Stiles is really surprised it takes him so long to find his way to the computer.

He hasn't seen a tower attached to a monitor in what feels like years. It whirls when he turns it on and there's a truly obnoxious Windows Vista background that greets him. Stiles doesn't manage to not roll his eyes. It takes a full five minutes to turn on and he has to click out of instant messengers and anti virus software aggressively telling him to update his subscription.

Stiles really isn't surprised to see a Zoo Tycoon icon hover above the start button. He fights the urge to click on it and send Deaton's zoo into debt. He's not a horrible person, after all, but it does make him feel nostalgic for his old Roller Coaster Tycoon game. Maybe he'll have to break in to his old bedroom and steal it. It's certainly a thought.

He clicks on Mozilla Firefox, groaning at the orange figure and mumbling under his breath in a silent prayer for Google to make Chrome soon.

The AT&T website is just as unuserfriendly as it is in his time. He easily logs in with Talia's account information and from there, it's relatively easy to use the skills Danny taught him to bypass their security measures. He sends out a bug, one specified to track down Derek's text, and sits back and relaxes.

He's braiding as he works, intertwining strands of string dipped in diluted fox blood. It's actually less disgusting than it sounds, if anyone can believe that. The charm is supposed to cover his scent and heartbeat, letting him sneak around without being disturbed. Alternatively, his camouflage and deception runes would work better.

But. Well. That's still a moot point.

So he's stuck with the old fashioned way, moving strands and knots into place until it makes a necklace. The first time he made one, it sucked at his magic until he had to sleep for fifteen hours to feel normal. He's better now, though, and thinks he'll only have to take an hour nap to work this off.

It's still not as good as his runes. But. Again. Point, meet moot.

There are also oils he could use at his pulse points, which Lydia always favored since his charms would always "clash with [her] outfits", but they can be sweated off with the smallest amount of excursion and left him smelling like he just got a happy ending from a masseuse.

Not fun for any party involved.

The timer on the stove goes off at the same time that he knots the necklace finished. He lays it on the keyboard and pops into the kitchen, nose squinting at the smell of over cooked eggs.

He ladles portions of the luck potion into glass vials, corking them carefully.

Stiles has been cooking all morning, mixing ingredients and words into a brew. He's never been the best at potion making, since that was more Lydia's forte and she just had him will his belief into it whenever the directions said so, but there's no Lydia here. Just him. And he can follow a simple set of instructions, right?

If not, then the worst thing that'll happen is that the coven of witches will laugh him out f the store.

Ah, well, he's no stranger to humility.

When he's finished, he dumps the bottles into a bag and turns off the burners, cleans up his mess, and the one Deaton left from breakfast this morning, that pig, and hangs the bag off the back of a chair. He puts his charm in there too, just in case he runs into anyone he wants to avoid when he goes out.

He gets back to the computer and checks his bug, getting unnecessarily angry when he sees it's still fiddling around. Danny would have it done by now, he can't help but think. If Danny were here, they would have nailed Kate like a fly days ago.

Instead, Stiles has been sitting around Deaton's apartment like a worthless pile of sludge. Laura's come by a few times and they watched a Harry Potter movie on ABC family. It was Sorcerer's Stone, but still. Good stuff. He was also pretty shocked to find out that she's a Potterhead, says she's Gryffindor, and actually had the nerve to laugh at him defending Hufflepuff.

Stiles misses the future, where Hufflepuff pride is proud and respected.

He dicks around on Paint for a few minutes, making a Dracula out of circles and coloring it in all purple, before he opens up a new tab and types in facebook almost instinctively.

Except, it doesn't take him to the familiar log in page he could say by heart.

It's-

It's ugly. That's the only way to describe it. It's pixelated with a dark shade of blue and poorly placed squares and a really lame font. There's a picture of Mark Zuckerberg near the sign up button, and who puts a picture of themselves on their own website? It tells him he needs a college email to make an account and-

Stiles thinks he's going to be sick, because if he's in a time where facebook isn't cool looking and popular then that means-

It means-

He hates himself for doing it, but he has to be sure.

He types in without even looking, cringing when a fully functioning and familiar log in page pops up.

Stiles is going to drown himself.

His curiosities been piqued now, and he doesn't even think before he does it; Googles "Laura Hale myspace" and hits enter before he even knows he's doing it.

And of course she has one. The profile picture is her, with icing covering her cheeks and mouth. She's smiling, head thrown back in a laugh, and arms hooked around a guy covered in equal amounts of frosting. Stiles thinks he must be Brad, going by how his lips are pressed against her frosting covered cheek.

