young to understand, like when he had his nosebleeds, but he knows his mother's gone.

The funeral takes place the following weekend, and Stiles takes a few days off from school, while his dad takes his vacation days from work. They grieve in silence. (Stiles does, in his room. His dad drinks.)

The first few years after her death were hard. She never got to find out why Stiles was getting strange injuries. It was never anything serious, but enough to warrant concern. Stiles never found out either.

His dad went out after work, came back early in the morning, usually around one or two. Stiles would have to help him into bed, tucking him in and shutting off the lights, leaving the door open a crack.

Stiles never got enough sleep at night. He never blamed his dad.

He reaches high school almost unscathed. The morning before the first day of freshman year, a massive wound appears on his ribs. He falls into the bathtub, groaning in pain. He's home alone, and nobody's going to save him. Pain ripples across his chest.

He's bleeding, not as much a wound like that would warrant, but enough where he uses the shower head to clean it off, aiming the stream at the skin above the wound. Even that's tender. Stiles bites his lip as he grabs an extra towel to dab himself dry. He looks at himself in the mirror. Massive claw marks mar the skin down his ribs.

Stiles makes sure to avoid crowds, and has to push Scott back from hugging him.

"Dude," Scott starts.

Stiles holds up his hand. "I fell down the stairs last night. Tripped over the carpet."

"Oh, sorry man." Scott slaps his shoulder, and they carry on like that until Stiles says the 'bruises' faded. And then Scott gives him the tightest hug since Stiles' mom died.

Scott has to go to work after school, and since they need to work on a project anyway, Stiles just tags along. Deaton isn't in sight yet, but Stiles figures he must be around. Scott drops his bag on the ground, and Stiles follows suit.

A small, what must be a paper-cut, appears on Stiles finger. He winces, and licks his finger.

"What happened?" Deaton says, sufficiently scaring Stiles off the stool he was sitting on.

Stiles looks at his hand. "Oh, nothing." Scott looks over, face visibly concerned. "It's nothing."

"How long?" Deaton asks. Stiles knows that look. It says, "don't lie. Something's going on." He gets it from his dad at least twice a day.

He sighs, and runs a hand through (over; his hair's not long enough yet) his hair. "Since I was six. My dad told me I would get nosebleeds when I wasn't even doing anything."

"Interesting." Deaton smiles. "Do you know why?"

"No, but I have a feeling you do." Stiles glances over at Scott, standing near the door leading to the dog kennels.

Deaton chuckles. "You, Stiles, have a soul mate."

Scott gasps, and Stiles scoffs. "Yeah, sure. And you have a full head of hair." Stiles' stomach sinks when Deaton doesn't smile. He glances over at Scott, who's not looking at anyone. "You believe him?"

Scott looks at him. "It makes sense. I've seen you get hurt while just standing or sitting." Scott takes a step forward. "You just got a cut while sitting there. I saw you."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Fine. Say it is true. Who would be unfortunate enough to be stuck with me?"

Deaton shrugs. "Only you will know. And the person at the other end of those marks." He laughs, and prompts Scott to grab one of the puppies from the back.

Stiles doesn't think it's funny.


A year passes. Stiles doesn't find whoever it is creating these strange marks on him, and he's... not sure how he's supposed to feel about it. He doesn't know if he really wants to know, or just go through the rest of his life with a quarter of his life in another person's hands.

He doesn't even go looking. Or so he tells himself.

(He's never going to admit that afternoon happened. The one where he sat on a bench and stabbed his wrist with a pen repeatedly, looking for the person who grabbed their arm. Nobody did.)

So he continues with his life, dealing with Scott and his dad, who was promoted to Sheriff a few years ago. Stiles even brings Scott to the woods, searching for half a body, then lies to his dad to save Scott's ass.

He gets sent to the police station, where he has to sit and wait for an undetermined amount of time. Stiles has been sitting for ten minutes when he feels a weird tug on his heart. He sweeps over the entire station, but no one catches his eye. Stiles drops back down in the chair.

It was probably nothing. (He tells himself until he believes it.)

The next day, Scott tells Stiles he got bit by a wolf after Stiles was caught by his dad. Stiles has to explain that there are no wolves in California, so there is no way one could've bit him.

"There are no wolves in California," Stiles assures for the last time.

He is pumped, however, when Scott tells him that he found the body. He demands Scott take him there after Scott gets out from work, and gets more excited when Scott agrees with a small smile.

The day passes as fast as it can. Lydia ignores him (as usual), the new girl is swooped up by Lydia and Jackson (not surprising), and Stiles is treated to a spectacle at practice. Scott is on net, and catches every single ball (except for the first, which hit him in he face while he was staring at Allison). Stiles cheers him on from the bench.

Stiles drops Scott off at work, and Scott reminds him to pick him up at six. Stiles rolls his eyes. "As if I would forget." Stiles then proceeds to look up what the hell was going on with his friend.

The only explanation he comes up with is that Scott is a werewolf. Which is ridiculous, because there are no wolves in California.

He looks at the time, and drops the book he was reading to nab his keys and run out to his car. He picks up Scott a few minutes after six, and they drive to Beacon Hills Preserve.

They walk in silence for a bit, searching for Scott's inhaler he dropped on the night he was attacked. Stiles asks what the hell went on during practice, but not even Scott knew what was going on, then began worrying he had some disease.

Stiles jokes about him being a werewolf, and Scott pushes him.

"Obviously, I'm kidding," Stiles says, smiling. "But if you see me in shop class trying to melt all the silver I can find, it's 'cause Friday's a full moon."

Scott stops him. The body's not there, but Scott insists it was. He kneels down to look through the dead leaves. Stiles looks up to see a man standing there, staring at them. Stiles slaps Scott's head.

"What are you doing here? Huh? This is private property." The face looks familiar, like Stiles has seen him before. Is he...

Stiles puts his hand in his jacket pocket, and makes a fist as tight as possible, digging his fingernails into his palm. The man doesn't flinch. Stiles sighs, and removes his hand from his pocket. The man glances down at his hand, narrowing his eyes.

"What happened?"

Wow. Stiles really hates that phrase now.

He looks down at his palm, not even realizing that one of his blunt nails somehow cut through the skin and now his palm's bleeding. "Oh," Stiles says. Scott stands up, grabbing the injured hand.

"Did you do this?" Scott asks. Stiles nods, and Scott glances down and scrunches his face. "Why?"

Stiles glances up once. The man's still there. "Just making sure," Stiles whispers.

Scott looks up, and gives Stiles a half-smile. "Okay. I get it. Let's go." Scott turns to the mystery man. "Sorry. Again."

The man throws Scott his inhaler, and disappears as fast as he appeared. Scott frowns, and pockets it. "Let's get this cleaned up."

Stiles slams his good hand into Scott's chest. "Dude, that was Derek Hale. You remember, right? He's only a few years older than us."

Scott insists on walking while talking. "Remember what?"

"His family. They all burned to death in a fire, like, ten years ago."

Scott looks wounded, like his family had been the ones burned in a fire. "I wonder what he's doing back." Stiles winces as Scott accidentally pulls a little too hard. "Sorry. Let's go."