When it came to the world of crayons, Stiles' best friend Scott McCall wasn't exactly the brightest one in the box. The guy was tender hearted and rather naïve at best, at his worst a little bit stupid. His ideas were often poorly thought out and had gotten the both of them into trouble more than once.

Of course, that wasn't to say that Stiles didn't have his own faults. He was reckless and stubborn, always sarcastic, and sometimes bluffed so hard to hide his insecurities that he came across as a cocky dick instead of reasonably confident. He wasn't immune from getting his own crazy ideas either, and had put them both at risk for a grounding on more than one occasion, but he'd never done anything like this.

Stumbling along in the chill of the late afternoon, Stiles cursed under his breath, scanned the ground for any kind of a sign that his friend had passed through this part of the Preserve.

Ever since Scott had come into the station with accusations of child abuse on behalf of their classmate Isaac Lahey, Stiles had been afraid that he was going to do something stupid. His father had conducted the best investigation that he could, but without testimony from Isaac and little more evidence than the few visible bruises that the frightened teen excused away, there wasn't much that the Sheriff or the police department could do. After that Scott had started spending his lunches with the timid, quiet teen, and if it weren't so obvious that Scott was right by the way that Isaac flinched away from any kind of physical contact, Stiles might have been jealous. As it was he worried about Isaac too, and was more than willing to try to find a way to help the kid out, but the other boy's silence had been well and thoroughly beaten into him and he wasn't cracking.

So what could they do?

Now Stiles, he didn't have any problems pushing the limits. He'd done a lot of things that weren't exactly kosher, and a few more that weren't exactly legal. He was willing to sneak into the Lahey home, willing to put Isaac up in one of his dad's empty safe houses, but even he knew which lines weren't meant to be crossed.

Going to the werewolves out in the Preserve?

That was crossing the line.

And yet here he was, committing the equivalent of a werewolf felony by blatantly crossing the border into Hale pack territory.

His dad was going to kill him… that was, if the wolves didn't first.

But when Scott hadn't come home the night before, Stiles knew exactly where he'd gone.

Werewolf law wasn't the same as human law. Legally, they could probably do for Isaac what Stiles' father couldn't. But what Scott was silly enough to think of as a simple favor, Stiles was smart enough to see as anything but. Their help would likely come at a hefty price, for the battered boy and Scott too, and that was only if the wolves decided not to kill him outright for walking into the middle of the Preserve uninvited.

Which, technically they were allowed to do.

It had been years since werewolves had come out to the world, but contact between them and the humans was still strained at best. Beacon Hills had only come to an agreement with the local pack and their Alpha Talia Hale after a brief but bloody war led by a rogue hunter family, the Argents. It had only ended after the death of the patriarch, Gerard Argent, and his daughter Kate at the hands of the wolves. Approached by the last of the family, Chris and his daughter Allison, the Sheriff had done his best to negotiate a peace treaty between the pack and the rest of the town, but once again he'd found his hands almost tied. There was only so much he could do when fear and speciesism raged on both sides.

In the end it had come down to segregation. The wolves stayed on their side of the line, and the humans stayed on the other. The Preserve belonged to the Pack and the town to everyone else. It was an agreement that did nothing to foster collaboration or ease between them, but it had been a long time since a member of either party had been killed, and for most that was enough.

Stiles was hoping that today wouldn't change that.

As the first one to break the treaty and cross into Hale territory without an invitation in over six years, Scott had been pretty stupid.

As the second one to do it in as many days, Stiles was probably worse.

But he couldn't leave Scott to his fate. He was afraid for his friend - honestly afraid - the guy had pretty bad asthma that could cut him to the ground if he was spooked. Being held hostage and threatened by a bunch of werewolves might actually be enough to kill him, even if that wasn't their intent. So he'd done the one thing he'd promised his dad he wouldn't do; pulled on his lucky red hoody and headed into the trees, leaving his Jeep to be found by the next deputy patrolling the service road that ran alongside the border.

"Stupid," Stiles muttered, kicking at leaves and stumbling over a hidden tree root.

What was he doing out here?! There was no guarantee that the werewolves would trade him for Scott, no guarantee that he could convince them he was the better hostage.

And that's what he would be.

A hostage, theirs to punish as they saw fit for breaking the law, breaking the treaty.

Stiles swallowed, felt his heart start to pound as his breathing began to come heavier.

He was ready for it - he'd told himself that. Ready to sacrifice his freedom as long as he got Scott out of there, as long as he could stop the pack from invading Beacon Hills and taking their revenge on any of the people there. He didn't want to believe the stories, hated the bigotry and the prejudice that spoke of animalistic tendencies, that bred fear and whispered of murderous instinct, but it existed, and all stories had to stem from something, didn't they?

No matter what his dad had taught him about fairness and equality, no matter how much he believed in those institutions himself, he was still afraid.

It didn't matter that across the country there were packs living and working with humans openly in total cooperation, comingling easily without threat or fear. Didn't matter that in places like New York and Chicago, in countries like Canada and Spain, werewolves were a large part of mainstream society, holding influential positions in politics and just as loved and supported as any human lawyer or senator could be.

