Walking cautiously down the darkened stairs, Stiles runs trembling fingers down the toughened railing, stalling the conversations greeting him at the bottom of the stairs. Peter shadows him, a reassuring length hovering over his shoulder.
"It's okay, Stiles..." The Were rumbles from behind him, willing the boy to believe in his pack, his father...and him...his mate.
Stiles breathing sounds harsh in the immediate silence, laboured pants wracking his stooped frame. Peter stops, foot paused on the stair above him, stilling and gently gripping the boy's shoulders.
"It is...you are...they love you Stiles, and whatever you do, you can't disappoint them!" He chuckles, and his smile turns fond but slips off when he registers Stiles' harsh frown.
Before he realises his actions, Peter launches forward, his head bent awkwardly as he leans down the stairs, his lips joined Stiles'.
"Finally..." His wolf seems to say. "Finally! We're with our mate!"
The teen's eyes widen, and his body stills, unresponsive to Peter, who stiffens, feeling the boys reluctance. His heartbeat rises, the pulse hammering as he steps back, rearing back onto the step above them. He starts to apologise profusely, shaking his head, berating himself, his wolf howling mournfully.
"Shit, I'm sorry Stiles...I shouldn't have done that, shit I've ruined everything..." His voice shifts to a growl, and he glares at his shoes, oblivious to Stiles shock. The boy flails, reaching out to the Were.
"No...no, Peter it's...you didn't ruin things! You didn't ruin anything!" His voice is uncomfortable, and his jaw clenches and unclenches, a sign of his prominent agitation.
"Thanks..." Peter snorts a bitter, embarrassed noise.
"If anyone ruined anything...it's me..." Stiles mumbles, his cheeks aflame. Peter stares, bewildered. "I don't...I don't do...kissing..." He fiddles with his sleeve, reaching to comb nervous fingers through his growing, unkempt hair. "Or...anything else...like that..." His eyes are downcast, and his voice has dropped so low that Peter struggles to hear it. "Or...sex..." Stiles' fists clench loosely, and he frowns, troubled. Peter's face is carefully blank, not betraying his shock.
Stiles looks up suddenly, pleading eyes seeking out the Weres. "I still like you, Peter...I really do...I want to go on dates with you...and cuddle you...and spend all my time with you picking fights about the smallest, mundane things..." His voice turns wistful, and a small, soft smile adorns his pained face.
Peter huffs out a small laugh, Stiles staring, startled. He bends down, slower, this time, wrapping his arms around the boy's waist. Feeling the shocked breath of air hit his neck, Peter buries his head in Stiles' shoulder. Tentatively, Stiles returns the embrace, his injured arms framing Peters. The Were finally pulls away, looking Stiles square in the face.
"You are...the best thing about my existence, Stiles." Stiles blushes, his blotchy cheeks turning pink. "And that isn't going to change because of that...you're asexual, right?" Stiles nods, blinking uncertainly. Peter smiles assuringly. "That's okay, pretty damn awesome, even. My point is...I want you, Stiles..." The boy stands still, misinterpreting the words. Peter hurries to continue. "I want your voice, your crazy obsession with Star Wars..." Stiles laughs wetly, snuggling into the other man's embrace. "I would love to spend every single day with you, and the rest of our pack."
Stiles grin, small and quivering, Peter's words overwhelming him. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, then looks him in the eye. Slowly placing hesitant hands on the Weres cheeks, he leans forward, ignoring Peters confused face. His eyes flutter closed, and he lightly kisses him, a short, sweet exchange, leaving a warm, soft feeling in Peters mind.
The teen pulls away, resting his nose on the bridge of Peters'. "I can do that, though..." The words tickle Peters' cheek, and he grins, the tension from earlier fading.
"I'm up for that." He whispers, pulling Stiles down the stairs, steadying the flailing boy. His lips tingle, the pressure of Stiles' lips burned into his memory, and a soft, happy feeling curling around his heart, warming his tentative fingers and his delighted mind. Stiles was his, and he'd accept him, no matter what he wanted.
They stumble into the kitchen, hands still curled together, and they halt suddenly, Stiles banging into Peter, his owlish eyes peeking over the Were's larger frame. John looks up, his eyes comically widening, before settling into a passive, smug look. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, and he goes back to reading the paper held over his plate of food.
"I wondered how long it would be until you two showed up." He drawled, inwardly preening over the uncomfortable looks on both of their face, but Peter could sense the underlying scent of worry as John surveyed his son's injuries.