Her background is black and has some rock band he doesn't know stretched unseemly behind transparent boxes. And there's auto play music.

Stiles has never hit the mute button so fast in his life and immediately reminds himself to make fun of Laura for her poor music taste the next time he sees her.

"hey i'm laura! i'm 18 and just graduated BHHS :) :) :) my family means the world to me and my friends are a close second!

xoxoxo i love going to the beach and nature is my fave. if ur ever going camping, hmu!"

The world is dead as he knows it.

Her comments are filled with horrible grammar and people saying that they're going to miss her, asking her what college she's going to, and just friends trading clip art and inside jokes. Stiles feels skived out when he hits what seems to be a love letter from Brad and quickly scrolls up.

Her friends list only has ten people, and Stiles gets war flashbacks of people fighting over being in someone's top 5. A shudder rips through him. Oh god, the battles that were waged in cyberspace to be listed in order of importance. Stiles is pretty sure Scott cried when he forgot to move him up to his top 5 once.

Junior High was a horrible time.

While he's bemoaning his childhood warfare, he spots a familiar face in the friendslist.

It's Derek's face. Of course it is, because the world is out to ruin every and all perceptions of Derek Hale that Stiles has.

Just. The mere idea of Derek Hale having a myspace, one that he actively uses, is enough to send Stiles into a fit of hysterics. He wishes his Derek was here so he could point at this and laugh, because holy shit that is beautiful. Derek's expression would be priceless.

Stiles ignores the dull ache in his chest and clicks on the picture of a smiling Derek Hale.

The background is black. That's not surprising to anyone. There isn't even anything written in his about me, or in any of the other boxes meant to outline his personality to strangers. He doesn't even have a top 5, just a blue link with an arrow saying 'Click to See Derek's friends list!'. Stiles does not click to see Derek's friends list.

His last log in was months ago, which Stiles whistles lowly at. It isn't until he scrolls down more, that he realizes why.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of comments. All of them have some variation of apologizing for losing Paige, saying RIP with small, error riddled eulogies with a character limit.

'i kno she made u happy bro

i'm sorry'

Stiles feels uncomfortable, knowing full well that Derek would knock him into a wall and glare at him for looking at his, and scrolls away.

He clicks on the pictures, hoping to find something embarrassing of Derek to get his mind off the blaring 'Paige! Paige! Paige!' trip it's on.

And-

Is that-

There's a picture of Derek, arms flung around the shoulders of other guys on his swim team. His hair is slicked back and wet, dripping rivets of water down his face and neck, curling against his collar bones. Some of the more ambitious drops have rolled all the way to the waistband of his blue speedo, plastering hair to his thick, muscular thighs and Stiles-

Stiles stares at it for a second too long, breath caught in his throat because he's seen Derek naked before, of course he has, but that was different. He was always bloody and half dead and growling because he had just shifted out of alpha form, always trapped in his feral mind set for just a few more minutes, but this is completely and utterly and hopelessly different because he's happy and smiling and god, his arms may look softer and his abs are less defined but-

Stiles quickly clicks back to his profile page, but the image of Derek almost naked burns in his mind, and he licks his lips almost unconsciously, mouth suddenly dry and throat tighter than it was a few seconds ago. It's the first time he's been anywhere near hard since he traveled back, his mind always too focused on other things and freaking out to even consider the idea of being turned on.

It isn't like he never got morning wood, just that remembering all of the shit he had to do was usually a boner killer.

His hand flexes, dick jumping in his pants as the image of Derek pops in his mind again. It's not like he's never beat off to Derek before. He's a person and Derek just so happens to need to take his shirt off a lot. It's never bothered the guy before, even considering the weird phase he went through where he couldn't look Derek in the eye for a week after he woke up sticky after a dream of Derek licking his shoulder. God, his dick is so weird.

And it's not like Derek ever minded. He would just roll his eyes if he ever scented his arousal. Derek, for all his issues, knew he was attractive and worked it. Of course, with his extensive history, Stiles had always been concerned about how easily Derek could smile or flex an arm at someone to win them over.

'It's about power,' Derek had said when Stiles was drunk enough to talk to him about it once, 'I'm never going to let anyone use me against myself again.'

But this feels different, like he's crossing some unspoken line. He's met Derek's mom, for fucks sake. You can't jack off to somebody once their mom's hugged you. It's like, a law. And it would just be really fucking weird to do it, knowing that he's out there right now with Kate of all people and-

Stiles is an eighteen year old boy. He has long ago learned, through many trials of public humiliation and awkward danger boners, that there is absolutely no way to reason with his dick.

