The first time that Stiles actively tried to use magic—or, in his case, to butcher a spell aloud and focus so hard that his whole body started to shake—well, he set his curtains on fire.

The second time that Stiles tried to perform a ritual, he had actually done in-depth research using heavy, weathered tomes he'd discovered in various occult shops. By the end of the night, he was able to light candles with the power of his fucking mind and a snap of his fingers. It was awesome. And, even more awesome, none of his furniture burst into flames.

Since then, Stiles has practiced magic so many times that he's lost count—he's performed so many experiments and rituals that he would have to go back and check his notes to remember them all.

Now, though, Stiles has been in the past for about a month and he's about to practice magic on himself for the first time.

His ribs—which take about two months to heal, he looked it up—are still giving him shit, and living with a bunch of rowdy werewolf children isn't exactly mellow; so, he's spent the past three weeks researching healing magic. Specifically, everything anyone could ever need to know about healing magic.

Stiles first learned the mistake of underestimating magical energy withdrawal when he tried starting Roscoe with only a spell and a single clap of his hands. He slept for nineteen hours straight and had to eat three large meat-lovers pizzas to feel normal again. His dad had thought that he'd contracted a tapeworm.

Since then, Stiles doesn't like to start working with new magic until he knows everything that he can get his hands on about that particular field. Keeping it a secret from the pack—and his dad—was important because he wanted to be sure he could practice around them safely.

He still regrets that he didn't learn enough faster—that he didn't find a better magical solution. Stiles still feels his chest constrict whenever he thinks about how he lied to his dad until the very end. When he thinks about his aborted attempts at easing his father into the supernatural world "safely"—when he thinks about how fucking pointless all of his lying was—when he thinks about that, Stiles doesn't come downstairs from Derek's room.

Right now, though, Stiles is currently sitting on the edge of the Hale property. He's sitting in the dirt, stripped down to his underwear and kind of self-conscious about it.

He's spent the last three weeks getting settled into the Hale pack. His confrontation with Deaton gave him a foot in the door, and Deaton's apparent confession to Talia and her husband after Stiles had peaced out of the clinic had gained him an actual modicum of trust. The other pack members no longer blindly accept him, but are now looking at him as if he were an alien. A more trustworthy alien, but an alien nonetheless.

After all, how could this strange boy know something they all didn't?

There are a limited number of humans in the pack—three—so Stiles just thinks that the strange looks are more to do with the fact that the Hales have become "those weirdoes that live in the woods" and aren't used to social interaction with people that they aren't related to. Sure, a lot of them have jobs, but Stiles hasn't seen anyone bring home an outsider in the three weeks that he's lived in the pack house.

And though the Hales have started to consider him as an actual person with a functioning human brain, one that has great ideas—he might be embellishing but really, who's to say?—most of them still haven't gone out of their way to engage him in conversation about his reason for being there in the first place.

Magic.

He knocked on the Hale door with the express purpose of using his impressive and magically wiles to help protect them, but no one has asked him about how he actually plans to do that. Talia hasn't asked him to do anything yet. She hasn't asked him how he knew all of that stuff about Deaton. Derek hasn't even asked to see the butterflies again, and Stiles freaking knows that the kid is itching for another round of magical butterflies.

The pack has backed off of him, and he kind of gets it. Why want another magic user when the first one was a lying ass-taxi? Most of the pack didn't know about Deaton, but the distress, anger, and doubt that Talia felt when Stiles revealed the truth to her has really settled into the pack bonds. Stiles can't even feel them—as he's said, he hasn't been invited to become the emissary yet—and he can still tell.

Discord in a pack is something he's used to.

So, he gets it. And, it's actually helping him catch his breath. Literally, in the case. Stiles is a firm believer in helping yourself before you try and help others—ugh, he still remembers the summer where he learned French to help Scott pass—and he's been living in pain for a while without seeking medical attention.

Sometimes it's hard to remember to look out for yourself when you constantly have to look out for the ones you love.

So now he's getting back to basics and helping himself, so that he can effectively help the Hales. It'd suck to be a hypocrite, turning into a Deaton 2.0 and not being good at the job because he's still not quite himself.

So here Stiles sits—naked and in the woods—three weeks into living with the Hales. He's ready to fix himself, to put his body and his mind on the same page and get down to work.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets go of his cloaking spell. He must be free of other magical agents so that the medicinal magic can sense every part of his physical being. He starts to rub his hands together, Mr. Miyagi style. He can feel his hands grow warmer and his heart start to race.

