"Trust me, you don't wanna see what happens when Stiles gets pissed." -Scott McCall

* 8 years ago *

"Make that move," She ordered, pointing at the orange leaf on the ground.

"You know I can't do that when people are around," Stiles sighed, closing his mouth as the 4th grade teacher passed them by. "Why did Scott say he was sick again?"

She stuffed her small hands into her soft jacket, sitting on the stone bench instead of ordering her older friend around. Olive dragged her knees up to her chin, patting the space next to her. Stiles frowned, continuing to stand in front of her, lips twisted down into a frown, as if he knew exactly what she'd done. When he opened his mouth, you could see the gaping holes left from lost baby teeth, and his words were tinged with the noise of a lisp.

"You didn't," he said, sitting next to her, slumping slightly. "Come on."

"I don't like him."

"Doesn't mean you have to-"

"You made the electricity go out!"

"And you made him feel sick!"

"Electricity cut out is worse!"

"Is not."

"Is to."

"Is not!"

"It to! I just want him away, we're a pair, Stiles, and he's- he messes you up!" Olive stated.

"He thinks this," Stiles's eyes briefly flickered black, the color sputtering out quickly. "Is cool, Hal." nickname, that only he got to use. "You don't."

"It's weird. I'm here to help you with that."

"I'm not a basket case."

She placed her hand on top of his, consequently curling around the handle of his backpack. If there was something she hated, it was Stiles angry. Olive wanted him happy, and she'd do almost anything to achieve that. In her mind they were a pair, even if things between them were getting a bit tense, because his mother had just died, and her mother had come down with something. And since they were a pair, she wanted no one else with them.

Yes, he wasn't a basket case, but he was dangerous. So was she, but in a very much dialed back fashion. His magic was more of the 'Attack' magic persuasion, while she relied on her manipulation of emotions. Olive manipulated his as well, sometimes, and Scott had shouted something along the lines, 'you've manipulated him into being your friend', which had injured their relationship further.

"I know."

Her car pulled up, and her father slid out, heading towards her. Olive remained stationary, unwilling to leave his side while she still felt he was angry. Solomon stopped in front of her, a tangle of emotions breaking the steady pulse of calm she was directing towards Stiles. He crouched in front of them, giving Stiles a brief nod, moving his hand to rest on Olive's knee.

"Halina," because that was her proper name. She assumed the name of Olive. "Your mother...is dead."

She sat there, waiting absorb the information, the words right there, almost hanging in front of her eyes. Chemotherapy was supposed to work, wasn't it? Her mother told her over and over that it was supposed to work. So obviously her father was lying.

Olive smiled faintly, giving out a little pulse of happiness to the area. A child laughed, and the entire group became a bit more rambunctious, surprising the teacher. It was late in the day, most of these kids were tired, so this sudden revival of their spirits was odd. Solomon shook his head, grabbing her little hand in his, rough palms contrasted with the soft of hers.

"Dead, Halina."

She braced herself, now flat out refusing to deal with the information, a emotional hurricane starting within her. Olive was at the center of it, breath coming faster, looking around wildly, a scream tickling her throat. The last thing she'd said to her mother was that she hated her, because she wasn't getting better. It'd just popped out, because a Nurse was pulling her away, and Irene, her mom, was doing nothing to stop it. Mother had laid there, smiling weakly at her. And her father; he'd told her nothing.

"No she's not!" She shouted.

The Hale family looked up now, stopping their mass loading into a van. Children stopped playing, the smaller ones crashing back on their bottoms, and proceeding to cry. She was tossed out of the eye of the hurricane, and into the storm, unable to really control herself. Stiles' breath caught in his throat, and she vaguely registered him grabbing his head in his hands, tendrils of black seeping into his eyes, the black almost a mirror now.

Wind began to whip around the clearing, buffeting the Hales', who always seemed to be such an enterprising family. They came to the help now, catching hats, and the like, calming everyone considerably. Laura jogged over, questioning Solomon, who pointed to Olive. She was sitting, staring at the events she'd caused, slightly amazed, channeling the same mix of emotions still.

Then she remembered Stiles' situation, and stopped, putting something of a cork on now, grabbing Stiles. They'd been a veritable super storm over Beacon Hills when his mom passed, and the emotions she'd let fly had to somewhat mimic the ones he'd felt that day, so she'd done something bad. Worry replaced grief, and she shelved that emotion to take care of him, because at this point, not many other people did.

She tugged his hands from his head, holding them between hers, trying to catch his eyes. The black always shocked her, the way it transformed his face, making it so much more ...nasty. Olive did not find it cool, as Scott claimed. This was a flag that came with the territory of being angry. It was a rarity among witches now, as the Salem line was swiftly dying out; the ones with this much magic at least.