Stiles shuffles from behind Peter, standing guiltily by his side, cheeks stained pink. Nadia sidles in through the door, clutching a cup of steaming tea. Her tired eyes light up, and she smiles softly at Stiles, placing her mug quietly on the table next to John. She weaves expertly around the small room, before embracing Stiles in a firm, but careful hug. She bows her head, her hair tied haphazardly in a toppling bun as if she was too distracted to properly style it.
She breathes deeply, and Stiles notices the tremor in her throat. She finally pulls back, standing limply in front of the boy and the Were. She twists harried fingers through the wool in her sleeves and avoids their gazes. As she sits at the nearby table, Stiles and Peter follow her lead.
"How are you?" She asks.
Stiles says nothing, shifting his eyes restlessly, surveying the hostile room.
She tries again, adamant in her pursuit. "Are your...injuries okay?" Stiles sighs, nodding faintly, trying to his pain behind a limp smile.
"Well, Peters been taking my pain, so..." His smile turns fond, and he twists his head to gaze at the Were. Nadia looks unconvinced, but hands Stiles the box of pop tarts. He mumbles his thanks.
For a few minutes, the pack eat in silence, John periodically sending worried glances to his son. Nadia clears her throat, breaking the prolonged silence, everyone turning to stare at her questioningly.
"Stiles..." She turned to him, and his stomach sank. "I think I found out what you are..." She fiddles with her sleeve and offers him a small, reserved smile, which lengthened when she saw Stiles shocked, hopeful face.
"Really?" He grins, his cheeks flushed, Peter grinning next to him.
"Yeah!" Nadia laughs, swept up in the euphoria of the moment. John peers over the top of his newspaper, smiling in relief when he sees Stiles.
"What am I then, c'mon, don't make me wait, Nadia!" He pleads, his playful face equally as desperate. His fingers drum on the table, and Nadia snorts, taking a long sip of her water. Stiles huffs, then excitedly watches as she stands up, slipping her coat on.
"Follow me?" She asks, Stiles already nodding eagerly, gingerly trying to manoeuvre himself off of the stiff chair.
John looks over sharply, his face turning grim. "Nadia, he's injured, he can't go far like this..."
Nadia frowns, perturbed, but continues tying the laces on her shoes. "Trust me, and he'll come back even better." Standing up, she walks over to the Sheriff, sitting in the chair in front of him, she ignores the looks of Peter and Stiles. John looks dubious but tries to trust the druid.
"Pack or not, if you bring my son back even more hurt than he currently is, you will suffer." He grumbles sharply, only half joking. Nadia grins, nodding amiably.
"You got it, Cap'n." She smirks, abruptly standing, shooing Stiles out of the door, dragging a bewildered Peter out behind her. He raises a hand to wave at the Sheriff, who rolls his eyes fondly. Werewolves. Gotta love 'em.
The three make slow progress through the forest, Stiles being supported by Peter who wraps secure arms around his waist. Nadia clears the way ahead of them, mumbling about the dense foliage quietly.
Stiles stiffens, recognising the area. "We're...we're not going to the clearing, are we...?" Nadia stops in front of him, turning around slowly. Her face wilts, she looks heartbroken.
"No. No...we never have to go back there..." She says darkly, clenching her fists. "Not if you don't want to." Stiles nods faintly, his heartbeat slowing from a frantic beating.
"Good." Peter tightens his hold on the boy.
Ten minutes later, the trees start to thin, and Peter exhales, his shoulders losing some of the tension they'd been carrying for so long. Stiles looks up at him, confused. "What is it?" He asks.
Peter smiles at him, simply saying "You'll see."
Soon enough, he hears the telltale trickling of a nearby stream, and he perks up. "I've never been this far in before..." He sounds unsure, but the weight of Peters hand on his arm grounds him, and he looks around. "It's beautiful."
Nadia hums, equally as fascinated, she battles through some hanging plants and stumbles to a stop. Stiles halts behind her, confused. "What is it?" He asks, then looks where her head is turned.
She stares at a bridge, crossing the now close stream, old and rain damaged, but it was the figures carved into the side of the bridge that had caught her attention. Slowly, she walks closer, trailing her hands over the rough marks embedded in the now brittle wood. "Wolves..." She murmurs.
Peter studies them silently, his face sad. "My brother and I built this bridge." He breathes, not looking at the two in front of him. "We wanted this place to be a haven..." He smiles wistfully and uses his thumb to scrape a patch of dark, green moss off of some wood. The breath catches in Stiles' The wood is wet and grimy, but still, four letters could be seen, carved meticulously onto the bridge, followed by a date.
P.H N.H 30/06/2003
"Peter Hale..." Stiles whispered, staring at the letters sadly.
Peter nodded shortly. "And Nathaniel Hale. Derek's father...my brother."