That's the adrenaline. Fun fact: there's always a physical response to wielding magic.

At least healing magic doesn't give him boners. That would be awkward for him and any future patients.

Once he finishes the spell, he presses his hands against his chest, creating a tight compress. Stiles hisses in pain—yep, they were more broken than he realized—and he hears a sharp snap! as his bones mend themselves together.

He howls, loud and broken, into the forest.

Stiles is so glad he sent Otis to scout the area. That fucking bird would be reveling in his pathetic werewolfy sounds of distress.

He's just blinking away tears when he hears the snap of a twig. Stiles jumps up—oh sweet Dairy Queen, no discomfort!—and faces the noise.

It's Peter Hale, looking a bit winded and out of sorts.

Interesting.

"Are you alright?" Peter asks, putting up a mask of casual indifference. It's kind of lost its effect with the whole disheveled "I just ran from god-knows-where to see if you were okay" look he's rocking.

Doubly interesting.

He thinks that it's interesting because this is the first time since the Dr. Do Nothing incident that Peter has directly addressed Stiles verbally. Make no mistake, Peter is always around—always watching him and listening to him interact with other members of the pack. Even when Peter thinks Stiles doesn't know he's around, Stiles knows he's around.

For example, two days ago Stiles, Derek, and Laura were sitting in the living room watching an episode of NCIS—god he hates that show, his dad watched every rerun ever (he can't wait for Supernatural to become a thing)—and Peter was sitting off to the side, pretending to be invested in Crime and Punishment.

They were sitting there, idly chatting during a commercial, when Stiles asked, "Hey, what are you guys planning on doing for your birthday?"

Derek looked at him, startled. "You know when my birthday is?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, "Infant, please. You know that I know everything about you. Including what you hide behind your bookshelf."

Derek's cheeks flamed bright red. Laura just looked intrigued. Peter went a little too still.

Laura glanced over at Stiles. "Well, do you have any suggestions?"

Stiles shrugged. "I have a few, but I didn't want to get in the way of whatever you guys usually do."

Derek's eyes had widened, excited at the "a few ideas" bit. "We usually go for a really long pack run and take down some large game together. Then we have cake. You know, the usual."

Stiles couldn't even try to censor the disgusted look on his face. "Yeah, the usual. I totally, um, kill animals on my birthday, too." He shuddered. "But if you like, I can work some Stiles mojo and make something really special for you."

Derek grinned wide, "Oh hell yeah! That sounds amazing!"

They went on talking about birthdays and what the pack likes to do and eat during special occasions—Laura making both Stiles and Derek giggle uncontrollably when she started imitating her mother giving a speech two Thanksgivings ago, completely wasted off of wolfsbane-infused red wine.

And the entire time, Peter didn't say a word. He just lurked outside of their conversation, observing how Stiles interacted with the others.

So, it's interesting that the first time in his three weeks of radio silence that Peter's first words to Stiles are to ask him if he's okay. While he's sitting in the forest. Naked.

Stiles scrambles up from the ground, "Yeah—I mean, yes. Of course I'm alright. Why would you ask that?"

Peter takes a deep inhale and marches right up into Stiles' personal space. He looks slightly distraught. "You smell like pain—old pain." He starts circling Stiles like a vulture, seemingly trying to detect why Stiles smells like he's hurting. When he comes back, face-to-face with Stiles, Peter's eyes flash blue. "Who hurt you?" he growls.

Stiles, amused, huffs and takes a step away from the Growly McScowly werewolf. "It's nothing. I just had some bruises and abrasions," then Stiles drops his voice, mumbling, "and maybe a couple of cracked ribs."

Peter once again closes the gap between them, "Broken ribs? How did you get those? When? I would've smelled it on you before now."

Huh. Look at that, Peter Hale is concerned about lil ole him. "If you must know, for one: no, you wouldn't have—I've had a pretty awesome full-body cloaking spell on me the entire time I've been here," Stiles pauses, "Interesting. How does that affect you guys and your powerful sniffers? Have you been able to smell anything on me at all?"

Peter looks shocked.

Stiles continues, oblivious, "And two: I've been hurt since we met. I got them before I even introduced myself to your pack."