He quickly shuts down the computer and goes to take a shower, only feeling a little bad about it.

There is a shop in Beacon Heights run by a small coven. They've lived there for fifteen years, managing a run down shop to act as a safe house for supernatural.

A warlock had stumbled into Beacon Hills once and put love spells on twelve people, causing absolute chaos.

Of course, when he found out werewolves were after him, he ran away to the coven who readily defended one of their own. When Stiles and Lydia explained the situation to them, how ever, the ideas of what they did to him still makes Stiles twitch uncomfortably.

Today, there's a woman with bleached dreadlocks and thick rimmed glasses laying on the counter, a book levitating above her face. A finger twitches and the page turns, revealing a large picture of a girl tied to a stake. There are tears running down her face, but her mouth is twisted into a feral grin.

"Don't worry," The girl says, head flopped back to stair at him, upside down, "She gets away. I don't know why they ever thought ropes could hold a witch, but, whatever."

She sniffs and rolls to her feet, sending the book behind the desk with a flick of her wrist. The last time he was here, an old lady greeted him with a sour expression. She had made some colorful remarks about sparks, somethings that still grate on Stiles' nerves, but had helped never the less. Her movements were calm and rigid, controlled in a way that looked almost unnatural.

The girl in front of him is loose with her magic, smirking at him as she juts her chin and pulls up a ledger.

"I heard the ones that got burned were all sparks," Stiles tells her, walking deeper into the store. He runs his hands across a pack of raven feathers, letting the soft touch soothe him, "We never get proper credit in history books."

"At least you don't get bastardized on Samhain."

Stiles rolls his eyes, already well aware of the witches rights groups that go around trying to ban costumes with ugly green faces and pointed hats. When Lydia was trying to figure out what being a Banshee meant, she had dragged him to a couple of supernatural support groups up North.

There, he learned stuff to help fill the pack Bestiary. He also learned the inherent difference between sparks and witches, how all witches areborn magic, and all sparks have the opportunity to become it. Sparks are a dying breed, since the gene is only passed on if their magic settles before they have children.

Witches have natural affinities and powers that they build upon, but most can't do rituals or spells to save their lives. The voo doo magic is mainly left to the sparks, who can mix together aconite and salt without getting third degree burns. Sparks are also limited to runes and wards, which is why most are covered in tattoos like he is.

A spark can also pass on their magic to another through a really complicated ritual, which is how most modern day sparks are made. Morrell, Deaton, his mom, her family, and himself are the only sparks he knows for sure who were born with it.

According to Deaton, it's not considered polite to ask.

"I really don't think you get how awesome it would be to be bastardized, dude."

The girl rolls her eyes, "Says the oh-so privileged spark." She makes a grabby motion with her hands and then snaps her fingers together.

Stiles feels a tug and suddenly, the white paper he had hastily written on is folded up in her hand.

"Sulphate powder, Calamaris root, Saltpeter, Hyssop herb, Dandelion leaves, and Witches salt," She reads aloud, face twisted into an unpleasant expression. Her mouth works quickly as she reads the list again, Stiles shifting uneasily from side to side. He had seriously over estimated Deaton's stock and had raided both the closet at the apartment, and the room in the clinic, but neither had everything he needed.

Deaton had just shrugged when he threw empty bottles at his feet, saying that he only did a major restock in December.

The girl eyes him over her glasses, one thin eyebrow quirked at him, "Quite a list you got here. And little me, only a level three, has no idea what you're making." She steps closer to him, folding the list carefully between her fingers, "Just what are you up to?"

"Leave him alone, Jenna," A voice says before a figure slinks around the corner. She's tall and dark skinned, hair in a long braid down her back. There are strands of braided string interwoven, with bells and feathers here and there. Her heals click against the linoleum as she walks forward and swipes the list from Jenna's hand, "I put you out here to work, not cause trouble."

Jenna rolls her eyes, "It was just a simple question. Kendra makes conversation and she doesn't get in trouble."

"That's because Kendra still manages to get her work done," The woman hands the list back to her, "Go get the young man what he needs. I'll deal with the exchange."

Jenna makes an exaggerated huff but takes the list and, with a quick smile at Stiles, disappears between shelves. He can hear her mumbling to herself and bottles moving, but the woman in front of him quickly steals away his attention.

"You belong to Deaton, right?"

"When you put it like that I sound like his slave, but yeah. He's my mentor." Stiles shrugs and steps closer to the counter. He hooks the messenger bag over his shoulder and onto the counter, the bottles inside clinging against each other lightly at the motion, "What's it gonna cost me?"