Stiles stared, turning to Peter, hugging him shakily, Nadia enveloping the mourning Were, they were all hurting.
"I'm sorry..." Stiles mumbled, head buried in his chest. Peter shook his head slowly, smiling into the man's head.
"There's nothing you need to apologise for, little spark." He says, pushing him away, and looking into his eyes earnestly. Stiles sniffs, smiling back tentatively.
Minutes pass, until finally they let go, and sit on the mildewy ground, surveying the vast, peaceful and silent nature surrounding them. Nadia sits cross-legged in front of Stiles, grinning, banishing the depressive atmosphere immediately.
"Do your wounds still hurt?" She asks innocently, eyeing the bandages covering his arms. Stiles frowns, confused. He doesn't feel the pain anymore...
He stares suspiciously at her, then at Peter. "No...I don't."
Nadia looks excited, nodding happily. "I didn't think you would! Take the bandages off..." She says gleefully.
Stiles sighs, hands unwilling to survey the damage once again, relieved when Peter takes his hand, gently unwinding the gauze. As strip by strip, the dressing is pulled away, Stiles stares at his ivory skin, dumbfounded. Though the padding is streaked with blood, the skin is unmarred, not even a scar on the dotted canvas. He stares at Nadia, mouth agape.
She smiles, nodding to the gauze around his ribs, just visible under his ridden up shirt. He unravels it carefully, shaking fingers slowing the process. But finally, with the bandages in a heaped pile beside him, his torso is bare. Stiles' heart slams against his rubs, and he gasps, unable to keep in the shock. His ribs had healed, and all the bruising was gone.
"How...?" He squeaks, incredulous voice rising higher than intended.
Peter inhales sharply, face shocked, equally as baffled as his unharmed mate.
Nadia beams, returning Stiles' tentative happiness in double. "The forest is healing you...you're drawing magic from the land..from us..." Her face softens, and Stiles finally gets the answer he'd been searching for since the start of his discovery.
"You're a Werau, Stiles!" She shout-whispers, a disgruntled squirrel fleeing from the noise.
Stiles wrinkles his nose, more confused than before he had heard the foreign word. "A...a what?" He squints.
"A Werau!" She says excitedly. Stiles stares, unimpressed. She hurries to carry on. "There's not many left that I know of...it's virtually unheard of! You can draw, or simulate...if you will, the power and magic of other entities, bodies and places around you..." Her words shock even herself, but suddenly, everything clicks into place. "That's why you knew everything I taught you! That's why you were so skilled at it so quickly!"
Stiles gapes, unable to comprehend the situation. Nadia roots busily through her backpack, searching for something. Eventually, she pulls out a book and begins to leaf through the worn pages. "Here." She says, handing the book to Stiles. "Everything I know about your kind." She says breathlessly, smiling gently at the astounded teen, who wordlessly starts to read the page.
Werau's, based on the Maori word for "Parasite", originates from New Zealand, and are only able to manifest by blood. It is impossible to turn a Werau by a bite, or similar means, akin to a werewolf. These beings are able to take the form of anything they wish if there is enough energy surrounding them, which is why many live in or around forests. Without this energy, Werau's begin to weaken and lose their abilities. If they choose to become a part of a stable pack, or coven, then they begin to simulate the powers and magic of those in the group. For example, if a Werau had a bond with an empath, they would begin to sense emotions and be able to project said emotions onto other people. These abilities are not permanent, however, but accumulate and grow stronger the longer these individuals are around each other. If the Werau moves a great distance away from the individual, the powers begin to weaken and are not at the optimum frequency. This can be done with several people so the Werau can take on numerous powers and shapes. Unless told otherwise, a Werau is unaware of their abilities, so it is often difficult to realise what they are. However, with little self-control issues, after a Werau is aware of their abilities, they are able to harness them and use them at will. Many have been slaughtered or have gone into hiding due to the overall society of hunters wariness of broaching the subject. As of 2012, there is an estimated count of 8 Werau's in North America. However, these numbers are expected to diminish.
Stiles looks up, aware of Nadia and Peters gaze on him. His hands shake, and he carefully hands the book back to the druid. Peter moves closer to the boy, putting a solid arm around him, allowing the shell-shocked boy to lean into his shoulder.
Nadia tucks the book carefully into her ba, tucking a wayward strand of curly hair behind her ear. She gases at Stiles, waiting for his reaction.
He grins, his whole face lighting up. "I'm super freaking rare..."
Peter snorts, and Nadia laughs, eager to see the return of his good mood.
Peter pulls him closer, chin resting in his hair, Nadia bouncing excitedly on the spot. "Fuck yeah you are!"