Emissary.
It's a word that's heavy on his tongue, foreign yet familiar, powerful.
The book he'd brought home with him is old; thin, yellowed pages bound in leather, covered in four distinct hands, chronicling the history of the Hale Pack. It's a book of magic, of nature, of politics and negotiations and small, quiet domesticities, and he understands immediately why Laura had given it to him.
He's terrified.
Humans, humans with a little something more, a Spark inside them that connects them to the larger world... the thought sends an electric tingle racing up his spine as he clutches the book in his hands, knuckles white. He can feel Peter's bite mark on his shoulder like an ache, feels a tug in his belly that's pulling him inexorably back toward the Preserve, but he stubbornly stays put, makes his way through the book slowly and carefully despite the shaking in his fingers.
It makes sense, and the sucky part is that he'd done it all himself.
He'd gone to the Preserve that day to fetch Scott back, he'd set himself up to negotiate with the werewolves, he'd placed himself at Laura's side, the Alpha-in-training, and put himself in a position to help her, to become her...
Her emissary.
He doesn't know if it's right or wrong, if he's even capable of it, but in any case he's done it to himself.
As he sits at his desk paging through the book he realizes that he's already made a kind of decision, and not only about this.
He's decided that he needs to try, to do his best, by himself, by his town, and by the werewolf that fate has bound him to.
So he makes a start.
He calls Allison Argent, explains the situation, and is relieved by how eager and excited his classmate sounds about the possibility of a reconciliation between the Hales and Beacon Hills. He takes the initiative to extend an invitation on behalf of the Hales (possibly his first official act as Emissary), to meet and discuss the press junket his father will hold, the revelation of the new treaty, and when Allison agrees he thanks her and hangs up.
Well.
That bit was easy enough.
But it's Allison isn't it? She's young, Stiles' generation, had had no part in the war for Beacon Hills and had been kept as far from the family business as possible for many years. They're both so... disconnected from it all, so unable to really understand the horror of what had happened...
Can they possibly try hard enough, feel enough, be enough to make this work?
He's damn well going to try.
And not... not just for him.
He sees the fear in Laura's eyes. The way Derek flinches and holds himself apart. The scars on Calvin's face, the silence in Cora's tiny hands, the anger in Peter's heart.
They all deserve the chance to heal, as much as they can.
Stiles sighs, scrubs his hands over his face and closes his eyes.
Hell, he's in so deep already, caring about these people...
People.
That says it all right there doesn't it?
When he'd first gone into the woods he hadn't thought of them as people had he; just as werewolves, just as danger. Some of them still make him nervous of course, still make his heart thump, but it's nothing like it was. He isn't afraid for his physical safety, isn't afraid for Isaac's. They're people; mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles... just people.
Good people, who've been badly hurt and are coping the best they can.
And well, Stiles knows something about that doesn't he.
He calls Laura next.
"Hey," he says nervously, tapping his fingers along the edge of his desk. "You told me to call."
"Stiles? Are you ok?"
"Yeah," he sighs, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, I'm ok. Just... can you talk?"
Girl must be a genius cause that was hella vague. He knows it was, but he doesn't want to say Peter's name, doesn't want him listening in. That's the whole point, and Laura must get it, because there's a minute pause before she answers, the click of a door.
"Yes. Yeah, I can talk."
"I called Allison," he says, quick and abrupt, because if he doesn't get it out he'll turn chicken and hang up. "I'm sorry Laura, I know I don't... I don't know anything about all this, not really but..."
"Thank you."
…
"What?"
Stiles blinks, stares at his computer screen, confused and anxious, but Laura takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, says it again in a voice that's far steadier than it was the first time.
"Thank you Stiles. I don't... I don't know if I could have done that myself. I don't know if I would've been... brave enough."
"What? No, you're... Laura?"
"It's just this is hard," she whimpers, and very, very suddenly it sounds as if she's about to cry. "I know it's something I have to do, if we're going to make this work, but I... I'm only twenty-three Stiles."
