Stiles would do anything necessary to protect Beacon Hills from the havoc of the supernatural. But this was not one of them.
Surely his father was mistaken, but knowing his father, (never one to have crossed wires with communication as important as this), of course he wasn't being facetious. Sheriff Stilinski was hardwired to serve and protect, an oath he took as seriously as he took fatherhood. Stiles knew it was the reason he himself felt so strongly about protecting Beacon Hills. But as he stared at his father, he still found his jaw slack with disbelief.
"Let me get this straight. You want me to marry someone I've never met. Not just 'someone'...a banshee."
He watched as the Sheriff slid a hand down his face, noticing how weary his father had grown to look over the past few weeks. Stiles didn't blame him. Beacon Hills was becoming a cesspool of dead teenagers and unsolved cases, even more so than usual.
Ever since Stiles was a child and their family had moved to the small California town, his father had been instructed to bring order. But order was damn near impossible with all the reckless supernatural creatures practically crawling from the depths of the cracks in the rotten soil. They were a menace, dangerous to humans, threatening to expose their presence with every bite, with every ripped neck and every child screaming in pain. It made Stiles' skin crawl. And now, now his father wanted to sell him off like a piece of meat to marry one of them?
"Dad, why?! It's not like I'm the next in line to inherit an elite task force specifically assigned to keep this town safe. It's not like I'm your own son." Stiles gestured wildly, sarcasm dripping from his pouting lips. He hated the way he was reacting, but he couldn't just feign cool indifference. He couldn't help but sound like a petulant child. Stiles wasn't ready to get married. It seemed like his first legal drink was only a mere month ago. (He recently celebrated his twenty-second by taking down a rogue, unregistered wendigo with Allison. Now that was his idea of a good time).
The Sheriff just pinched the bridge of his nose and stood, dusting off his tailored uniform.
"Son, please. Don't give me shit on this. You know it wasn't really my idea anyway. The suits made the call. She's rare, so she's royalty in the supernatural world. Her words have weight. God knows they don't listen to us."
"Yeah," Stiles scoffed, "not unless we put a wolfsbane bullet between their eyes."
"You may have to tone down your prejudice a bit when she gets here."
"And when exactly will that be?" Stiles groaned.
"A week."
"Is she registered?"
"Not yet, but she will be."
Stiles stopped pacing his father's glass office, whipping his head around so fast his neck cracked.
"W-what?! She's not even registered?! DAD!"
"Stiles, I'm warning you," Sheriff Stilinski threatened, pausing to pick up his phone and order a whiskey and an advil with an accusing side look. "Yes, she's unregistered. You won't be able to access her information at this moment, though I know you'll try. You know how elusive banshees can be. Please, son. I've exhausted my options. I've fought this with everything I have. You don't have to love her, it's a political move."
"I thought this was the twenty-first century!" Stiles roared, whacking his fingers together anxiously. "In my generation, people marry for love."
He paused, considering something horrible. "Dad...what about Malia?"
The Sheriff avoided his stare, shuffling the papers around his desk and clearing his throat, before finally sighing. "That's your call, son. Be a man right now. Be the man Beacon Hills needs you to be."
Stiles' chest heaved, frustration threatening to bubble out of his throat, before turning on his heel to exit his father's pristine office, door slamming behind him.
Allison was polishing arrow heads when Stiles barged in, practically foaming at the mouth.
"I take it your father broke the news?" she smirked, laying down the sharp metal and patting the chair beside her.
"What the fuck?! How do you know about this before I do?" Stiles cried, flopping his body unceremoniously down, resting his elbows on the cold work table in the Argent weaponry room.
"He called in the task force, duh. Hand me that Sauer P226, will you?" Allison gestured to the gun rack.
"No, no." Stiles argued as he rose to select a handgun off the wall. "You keep polishing those arrows. I'll clean and deconstruct. It will give me something to do."
She nodded solemnly. Stiles was freaking out, it was easy to see. She had so desperately wanted to tell him, but orders were orders. When his father brought in the Argents and informed them of Stiles', a-hem...unfortunate arrangement, Allison could practically feel her heart drop for him. It would be hard for anyone to accept the idea of an arranged marriage, but Stiles...Stiles was...complicated, complex, sensitive...and a bit hard to handle. He and been through a lot, and he deserved someone who could not only accept those facets of him, but understand them and relate as well.