And Peter does the strangest thing—he reaches out, his eyes still carrying disbelief—and places his hand on Stiles' chest.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath at the soft touch. Peter adds his other hand, both dragging along Stiles' skin, across his stomach and around his back until they're practically hugging.

It's the first time Peter has touched him, and Stiles' mind is completely blank.

"You smell like old pain," Peter murmurs, "but also relief." He sticks his nose into Stiles' neck, and just breathes. "You're right though, what you smelled like before was nothing like this. It was so nondescript. It was driving me crazy." Peter tightens his hands on Stiles' back, and then freezes. Gently, he begins to trace along the healed scars on Stiles' back.

Crack! You feel that boy?

Stiles shudders.

"Now you smell—" Peter inhales again, "well, you smell better."

Stiles rocks slightly in Peter's arms.

He has no contingency plan for this, for Peter's care and attention.

Peter finally releases his hold and steps back. He gives Stiles a genuinely curious look. "What did you do?"

Stiles' mind is still blank. Peter has touched him—stroked him—with care? in his eyes and soft hands.

Peter is worried about Stiles.

And Stiles doesn't know quite what to file that under. Maybe "H" for "Huh?"

He searches Peter's gaze, looking to find the Peter he knew hidden in those electric pools of blue. He's thrown when he can't find him there.

This isn't the Peter he knows.

Stiles can see paranoia, cleverness, and cunning—but no malice, no unquenchable thirst for dominion over all. It makes Stiles realize something important. It makes Stiles relax.

The Peter he knows doesn't exist.

The reflexive need to snark rests on the tip of his tongue, but at that realization—the one burning with significance and setting his brain alight—Stiles swallows his sass and answers honestly instead, "I healed myself."

Peter cocks his head, the curiosity in his eyes weirdly catlike and intense. "Explain."

So, Stiles does: "Well, I don't know if you're aware, but humans don't have the bitchin' healing powers that you guys do, so healing is kind of physically draining and emotionally taxing. The broken ribs I had were the worst, both because of the break, but also because of my bones' constant motion due to, y'know," Stiles picks up his jeans from the forest floor and drags them up his hips, "my whole needing to breathe thing." Stiles throws on his t-shirt. "So, I figured that before I really get down and dirty with all of the magic I'm going to set you guys up with, I should probably make sure that I'm both physically and spiritually ready to perform the rituals that I'm going to need to complete." He squishes his feet into his chucks and glances at Peter. "Magic is exhausting, if you didn't already know."

Peter hums. "I've read that, yes." There's a pause. "But it is nice to have the theory confirmed."

"You've never talked to Deaton about the realities of magic?" Stiles is baffled.

Peter chuckles and he gives Stiles a smirk. "Deaton was rather, shall we say, unhelpful? I detested the man, so it wasn't like I was thrilled to ask his opinion on much of anything."

It's Stiles' turn to prod curiously, "I would've thought that you would go and find other sources of information."

That makes Peter laugh out loud, heartily enough to scare a flock of blackbirds from the trees above them. "You say the most marvelous things, Stiles. If you must know," Peter's grin turns teasing, "and I'm quite sure that you must, Talia was never keen on me learning much more than I already do about magic."

Stiles quirks his lips, "Afraid that you might become the first wolf-practitioner of the modern era, eh? Thought you'd get lost in the power?"

He gives one more bark of laughter, and then Peter's gaze turns blank. He reaches out, grabbing Stiles' wrist. He speaks softly, a rumble in Stiles' ear, "I know there are things that you're not telling us. I've looked into you and found that you're exactly who you say you are," Peter's claws emerge, "Stiles Gajos, 16, native of California. You have no criminal record and have been a registered member of the Boy Scouts of America for 8 years." Peter leans in closer. "But I've come to know when documents look too clean, and I definitely know that you're no boy scout." He snorts, "I actually quite enjoyed that detail." His face turns blank once again. "But consider this me, letting you know that I know you're lying—about what and why, I'm not entirely sure," Peter's eyes flash blue, "yet."

Stiles' heart is in his throat.

"But also consider this me, letting you know that despite your horrible attempts at lying, I believe that you want to protect my family."

Wait—what?

Peter continues, "I've watched you." Stiles snorts. Peter smirks. "Yes, and I know you've seen me. But the beat of your heart now and your past actions have given you away, at least, a little—you care for my nephew." Peter pauses, as if tasting his next words on his palate, "I know that I alarm you, but you choose to provoke me anyway. I know that you understand my position in this pack, and that you seem to understand me quite well—so in truth, your willingness to stand by our pack, knowing exactly what I would do to you if you were found a fraud is, frankly, mesmerizing."

