His middle name is Rowan.
(he was baptized in holy water, dipped into the crystal tub as purple flowers floated in the water)
There's a chest in the very back of his parent's closet that is full of books (just fairy-tales), dried wolfsbane (just flowers), and weapons (just - well, guns and bullets and knives a whole fucking armoury that can't be explained away). All of it hidden away in that wooden box, carvings of wolves and suns and wolfsbane stretching out over it's surface.
His mother used to run her hands over the chest, over the books and their old delicate pages, over the crinkly old flowers, over the knives and guns and bullets. She did it on impulse every full moon, when the howls were at their loudest and the forest smelled of magic and blood.
(it was the first rule that had been drilled into his head, don't go out to the forest on a full moon)
Some nights, when his father worked late, late hours she would read him fairy-tales of wolves and hunters. They were detailed and bloody and the wolves always had too human traits.
(revenge, lust, hatred there was always a reason she'd say)
On a few rare occasions she taught him about the weapons. About the wolfsbane and how it will burn a wolf from the inside out, how they heal so every cut made with knives has to be done over and over again until the creature's in half, how monk-hood's bullets were rare and only to be used when you had a clear shot.
Stiles has always known about wolves.
He just didn't always believe.
It's a dark, dark night; his father is drunk, whiskey bottle in the garbage and passed out on the couch; the wolves are out, hunting, growling at each other, maybe just relaxing in a puppy pile which is something Stiles would pay to see; and he can feel the forest and the moon. It made him antsy, made him remember the way his mother paced and paced and paced before finally going to it.
It, the mysterious part of his mother that was never explained except in the cryptic bedtime stories.
Wolves and hunters.
Inside the chest there's one arrow. It's made of metal, what looks like silver delicately intertwined like ivy. Engraved on the side in gold is probably his mother's name, but the first letter is written so strangely that it could have been an E or an A the rest of the letters equally estranged except for the two L's in the middle.
Grief drowns him and then rage, slowly buzzing underneath his skin because there's a last name on that arrow and it spells out all too clearly, Argent.
He's supposed to be there to be a mediator of sorts between the pack and the hunters, but he's suffocating in his sorrow and the anger makes him dizzy and his judgement impaired. He's supposed to help work out the kinks between the agreement that's so close to being done. He should focus on that but he can't, he could ruin this agreement, and maybe end his life if this goes badly but he's angry, so, so angry and miserable that none of that seems to maybe a little shot of whiskey never hurt when people planned to do stupid things.
But when he gets to the agreed meeting place he decides to let it simmer, the drive over helped clear his head (he swears he was barely drunk) and he realizes that he can do this after the agreement.
He also has no fucking clue what he's going to say.
Scott stops him at the door.
"Are you alright?" he asks in that passive-aggressively soft voice of his.
"Ya, I'm completely fine and fricken dandy." Stiles replies tersely.
Scott furrows his brow and makes the puppy eyes, but no, Stiles cannot be swayed by his friend's unfair kicked puppy look.
Scott leans in and sniffs, "You smell like... Rage, and grief. And alcohol... Dude are you drunk?"
Stiles pushes past him, more because Scott lets him than he because he could actually ever force his way through, "I'm fine."
Scott shrugs and goes to sit by Allison, but keeps shooting looks at Stiles.
Chris eventually notices what the werewolves did the moment he walked into the room. There was something wrong with Stiles.
Every reply he gave to anybody was short and biting, but he was especially cold to Chris. They were discussing what to do if a werewolf was killing humans, to hunt them down or bring them in or blame the whole pack, were the options so far.
When Chris mentions packs migrating into town and looks to Stiles who merely turns away to look at Derek, he finally snaps.
"Kid," he barks out to get Stiles attention, "are you alright? Because this is important and we're trying to be diplomatic here, but everyone needs to be non hostile."
Stiles takes a deep breath, his nostrils flare and he almost shakes, anger bubbles so close that the werewolves are almost entranced. To see Stiles with so much rage is unusual and strange, "I have a problem that I need to deal with. It involves you."
His eyes seem to flash, rage and grief shifting in them.
"It can wait until later though."
Professionalism. That's a new one for him.
Chris crosses his arms and reclines a bit, lifting his chin and squaring his jaw like Stiles is picking a fight.
And, huh, maybe he is.
"If you have something you need to say, say it."
Stiles takes another deep breath and then nods sharply, mechanically.
"Fine," he barks it, jerking his arms in controlled movements to root around in his bag, "You wanna do this right here, right now? Fucking fine."
He yanks out something wrapped in a white cloth. The weres all jerk away from the too strong scent of rubbing alcohol.
Placing it delicately on the table (it was his mothers) he unwraps it revealing the silver arrow in all it's glory.
(maybe all the wolves flinched because the tip was soaked to its very core in wolfsbane)
"Do you recognize this?" He says quietly, the arrow between them like evidence from a crime scene.