Together, the Sheriff and the Argent task force had tried in vain to find a loophole to the marriage arrangement, but when the suits make up their minds, nothing can change it. And the orders had come directly from Deaton himself.
"What are you going to do about Malia?" Allison asked, scrutinizing a spot on the point of the arrow so she wouldn't have to look at his reaction. She heard him audibly sigh.
"Hell if I know. She's not gonna like that."
"You don't seem particularly torn about it."
Stiles glared at her out of the corner of his eye.
"Of course I am, Argent. She is my girlfriend, after all."
"Yeah," Allison agreed, "But you were never in love with her." She watched as his nimble fingers stopped moving over the pieces of the handgun, and turned to look at him.
"When did I tell you that?"
"You didn't."
"Perceptive."
"It's why I'm your best friend." she shrugged before returning to the spotted arrowhead.
"Or maybe," Stiles scoffed, "you're my best friend because my dad is your dad's boss."
Allison snorted with a roll of her eyes. "Please. We both know who's really in charge here."
Stiles couldn't help but laugh. Allison always knew how to cheer him up without having to give one of those dreaded, uncomfortable pep talks.
"I just can't believe I'm going to actually have to marry one of those...creatures."
"You'll be surprised just how humanlike they are." Allison offered, standing up to retrieve another military issued gun that needed cleaning, before placing it in front of Stiles' now completed, clean weapon.
"Is that how you felt about Scott?"
He didn't mean it to sound malicious, he was just genuinely curious. But the way Allison froze before returning to her task made him wish he never brought her ex up in the first place.
"Sorry, still a sore subject?"
Allison shook her head with a roll of her eyes, but Stiles noticed how her lips pursed together.
"I was young and stupid."
"And you're saying you're not now?"
She let out a bark of laughter as she punched his shoulder, hard.
"Shut up, Stilinski."
He didn't even know her name. From what he knew about banshees, they were either depicted as gruesome hags, or goddesses. Mostly gruesome hags. Unfortunately, all were haunted.
They had that connection with death that made him shudder when he thought too much about it. He wondered if she would be creepy, if he would be able to feel death hang around her like a heavy, non removable coat. Maybe after some time, it would start to hang on him too. Less a coat, more of a storm cloud, covering his vision with cold rain and deep darkness.
She was probably all woe-is-me, black clothes and muttering to herself. Completely out of her mind, like the crazy banshee in Eichen. (The only banshee he had ever come in contact with in all his years of keeping the supernatural in line. Miranda? Marissa?)
Who cared.
She would arrive in a week, and then they had a month to get acquainted before the ceremony.
Whoop-de-fuckin'-do.
All day cleaners had been vacuuming his flat, making space in his closet, even re-stocking his refrigerator.
Stiles ran his hands through his thick brown hair, frustrated as they clear out the smelly boxes of leftover Chinese and flat beer.
"I was going to eat that!" he lied, sulking down deeper in the barstool chair. They didn't give a shit. They were here to make sure the "queen banshee" would find his apartment presentable.
Of course it was presentable! It was big with minimal furniture, and a giant glass wall overlooking the small California town. When sunrise came, it would wash the entire apartment in a golden light. It was his sacred space, and now it was being intruded.
"Alright there, son?" The sheriff clapped his shoulder, rousing Stiles from his deprecating brooding.
Stiles glared and bit the flesh of his thumb anxiously.
"Do you really want me to answer that?"
"She's your age. Maybe a year younger."
He turned the barstool with a squeak, surveying his father with wide eyes.
"You're giving me her age?"
"Well you're gonna meet her in an hour anyway. I figured no harm done," the Sheriff said with a shrug, pulling at his too-tight necktie.
He was right.
It's not like Stiles could hop onto any database and search for her information now. Ready or not, she was coming.
The flat was clean and empty with half an hour to spare. It gave Stiles plenty of time to crack open another case of beer, and wallow in self pity.
Malia had not taken kindly to the break up, but in truth, Stiles knew if this banshee hadn't been the final axe, something else would have. Malia was sexy and a bit rough around the edges, but she had cared about Stiles. More than most girls ever had.