He licks his lips, his heart sore.
"I... everything that happened... we lost so much. And now I'm supposed to be the next Alpha, I'm supposed to protect them, but I don't know how and I..."
"Woah, hey, hey," he says soothingly, sick and miserable for her. "Laura. It's gonna be ok."
"We thought that before," she hiccoughs. "We all thought that. Stiles, my mom was the most amazing Alpha ever, how can I..."
"Laura," he says firmly, his heart pounding. "Stop. We can't change what happened ok? If I could I..."
He hangs his head, pinches the bridge of his nose.
"But I can't," he mumbles. "And you can't either. But listen to me – we can be better, ok? We can change things, we can try. God, look at what you've done already, you've saved Isaac's life Laura. I believe that."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. His... his father would have killed him ok? You saw what was down in that basement you... you know what would've happened. But you and your mom, you took a chance, you were willing to try and change things, make things better. That's what we're doing Laura. We're making things better."
"Not without you," she says, a little choked, sniffling, but calmer than she had been a moment ago.
"You've got me," he murmurs, and oh god he doesn't know what he's saying but it feels all kinds of right and he... he doesn't know any other way things could possibly go. "You've got me. Allison's gonna come over to my house tomorrow, just her, to talk. You should come too. If you can't, or if... if you need to bring your mom she said that's fine, but..."
"No, no I can do it," Laura interrupts, and yeah, that sounds more like her, chin held high. "Thanks, Stiles, I... I can do it."
"Yeah, I believe that too," he replies, and he's grinning even though her voice is still a little shaky. "Listen, I won't leave you alone with her ok? Your emissary should be there with you anyway."
"Wha... really? Stiles, do you..."
"No, I really don't," he laughs, shaking his head. "I mean it... it makes sense. It... feels right. Like it's what I'm supposed to do, who I'm supposed to... be."
"I felt it, when I first saw you," she murmurs into the phone, quiet and far away. "Not on the computer, but in the library. It was like... I don't know, puzzle pieces..."
"Yeah."
He knows what she means.
"So listen, Dr. Deaton, he was you guys' old emissary right?"
"Ugh, god, the vet," Laura groans, and he laughs, pictures her wiping her face and tossing back her hair, squaring her shoulders. "Yeah. He probably has some stuff that will help. Fair warning though, he is the literal worst."
"Why, what..."
"Nothing, just human," she grumbles. "But seriously. Literal. Worst. He talks in riddles, never gives you a straight answer, wanders off in the middle of a conversation..."
"Sounds fun."
"Yeah, good luck with him. If you want someone to go with you..."
"I'll let you know."
"Good."
"So hey, are you gonna be ok?"
"Yeah," she sniffs, "Yeah, I'm good."
"Good. Maybe um... Maybe go ask your uncle for a hug," he suggests, and then immediately wants to bang his head against the wall. "Tell him I said you deserve it."
Laura laughs, wind chimes, do the burning embarrassment and confusion is almost worth it.
"Thanks Stiles. I'm sure Uncle Vin's around here somewhere."
Now it's Stiles turn to laugh, because it's easier like this, with her teasing him.
Safer.
"Cool. So yeah, um, two o'clock tomorrow. Do you... do you want me to come get you, or..."
"No, that's ok. I can drive. I'll... I'll be there."
"Awesome. Hey listen, text me, if you need to ok?"
"I will. Thanks again Stiles."
"No problem. I'll see you tomorrow ok?"
"Kay. Bye!"
Welp...
That was exhausting.
Forcing himself out of his chair, he crashes into the bed face-first, groaning loudly into his pillow. This all sucks so hard – there's too much...
God he's tired.
He doesn't even know if it's his tired or Peter's tired, and that just makes it worse.
Whining, he kicks his feet childishly against the bottom of the mattress before shoving himself up and out of the bed again. He doesn't have time for this. There's too much; too much to do, too much to sort out in his brain, and if he just lays here nothing will get done.
Like, seriously, nothing.