Chris seems taken aback, his eyes are slightly wider and his mouth is parted open.
Stiles starts to shake as silence warps the room.
He growls and his hands slam on the table as he stands and screams, "Do you recognize this?!"
Chris pays him no attention. He reaches for the arrow reverently, holding it just as gently as Stiles did.
Stiles lets his head fall as he shakes, he wants to rage more but his anger begins to die and grief washes over him once more. It's always been like this with his mother's death, never about rage, always about grief.
"Your sister is dead." He states plainly as he stops shaking, stops standing, stops breathing.
"Both of them, your whole family is dead now except for Allison."
Standing, Stiles looks down at Chris who is staring at the engraving like it's hope torn away, like it's a dying wish, like he's a beggar who can't ride.
Stiles knows what he did, what he's doing, and it's cruel. But this man and his family have cruelty written in their veins. They're survivors, hunters and the ones who survive the longest are the ones willing to make the tough (cruel) decisions.
"That was my mother's." he croons brokenly.
Stiles turns to leave but a hand stops him.
"Then my whole family isn't dead." Chris says blandly like it's a fact, but it's laced with hope.
Stiles practically hissed as he turns to look him in the face.
"No," he hisses, he spits, "I was born a Stilinski, and my mother died a Stilinski."
Chris doesn't move his hand, no, he actually tightens his grip.
"You have her eyes." He says plainly and Stiles' whole face just crumbles like an accordion because he knows what that means, it means he has Allison's eyes, it means he has Kate's eyes, it means he has his mother's eyes.
It means he has Argent eyes.
"Were you hoping that she was living a normal life?" he whispers, "Aging as she raises a family separate from werewolves? Did you name Allison after her?"
Chris' eyes look like pits of sadness and Stiles remembers suddenly, like a slap to the face that he's not the only one to lose somebody. He softens a bit as the wind drifts from his sails.
"As close as I could," Chris whispers, "We weren't supposed to talk about her. But I missed her."
Stiles nods and Chris lets go.
Stiles leaves.
He's in his room, reclining on his bed. He dragged the chest out of the closet and has all of the items spread out on his desk. One knife out of the many that were in there is held in his hands. The sharp edge is ran teasingly over his hands as he examines every inch, eyes continuously going back to the name Argent, carved in spiraling calligraphy across the shining blade.
Mountain ash is spread across the window and door so no wolf can sneak the threshold to confront him about his actions, or the arrow, or (god forbid) his mother. He doesn't think Chris Argent will be able to come over for a while, not when he has to explain what happened to, at most, a pack of werewolves, and at least, to his daughter. Stiles would snicker if it wasn't for his solemn mood, because, maybe those two should be switched.
Oh god his dad, how was he supposed to explain any of this to his dad?
There's no knock but he's suddenly aware of a presence at his door.
It's Allison, (archer, Argent, Allison) arrow glittering in the sunlight as she holds it, not as reverently as Chris, not as delicately as Stiles, but gentle all the same.
"My dad," she begins quietly, that soft concerned look on her face, "he told me about my aunt and how she's your - your mother."
Stiles nods and sits up, feet resting on the floor. Allison enters and sits next to him. They aren't the best of friends, united only by Scott, but this changes things now. Even if Stiles isn't sure that's what he wants.
"He said I was named advertently after her."
She twirls the arrow, the strange writing on the side looking more and more like Allison with each turn.
"She sounded like an amazing women."
Stiles nods and when he speaks his voice is choked with grief, "She was."
This so hard for him, but he thinks maybe this is what his mother would have wanted.
"I- I think she was a bit like you."
Allison looks up, eyes large, as she measures his expression with his words.
Stiles shrugs at the question in her face, "Ya know, you have that 'do the right thing' even if it goes against your family, rebellion thing going on."
Allison nods, not saying anything because it's obvious that Stiles needs to say what he has to say.
Stiles stops her hands from twirling the arrow, brushing his thumb over the engraving.
"I -I think maybe she knew about you, or maybe she didn't, I don't know really."
He sighs and closes her hand around the arrow.
"But I - I think she would've wanted you to have this."
Allison opens her mouth like she wants to protest because Stiles is giving up a piece of his mother but from the pained look he gives her she thinks that he probably knows this, understands this, and still wants to do it.
She feels honored and for a second wonders briefly if it's more for her and her father but she squashes that down because that look like he's gaining something from his mother with her makes her heart swell.
So instead she tightens the grip around the arrow and nods, biting her lip as she looks at the beautiful piece of craftsmanship. It's definitely just for show, too precious, too much like a work of art to actually be used in combat.
Looking at Stiles, Allison finally does what her instincts are telling her. She hugs her cousin.
Stiles stiffens then melts into it and the sound of their clothes and their breath is too starch in the silence, their heat too hot as tears bubble and spill and Stiles sighs into sobs. Allison thinks Scott should be here, or the Sheriff, or even Derek but they aren't and she is and maybe that's all that matters.