In Beacon Hills, the road to equality had been strewn with far more blood than roses.

Stumbling to a stop, Stiles leaned over and clutched his knees, chilled and trembling inside his hoody as he tried to get his breathing back under control, tried to cut off the impending panic attack that was slowly creeping up on him.

"You're safe," he panted, reaching up to clench his fingers tightly around his left shoulder. "They can't hurt you, you're safe."

Forcing himself to straighten back up, he scrubbed his hands through his hair, took a deep, steadying breath as he fought off the memories, the horror stories of the werewolf/hunter wars that were likely half lies on behalf of either side anyways.

"Ok. Ok, you can do this."

Only, he wasn't sure he could.

Looking around, he realized that he had almost no idea where he was. Oh, he knew he was inside the Preserve, pretty deep inside it too, trespassing on land that had belonged to the Hales long before the treaty had been drawn. That being said, he'd left the trail about a mile back, and the world inside the woods pretty much looked the same all the way through.

Only a wolf could find their way out of this.

But that was exactly who Stiles was looking for so he supposed that had to be his solution.

In all honesty he was surprised he hadn't been surrounded already.

Of course, just because he hadn't seen them didn't mean that they were unaware of his presence in their territory, and judging by the way the hair on the back of his neck was standing up, they were starting to close in.

Swallowing down the knot in his throat, Stiles turned slowly on his heel, only to yelp and flail backward so hard that he landed on his butt in the dirt. Less than thirty yards away a tall, dark haired man stood silently between the trees, watching Stiles intently with eyes that glowed a bright, jeweled blue. The black leather jacket and the brooding scowl he wore did little to reassure Stiles that he wasn't about to be murdered, and a nervous chuckle bubbled up out of his chest as he slowly raised his hands in surrender.

"Um, I come in peace?" he grinned, though his cheeks felt so stiff he imagined it looked more like the Joker's half-hysterical grimace than anything approximating a smile.

"What are you doing here?" the werewolf asked, and yeah, ok, he sounded angry. "Huh? This is private property."

"Yeah I know," Stiles said in his most placating voice as he got slowly to his feet, but the man's scowl only intensified. "I'm just… I'm looking for my friend."

Tilting his head to one side, the blue faded from the man's eyes as his scowl turned into something a little surprised, like he was considering the truth of his words. Stuffing his hand into his pocket, he pulled out something small and plastic, turning it in his hand before he lobbed it through the air. Snatching it up before it could hit the ground, Stiles' heart skipped a beat as he opened his fist and revealed Scott's inhaler, cracked but full.

"Yup, that's him," he gulped, lifting the inhaler to his mouth for a quick hit.

No response.

"Right," he mumbled, rubbing absently at his shoulder. "Umm. Take me to your leader?"

Cocking an eyebrow, the werewolf crossed his arms over his chest, looked Stiles up and down. "You're here to see the Alpha?" he asked in a tone of obvious disbelief.

"Yeah," Stiles mumbled slowly. "I mean, that's Talia Hale right?"

"Alpha Hale," the man snarled, and then the blue eyes were back and there were fangs in his mouth and claws on the tips of his fingers as he took a hard step towards Stiles, making him jerk and stumble.

"Yeah, yeah, Alpha Hale, exactly," he agreed, hands trembling in the air once again.

Radio silence.

But then the werewolf was stalking forward and he practically swallowed his tongue in fright as the guy grabbed his elbow in a clawed, bruising grip, hauling him along like a recalcitrant child as he staggered after him trying frantically to keep up. He supposed it was better than being slung over the guy's shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but not by much, and oh, god, where was he taking him anyway?

Slowly the trees and brush began to thin and he was dragged back onto the over-grown footpath that he'd lost a mile back, bringing them to the head of a shallow valley between the hills that ran parallel to the river and the cliffs along the southern side of the county. It bottomed out into a long, grassy clearing, acres wide and surrounded by the thick of the Preserve, dominated by a large, three story house, multiple smaller cabins and scattered outbuildings. It was rather pretty actually, the flat, sprawling lawns neatly trimmed, wooden planters of flowers adding splashes of color around the steps leading up to a large patio in back and a wide, covered porch around the front. The buildings were all sided in rustic white clapboard, doors and shutters painted a rich, matching blue, and Stiles was struck by the tidy, modern appearance of it all.

It… wasn't what he'd expected.

Not that he got much time to take it in - the wolf clutching his arm had dragged him across the yard and up the steps before he could get in more than a sweeping, rapid-fire glance, and then they were across the threshold and inside the house and there was no going back.

"Mom!" the werewolf shouted, jerking Stiles down a hallway and into a modest, neatly organized library, all pale hardwood floors and walls lined with well-stocked bookshelves, and wait, what? Mom?!