He won't even sleep.
He'll just lie there chasing his own mind in circles, and he hates that he feels so freaking unsettled because he strongly suspects it's Peter's fault somehow – either because the werewolf is going through another bout of epic man-pain or because he's just not here.
God, so stupid, he does not want to cuddle Peter Hale ok?
Just because it would be so much easier to think if he was still back on the guy's couch, sitting beside him pressed hip to hip, that doesn't mean anything.
Just because he'd told Laura to go find the guy and get a hug, doesn't mean anything.
Whatever.
Research is his wheelhouse – he's got this.
First thing's first, he shoots Scott a text asking him to make him an appointment with his boss. His friend is understandably befuddled, but Stiles will go out and rent a damn pet if he has to, and insists that he make him an appointment the next morning, first thing. That done, he grabs his keys and runs up to the local hobby store. Perks of being a small town – there are little family-owned specialty shops all over the place. He grabs finds a sketchbook remarkably similar to the one on his desk back at the house, thick like a book, hardcover wrapped in a faux leather, soft to the touch. The pages are blank, two hundred and fifty of them, and it's enough.
It's enough for a start.
Grabbing a fistful of pencils and a regular spiral notebook, he forks over his cash and climbs back into his Jeep, ready to go back home. It's a strange feeling - this is his town and he knows it well, better than most after all his years of mischief and mayhem. This needing to be home, to hole up somewhere solitary and safe...
Well, he recognizes the instincts of a werewolf easily enough, even if he doesn't want to acknowledge them.
He stops at the grocery store out of more irritation, more stubbornness. He refuses to cave to a sensation that feels more like running away than anything else. He has no wounds to lick, no vulnerabilities to hide away, and can't justify this thing inside his chest as anything else. He trolls the aisles with no thought in his head but recipes, scrolling through the mental cookbook he's been keeping tucked away in the back of his head since he was twelve, since he'd become the primary chef in his household.
His conversation with Laura tickles at his memory – feed the pack.
He wants to.
That's the strangest part of the whole thing – he wants to.
He feels the need to do it, the desire to do it, and this is one instinct he doesn't want to fight.
As he picks up all the ingredients for a pot roast dinner – potatoes, carrots, onion soup mix, and thirty dollars' worth of beef (yikes) - he considers the implications of what he's about to do. It feels... risky somehow, more important than it should be, and he has no idea what he's really getting himself into, but he's going to do it and he's going to try...
Stiles sighs, moves out of the produce into the baking aisle.
He is not thinking about courting his soul bonded, he's not.
He just...
He doesn't know what he's doing.
Hurrying through the last of his shopping, he heads home and spends an hour or so puttering around downstairs, putting away the groceries, then building some chicken Caesar salad wraps for his and his father's dinner. He makes a pitcher of lemonade and sticks it in the fridge, then makes sure the house is suitable for company; straightening, vacuuming, and picking up all the stray socks and newspapers he can find.
It's as good as things are going to get.
Trudging up the stairs, he clears his desk with a careless sweep of his arm and sets out his stuff, sits down and sharpens the pencils. He's halfway through scribbling a list of questions he needs to ask tomorrow when his phone chimes, and he picks it up without a thought, assuming it's Laura.
It's not.
It's an unknown number, just four words.
Don't do that again.
Stiles smiles, which is stupid, but he can't seem to stop himself as he rubs his thumb over the screen, tucks the phone into the breast pocket of his flannel, the weight of it comforting against his chest.
He hadn't considered that Laura would rat him out when she went to her uncle for a hug, but he can't say he minds, even if the man's words are rather... prickly.
That had been her word right?
Prickly?
It fits.
But he suspects Peter may have needed the hug as much as his niece.
He just wishes...
Well, he kinda wishes it could have been him.
Shaking his head, he opens his new sketchbook and smooths his hand over the first blank page, picks up a black inking pen and neatly sums up his new life.
Bestiarum Vocabulum of Emissary Stiles Stilinski-Hale