He's never made a deal this big before, the last time he was here he only bought some oils and candles for a protection spell. Currency between sparks and witches are trade, mostly. Witches don't normally own stores like this, but the nearest spark owned one is in Washington and he's so not driving there. Deaton would literally kill him for all of the gas.

He doesn't know how much everything will be and brought some bottles of Lady Luck, Solumn Wisdom, Fear Nots, and some Van Van's just in case. Deaton had told him it wouldn't be anywhere near that much, but he lives to be prepared.

It's a really weird, complicated, capitalistic system, but it's worked so far. The witches enchant the items, and the sparks pay them in spells and wards. The two don't mingle often, but there hasn't been any bad blood between the two groups since the witch trials.

The woman grins, teeth too bright and eyes wide, "How about everything in your satchel, including that scent charm, and I even repair your arms for free."

Stiles blanks, arms tensing at his sides, "My what?"

His voice is little more than a croak, but it gets the point across.

Mysterious lady just grins at him, "Your arms. Your marks have been leached of their magic, correct? Whatever did that must have been starving. You obviously lived to tell the tale, though. Jenna's always up for a good story, aren't you dear?"

A voice mumbles something in return, and Stiles feels like he's left out of some inside joke.

Starving? What did that even mean? Stiles' arms itch at the mention of them and the woman motions for him to remove his flannel. He does so with a skeptical eye, mind still on the whole starving part of her sentence. What? The timekeep seemed perfectly healthy- okay, maybe not mentally but it was fine enough physically, when he called it the other day.

Nails run up his arm, crook around his elbow and trace a gentle pattern against the rubber feeling skin. Her eyes close and her entire body tenses, Stiles' following suit instinctively. It hits him a second later and he almost screams, biting into the skin of his lips and breathing out harshly through his nose.

It's like someone took twenty knives and stabbed them into each inch of skin at the same time. It burns worse than anything he ever felt in his life, even when Deaton carefully chipped away and pealed back his skin to make the scars.

What feels like hours later, the feeling leaves as suddenly as it appears. His skin is pale and clammy, arms and legs jittery and weak. His stomach churns, head pounding, and he feels like he could collapse at any minute.

Despite that, though, Stiles has never felt more alive in his entire life.

Warmth spends throughout his entire arms, running in his veins and leaking into his muscles. It curves around his shoulders and down his sides, following the trail of runes imbedded into his skin. His entire body feels like it's humming, high on whatever the woman did to him.

Someone pushes a glass of water in front of him and he inhales it eagerly.

"It's usually better without the warning," The woman says with a shrug. She has a paper bag next to her and his satchel has mysteriously disappeared from the table. Jenna's gone, her book missing and the store silent save for the woman smiling kindly at him.

"What did you do to me?" Stiles asks, breathless. He can't tell if he's happy or not, too much pain and warmth inside of him at once. He might pass out from the whiplash sooner than the pain.

"I healed you," She shrugs, nudging the bag closer to him. Stiles reaches a weak arm over and looks inside of it, finding his flannel folded up atop small bags and bottles of everything he asked for. "Consider it a favor, for all you're sacrificing to keep the supernatural world in balance."

His head snaps up quickly, eyes wide and mouth open, but there's no one else in the store but him.

The hair on the back of his neck stands, arms exploding in goosebumps as a gentle chill rolls down his spine. Stiles grabs the bag and quickly leaves.

Notes:

If you care (which you probably don't I mean srsly this is boring)

SULPHUR POWDER is a naturally occurring mineral dust and can be mixed with Salt and then sprinkled or laid down to help clear and clean out an area of negative spell work

CALAMUS ROOT, also known as SWEET FLAG, is used by those who wish to control a situation or to dominate a specific person.

HYSSOP HERB is a purification herb for cleansing yourself or your hme, to put an end to crossed conditions, to take off a jinx, or break a hex.

DANDELION can be drunk as tea or carried in a bag to enhance psychic dreams and second sight.

BASIL is a sacred herb used for peace and happiness at home.

SALTPETER is often mixed with two other minerals to make a Sprinkling Powder. One very popular mixture consists of a teaspoon of SALTPETER, a cup of SALT, and a tablespoon of POWDERED BLUEING to help remove negative influences and for Spiritual Cleaning.

WITCHES' SALT, also known as Black Salt, is a mixture of Salt and Charcoal, Salt and Iron Pot Scrapings, Salt and Black Pepper, or Salt that has been dyed black and is used to drive away evil, or to make an enemy leave you alone.