So here she was, struggling to tether him back down, calm him, as that was her job, along with making him happy, keeping him out of danger. The first time they'd met, her mother had told her this. And she was dead. She gave a soft wail, pushing her feelings further to the side like she always had to, putting him above her.


Not anymore.

People buzzed around the hallways, not nudging once against her, creating a little ring. Olive brushed fingers through the messy fringe that shielded her forehead, eyes locked on Stiles and McCall. Stiles. It'd been 8 years, and he'd grown up, same as McCall. But she certainly wasn't here for him, was she?

Selections today, a sign read on the wall, and she considered it, just as Scott passed, shouldering a bag over his shoulder, a lacrosse stick breaking the little circle, rubbing against her wrist. She bit back a snarl, keeping her mind on diverting the crowd, annoyed that he'd not kept away. They didn't like the spot she was in, according to her persuasive techniques, so what was up with him? The only people she had difficulty affecting were werewolves in human form, and then she had absolutely no control when they wolfed out. Of course, as far as she knew, the Hales' were the only supernatural anomalies in Beacon Hills.

She brushed down her sweater sleeve, slumping a bit, trying to look like a less than motivated, normal teenager. The only one with a pep in her step was Lydia MArtin, who still seemed to reign as queen bee. Second day of school, and she wasn't even tired in the slightest. Stiles followed her movement, a dopey look on his face, raising a hand to catch her attention. This effort was missed entirely, and Lydia strutted past.

Maybe dressing down wouldn't make her fit in. Maybe she needed to be apart of this girl's group. Olive frowned, watching her go, considering this option, knowing her Aunt would be more than happy to pitch in with her dressing up. She'd dress up for 'success' though she may as well say, dressing up for vengeance. If she couldn't get back at those people for Milo's death, she'd find the one person who could.

She left Beacon Hills high school, calling a cab to pick her up, redirecting the principal as soon as he started towards her, stationed at the curb. It was only the second day of school or something, didn't he have something better to do? Now he did, at least.

Her Aunt was more than happy to buy her name brand items, even if her husband didn't look too happy when they came back and had to make three trips from the car. Olive purposely ignored her father, who still sat demurely at the table, poking at his food. It was his fault. Everything was his fault.

"Stay in school tomorrow," Solomon muttered, finally looking up when she walked across the room.

Olive held back a scathing response, sufficing with a little glare towards the steak, angrily flicking through channels, computer on her lap. She wanted homework to distract herself, remembering Milo's broken body, how they'd at least left him on the doorstep, her incompetent father. The quiet truth: she'd rather him be dead. Olive blinked cooly down at her laptop, clicking on Facebook.

Jackson's friend request popped up, and she thought back to him, wondering if he'd noticed her in the hallways. The chat pinged over the noise of her computer: you going to that party Friday? She'd been friends with him, and she had given him a little nod in the hallways on the first day, ghosting out before second period. So he had noticed, but, if his relationship status said anything besides Lydia orchestrated, he was in a relationship with her.

Her hands hovered over her keyboard, before typing back a yes, short and simple.

Right back, the reply: catch me up to what's been going on?

She really wasn't there to get to know people, but there was a certain benefit to socializing with the upper-hierarchy of school. Olive ran fingers continuously through her hair, staring at the message, clicking add friend, before shutting her laptop, and turning her attention to her food.


"What is up?" A guy hooted, as Lydia passed.

Olive sat back in the chair, watching the little trade between them, in which Jackson popped up, all 5'9 feet of, what it seemed, pure muscle. She held the red cup in her hands, staring at the people, watching patterns, the emotions running high. Arousal dripped from upper bedrooms like warmed molasses, and she could only imagine what was going on up there. A smile spread across her face, amused by the quick and easy way children's, which was a silly thing to say, as she was their age, basically, emotions could shift.

Jackson caught sight of her, pulling Lydia with him on his quest towards her. Lydia only looked happy with this situation when she saw Olive's dress, words just a bit slurred, compared to Jackson.

"I love your dress, where did you get it?" Lydia gushed, hand resting on my shoulder, the red and black dress shifting with the pressure.

"All she talks about are clothes," Jackson said.

Lydia's lips pursed, and she looked up to Jackson, lashes batting slightly. "Well, honey, you don't understand what my books are about, so," she looked towards me, giving me a simpering little smile, cool confidence behind it. "I keep it dumb."

"Versace. Spring catalog, 2013," Olive had no idea what to say; talk about the thread count? No, that applied to sheets.

"So pretty. You're also my friend. I'm going to get more drinks."