Stiles is gob smacked.

Peter's claws disappear, "You, Stiles, are without a doubt the most interesting person I've ever met—and despite all of your lies, you, for some unknown reason, care about my family. So, as long as you're here, I'm willing to let us become friends."

Stiles is hallucinating.

"Let me get this straight: you want to be my friend, even though you know I'm not telling you everything?" Stiles is fucking confused.

Peter smiles charmingly, "Quite right."

This isn't the Peter he knows.

The Peter he knows doesn't exist.

An unexpected sliver of excitement runs up Stiles' spine. Learning and adapting to this new Peter is bound to be inordinately fun.

Stiles lets out a breath. "Okay," he says, and then he sticks out his hand.

Peter grasps his palm and they shake, a fledgling seed of respect planted and beginning to grow between their interlocked fingertips.

"I know that I kind of shocked you guys with my Deaton reveal," Peter motions for Stiles to continue, "but I meant what I said about the importance of the emissary's job. There just shouldn't be any secrecy or vague bullshit within a pack. You guys should know how to protect yourselves—and whatever you can't do, you should be able to have a dialogue with your emissary so that you understand what they are able to do."

If anything, Peter is starting to look excited.

"I haven't said anything to your sister, because, well, you guys needed time to get over a betrayal of trust. I get that. But, now that I'm better, I'm ready to begin my work." Stiles pauses. "Would you like to help me?"

Peter's eyes flash. "What?"

"You're the Left Hand, you need to know exactly what I'm doing on the defense front so that you can function at your best on the offense," Stiles swallows, "and, above all else, I know that you're the only one in the pack that would actually appreciate the sort of hands-on experience I'm offering."

Peter gives him another hearty laugh and a happy smile. He murmurs to himself, "One of these days you're going to tell me how you're able to say such things with uncanny accuracy and unshakeable confidence."

Stiles grins back, "Maybe—but, that day isn't today."

Peter just shakes his head ruefully, "The first thing you'll need to do is speak to my sister, and if she agrees, have her formally create a pack bond to induct you as our emissary."

At that, Stiles frowns. "Have you—told her, about me?"

Peter quirks an eyebrow, "Stiles, my sister, despite all of my claims, isn't actually an idiot. She could sense your desperation the moment you met. It doesn't take a werewolf to see that whatever you're running from is dark. Asking me was simply a formality; but yes, she knows that you're lying." Peter sighs, "She just doesn't think it's relevant like I do."

Stiles smirks.

"You were always the clever one, Peter Hale."

Stiles' meeting with Talia is rather anticlimactic. He sits down in her office and tells her about his plans for the Hale pack. He hands over stacks of printed notes detailing his knowledge of protective runes and rituals. He explains to her how he, if she so desires, would like to become an emissary that would educate and aid her pack—an emissary that would continue to learn and grow, and be honest about his mistakes.

He makes sure to keep his cloaking spell down so that she can hear the truth in his erratically fast—but consistent—heartbeat.

Talia—fuck, Alpha Hale—just smiles at him and asks him if he will agree to be the Hale pack emissary. He says yes, tilts his head to the side, watches her eyes flash a commanding red—and bodda bing, bodda boom—there's a fucking pack bond glowing brightly between him and Mrs. Hale. His Alpha. He can actually see the magic pulsating between them, golden and taut.

They end the meeting, not with a handshake, but with a tight hug.

Stiles could get used to this werewolf pack stuff.

He strolls out of the office to see another bond stretched between Peter and him—figures, Peter was waiting outside the meeting like a total creeper. The bond is different, glowing a brilliant blue, but no less powerful. And by the dazed look on CreePeter's face, he can feel its energy, too.

Stiles starts walking towards the garage, Peter falling in line next to him.

"Where are we going?" Peter asks.

"The grocery store," Stiles replies excitedly.

Peter's eyebrows raise, "Any particular reason?" But he's already grabbing a set of car keys off of a hook. They walk over to an Audi.

"You are aware that all of your cars are completely pretentious and exist on a higher plane of douchebaggery, right?"

Peter snorts in disdain, "Youth these days, they know nothing of taste."