He was the next in line to run a private, multi-million underground corporation that protected the citizens of Beacon Hills from the supernatural. Apparently, Beacon Hills was the Mecca for freaks and foes. They would appear, and they would be greeted with arrows and gunfire from the Argent task force. The Sheriff would pass down orders, and the Argents would carry them out. Like a well oiled machine, brain and brawn.
Hello, welcome to Beacon Hills. Follow our orders and register yourself, or get out. Or, face imminent death. The choice is yours.
Anyway, girls weren't a priority, and if they were, it wasn't his smart-ass wit and suffocating-sarcasm that dazzled them. Everyone in the small town knew he was the son of the Sheriff, and that much was true. They just didn't know how extensive the town's police department was, or why they were privately funded from an undisclosed source.
Stiles knocked back the alcohol before his father could return once more and chastise him, and of course, before she arrived.
His mind had been a hurricane of flooding thoughts ever since he was given the news.
She was his every waking thought. Would she be kind? would she be strong? He thinks he'll shoot himself in the face if she's stupid. That would be a deal breaker. And of course, hopefully she didn't look like the drawings of a banshee in The Bestiary. But apparently, since she was around his age, old hag was out of the question. Hag, possibly. Old hag, no more.
The Sheriff reappeared behind Stiles, making him startle and choke on his beer.
"Went off to give Chris a call. They just entered the territory. Don't worry, I'm not going to nag you. Pass one to your old man?" he sighed, and Stiles placed a cold brew in his outstretched hand. The Sheriff popped the tab with a hiss, and gulped the liquid down before sighing once more.
"You know, I'm really proud of you. And your mom would have been proud of you too."
Stiles paused the bottle at his flushed lips, jaw clenching and unclenching before murmuring, "Can we not talk about mom when something like this is about to happen?"
"Sure, I'm sorry. But...you should know. it's true. I know this marriage is...unfortunate. But you're doing what you need to do to protect your people. You put them before yourself, and I'm proud of that. I'm proud you're my son." The Sheriff continued anyway, and gave Stiles' shoulder a squeeze.
They sat together, father and son, in bittersweet silence for a few minutes. Taking in what was sure to be their last moment together with Stiles' freedom.
"Let's put this away before she gets here, huh?" The Sheriff finally suggests, and they both moved to put the spare bottles in the fridge as a knock arrived at the door.
"That'll be the Argents with them." he said, and turned to give Stiles a back breaking hug. "You can do this."
Stiles nodded, letting out a shaky sigh of resignation.
The first person to enter his apartment is Chris Argent, who gives a nod to him and his father before whipping out his cell phone to let the rest of the squad know they've arrived safely. Allison marches through next, and Stiles stills immediately at the look on her face. She's completely devoid of color, the blood rushing out of her face and eyes wide. He stares at her, trying to silently ask what's wrong, before she ducks her head down, cutting off eye contact. The next person to enter is a kind-eyed young man about their age with tan skin and dark hair. He doesn't even look at Stiles, just stares at Allison, and immediately, with an idea that hits him like a sledgehammer, Stiles realizes this had to be Scott. Another man follows him in, tall with blonde curls, and Stiles' eyes begin to bulge. Just how many people were entering his apartment? What is this like, the banshee's freaking personal court?!
Finally, she enters.
She's pretty, and he lets out a sigh of relief.
He moves forward to take her hand, and her almond eyes widen.
"Oh, no, no." she says, raising her hands to him and shaking her head. "S-sorry. I'm not Lydia, I'm Kira."
"I'm Lydia."
He hears a mellow, raspy voice from behind the pretty Asian-American girl, who slowly moves out of the way, allowing Stiles to see the most beautiful creature he's ever seen in his life. He drinks her in and she's looking directly into his soul with the biggest green eyes ever, her wavy hair a soft, gentle red. She's got bee-stung lips, flushed cheeks, and he notices dimples appear the more he stares. She's wearing a dress and towering heels that reek of couture. The heels are so high that she herself must be tiny in comparison. He knows his eyes have gone hazy and jaw slack, but he can't find it in himself to care.
"Lydia Martin," she says, teeth flashing, smile deadly. "Your future wife."