Jackson watched her go, before he turned back to Olivia, sitting down, patting her vacated spot. She sat as soon as his hand left the spot, shifting away from him, knowing he was, what you'd call, prime meat of the high school world, and if she poked him, they'd be chalked up to have been fucking. And it was only her third week back.

"How's it been?"

"Only one who's asked me that so far," Olive tapped her nail on the cup.

"Stiles is a dweeb," Jackson snorted, the beer bottle swinging between his fingers. "You always were chummy."

"You didn't like it."

His eyes rested on mine, and he took a sip very slowly, adam's apple working. "You're lucky you're good-looking; always were a bit weird."

Precisely what every girl wanted to hear, she thought blandly, hand going to her fringe. "Aren't I. Captain of lacrosse, correct?"

"I plan to stay that way," Jackson frowned down at his drink, eyes narrowing. "Where the fuck are the drinks?"

He stood up, and Olive was left alone again, somewhat pleasing, she had to say. At least she had a lunch group for next week, and the text books at the Martin house were definitely AP, and belonged to Lydia, who was apparently smart beyond clothes talk. And Stiles still had a thing for her. Of course. She was smart, funny, beautiful, and she wasn't…weird.

Stiles passed to the punch bowl which was close to her, playing with the ladle. If she was going to approach him now, spare a big entrance when he finally saw her at school Monday….

She wasn't here to make a big splash, of course, so she went ahead, and moved close, reaching out to rest a hand on his wrist, closing her eyes. He was apart of her she'd lost, ripped from, same with her mother, and she knew him, felt the little pit of guilt, grief, and anger still bubbling there. Stiles didn't move, shifting slightly, and she was able to listen to the little hitch in his breathing pattern, the jolt of anger and confusion that pulsed through her as well.

"God, I-" she broke slightly, itching to cup his hands in hers like she used to, realizing that his hands were drastically bigger than hers now.

He swallowed, eyebrows lifting very slowly. "You're back?"

"I'm back."

Back to use him, gain his trust, whatever it took, but he would help her exact her vengeance on the people who killed her brother. Whatever it took. Even if she had to mix with humans, and Scott McCall, who was definitely not human anymore. He ran past, and Stiles jerked to follow his path, but she didn't let him go.

"Dude, you okay?"

Scott didn't reply, stumbling away. Olive regarded his back carefully, before she flicked her eyes to Stiles. She didn't know what she felt towards him now, but not blind loyalty. Loyalty could take years to build, and a second to destroy. That second was their move from here; away from him, and only now did she realize that loyalty was overrated.

"You don't want to know why I'm back?"

"You being back is trouble in a nutshell," he stuffed hands into his jean pockets.

"And you already have enough of that, don't you?"

"Well, Scott..." Stiles started, giving a little shrug.

"I know what's going on. I've been here three weeks."

"And you haven't even talked to me?"

He frowned, peering down at her, making her feel slightly guilty, but then, he had no right to. Olive straightened her shoulders, setting her cup on the table.

"No," She said.

"Why?"

"Because you don't know me anymore."

"Bullshit, I know precisely who you are. You're my Hal."

"It's Olive."

"Hal."

"Olive."

"Hal."

"Olive, don't start this back and forth with me again, we're not kids anymore."

"Aren't we?"

She shifted, rolling her shoulders-back. "Do I look like a child?"

Olive wanted validation from him, and the realization that she wasn't 'his' anymore. He rubbed a hand over his head, which sported a buzzcut that looked grown out to a point. Stiles hand swung at his side once he dropped it, and he reached out for her shoulder. Olive shifted back.

"Olive, I...have to go take care of Scott."

As he walked away, she grabbed his elbow, pressing her self close to whisper in his ear, nails digging downwards. "We're witches. And witches don't mix well with werewolves. I come back to see you running to the shit pile that they seem to inhabit, blindly following Batman into the fray. Be glad I'm back."

"Not sure I am," he wriggled away, jogging out the door.

Olive crossed her arms over her chest, eventually moving to stride out, combat style boots making her feel a bit more powerful than she was. What she was meant for in this world was to calm him when it was needed, and now she'd flipped that entirely.


(idea credit to itsdereksfault, I thought -Teen Wolf AU: Stiles is a descendant from Salem Witches. Whenever he gets angry or a little bit annoyed his magic likes to surface. So the flats on Derek's car, the electricity going off in the neighbor hood, Peter getting paralyzed, and Ms. Blake's skirt ripping when she bends over in class, is all due to Stiles getting pissed. The only incident he hadn't controlled, willingly, out of the three was the neighbor hood lights. The black eyes come with the territory; which Scott thinks is the fuckin' coolest thing next to his own eyes changing colors.-was very inspiring.