Stiles just rolls his eyes and gets into the car. They take off down the driveway and onto the access road. "If you really want to know," Stiles begins, "I need a few things to kickstart my plan. I need a little help in, well, restoring something."

Peter looks engrossed, "And what, pray tell, are you restoring?"

"A nemeton."

Peter swerves off the road, screeching to a halt in the dirt. He turns his focus to Stiles, "What nemeton?"

Stiles chortles, "Oh, you didn't know? The one practically dead and struggling to grow in your backyard."

Peter takes a few audible breaths. "Nemetons are supposed to have caretakers, are they not?"

"Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner! You are correct, but by the looks of it, it hasn't had a caretaker in quite some time. I mean, the whole "chopped down" thing is quite the clue." Stiles is trying very hard not to laugh at Peter's horrified expression.

"Chopped—and we didn't—" a pause and then, "let's just go to the grocery store before I'm tempted to renege on our friendship."

Stiles giggles as they get back onto the road.

He lolls his head against his seat and glances over at Peter, humming thoughtfully. "So, Peter," he starts.

"Yes, Stiles?"

"What do you know about milk and honey?"

They reach Beacon Hills' strip mall—y'know, the same one in every small town in America—and Stiles pulls Peter aside once they near the entrance to the awning-covered walkway.

"Okay, I need you to go into Home Depot and grab, like, 10 bird houses and a bunch of those poles you can attach them to."

Peter just blinks once and then walks into the hardware store without a backward glance.

Stiles continues on towards the grocery store. He's lost in his head, sorting through his plan and the spells he needs to prepare, when he accidentally runs into a person. The person—man, definitely a guy—grunts and grabs onto Stiles' shoulders, steadying them both.

Stiles finds himself unable to look up into the man's face, "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

The man, who, upon contact, looked ready to throttle him, now seems a bit—sheepish?

Stiles forces a smile, "I do this sort of thing a lot, so it's pretty expected that I take full blame in every collision."

The guy laughs, raspy as if from disuse. "You get into a lot of those, do you?"

Stiles nods quickly, "Yep, so allow me to open the door for you." And then he opens the door with Vanna White flair.

The guy chuckles again and walks inside with a look back at Stiles and a muttered, "Thanks."

They take separate paths to different aisles.

When Stiles reaches the preserves and canned goods aisle, he sinks down onto the floor and puts his head in between his legs.

He'd know those combat boots, those eyes, that voice, those white, white teeth anywhere.

Stiles just ran into Chris motherfucking Argent, and now he's having a panic attack surrounded by jellies and jams.

He waits out his attack—a rather short one, all things considered—and then he goes and grabs a shopping cart, returns to the aisle, and throws a bunch of jars of honey into it.

He isn't his father.

The thought is comforting, it really is, but what isn't is the knowledge that Chris has never been a very predictable variable—and that sets Stiles' teeth on edge.

Chris never seemed to think much of Stiles—he was even a part of the "slam Stiles into walls" club. God, Chris and Derek could've had the best matching t-shirts.

Stiles rides his cart down the store towards the dairy section.

He isn't his father.

Stiles is about to make it to the milk when he spots Chris pondering two boxes of cereal.

Stiles can't resist.

He rolls up next to Chris and says, "Please tell me you aren't actually thinking of buying either of those."

The guy whips his head around, looking at Stiles intensely, "And what would you do if I told you I was?"

Stiles clucks his tongue, "I'd say you're probably going to kill your taste buds with sheer boredom. All of that bran, and those oats? Are you trying to put yourself in an early taste-grave?"

Chris' lips twitch. "What would you suggest I buy?"

Stiles picks up a trusty box of Cap'n Crunch and wiggles it in his face. "These are a flavor sensation, sure to promote bone health and cure cancer."

Chris rolls his eyes. Stiles shrugs, "Okay, maybe not the cancer thing, but it at least tastes better than that cardboard you're holding."

He huffs at Stiles' innocent expression and grabs the box from his hands. "Fine," then he throws it in his cart.

Stiles nods, happy that things have gone his way, and starts to leave. Chris grabs his arm—gently, can you believe that?—before he can turn to go.

"Can I get a name from my cereal savior?"

He isn't his father.

Stiles breathes deeply. "Stiles."

Argent holds out his hand, "Chris."

Stiles smiles hesitantly, "It's good to meet you Chris."

And, fucking weirdly enough, it is.