"Derek, honestly, what have I told you about…"

Talia Hale pulled up short as she stepped into the room, stopping so abruptly that the man who followed crashed into her from behind and had to grab her by the waist to steady himself. Talia Hale, the Alpha of the Hale pack, because that was who she was, no mistaking it. She was lovely; tall and slim with thick, dark hair and bright eyes, but more than that there was an air to her that spoke of quiet command, of power and the kind of confidence that came with knowing one was both respected and revered. Talia Hale, regal and red-eyed, and apparently the mother of the werewolf beside him, who was apparently named Derek and who was thrusting him forward towards his mother and Alpha more gently than the gesture came across.

It was Stiles' own clumsiness that made it look worse than it really was.

There was a rug on the floor, thick and intricate, and naturally his sneakers caught it as he tripped forward, sending him down hard onto his knees. And ok, yeah, that was not a position he was comfortable being in, especially in front of a bunch of werewolves, but maybe a little respect, a little submission would keep him alive here.

So instead of turning around to glare at Derek like he wanted to, Stiles turned his head away just a tiny bit, dropped his eyes to the floor and stayed where he was, tried not to tremble.

"Alpha Hale," he murmured as politely as he could while keeping his voice steady.

His own heartbeat was like a base drum in the silence that followed.

"Derek," she said quietly after a minute's terrifying silence, completely ignoring his presence, which, rude. "What's going on?"

"I found him out in the Preserve. He crossed the border. He said he's looking for the other one."

"Scott," Stiles interrupted, unable to keep his mouth shut as fear spiked in his chest. "His name's Scott. He's got brown hair and asthma and a crooked jaw and I'm… just gonna shut up now…" he trailed off, suddenly acutely aware of the wolves staring at him.

Talia Hale tilted her head, one eyebrow raised rather imperiously as she trailed her ruby gaze over his kneeling form.

"What's your name young man?" she asked, and ok, that wasn't what he'd been expecting either.

"St, Stiles, people call me Stiles," he stammered, and Talia made a small movement with her hand as she stepped passed him, one that he interpreted as allowing him to stand. Permission or not, he waited until she had settled into a wing-backed chair, knees crossed primly before he stood, moving slowly and deliberately as the two other wolves watched him like hawks, moved to flank their Alpha on either side. Her son, Derek, and another beta with brown hair and a smattering of freckles that he assumed must be her husband, David. He noted with interest that she was barefoot and casually dressed in jeans and a loose peasant top, her toenails painted bright pink, just a mom around the house, and please god, let her be in that frame of mind and not in that of a pissed off Alpha protecting her territory...

"You broke the law coming here Stiles," she said carefully, her eyes still red and wary, and ok, maybe he wasn't going to get that lucky. "Do you know that?"

"Yes ma'am," he replied, keeping his eyes politely downcast.

"And yet you still came."

"Yes ma'am."

A pause, another heart pounding break in conversation as Stiles felt himself being studied from head to toe.

"Why?"

"For Scott," he answered immediately. It wasn't a reply he had to search for.

"He broke the law as well."

"I know that!" he yelped, half dismay and half frustration, flinching when the betas' eyes flashed blue and gold at his tone. "Sorry, I… I do know that. Believe me, if anyone respects the treaty it's me. But I couldn't leave the guy, he…"

"Broke the law," Talia finished, and Stiles felt his shoulders slump.

"He's my best friend," he sighed. "Yes, he broke the law, I get it, but he did it with good intentions and he… he's a good guy. I know you have every right to k… keep him here…"

"I have far more right than that," Talia protested in a clipped tone, claws coming out to click against the wooden arms of her chair. "You're not supposed to be here, you or your friend. We stay on this side of the border, you stay on that side - that was the agreement! That is how peace is kept!"

"Hey look, I'm not here to wreck that, ok?" he snarled, his anger and his anxiety finally lashing out, causing his fists to ball up and his stance to widen. "I'm not here to fight or to piss anybody off or get anybody hurt - Jesus, I came to make sure that didn't happen!"

All three of the wolves paused, went visibly still, and Stiles felt fear clutch at his throat as he realized what he'd just done.

Oh god, this was the part where he got his throat ripped out wasn't it? With somebody's teeth…

"And how, exactly, did you plan to accomplish that?" Talia asked, her eyes narrowed and her fangs showing beneath her upper lip.

Stiles froze.

Ok, breathe, breathe, here's your chance, don't screw it up…

"Charter four," he choked before he could chicken out. "Article seven."

He hadn't been lying when he said he knew the law, knew the treaty.

Talia Hale raised an eyebrow, hid away a flash of impressed surprise that her husband and son had less success masking.

"Interesting," she murmured. "But who are you to walk into my territory and demand renegotiations? The treaty made provisions for persons of position in Beacon Hills, not children."

Swallowing hard, Stiles raised his chin, searched for a sense of pride that would help him to get the words out without his voice cracking on him.

"My legal name is Przemysław Stilinski," he announced with a barely perceptible tremble, a sickening clash of fear and relief flushing thought him when Talia sat up in her chair and her betas shifted, looked at each other in surprise. "My father is John Stilinski, the Sheriff of Beacon Hills. And I'm here to take the place of Scott McCall as the requesting party's collateral hostage for the duration of renegotiations."