Empty offices. It was night and the only source of light illuminating the hallways, cubicles and the empty receptionist desk came from the surrounding buildings. But there was one office where the light was still on, which only made the rest of the floor appearing even more desolate.
A phone was ringing. Once. Twice. Thri…
Someone picked up, their hand tightly griped around the small plastic body. "Hello?"
"We need to have a talk, Jessica."
"Peter, what are you doing here?" Jessica asked as she noticed the figure standing near her cubicle. When she noticed the expressionless mask he wore, her steps faltered – for a split second only, because she was Jessica Pearson and no man would make her misstep – but she continued onwards anyway.
"Is something the matter?" she asked worriedly as Peter yet again failed to show any response to her words.
"Why don't you tell me, Jessica," Peter replied and the way he said her name – full of disgust, hate and rage – made her flinch away from him.
"I don't know what you´re talking about," she stammered and she hated herself – hated Peter – for making her look weak and feeble in front of the other man.
"I´ve always been a fan of history," Peter remarked. "It´s truly fascinating, you know? How little things who people then thought would have no consequences affect us even today."
"Is there a point to any of this?" Jessica interrupted annoyed.
" Oh, there sure is," Peter replied and his grin was full of teeth. "There is one family I took special interest in. They emigrated from France in the early 16th century to America. One day a member of said family came across a white field owner about to beat his black slave to death. The man intervened, cutting down the slave owner and thus saving the slave´s live. Filled with gratitude the slave – or rather former slave – pledged his life and the lives of his descendants to the man who had saved his life: Sebastian Argent. Over the centuries the former slave´s family name changed a lot, but it finally settled down on Pearson." Another mirthless grin. "Quite ironic how he exchanged one kind of slavery for another, don't you think?"
"Peter…" Jessica whispered, one single tear running down her face.
"Don´t!" the other man snapped, his eyes flashing in an electric blue.
So beautiful, Jessica thought and she just wanted to reach out and touch him like she used to. But she didn't, because she knew that it would probably end with her dead on the ground.
"You used me," Peter spit out. "You knew what I was – who I am – and you used me. Tell me, did Gerard set you on me? Or was it your own idea? Maybe he´ll give you a pat on the head if you come to him with enough information about the Hale Pack, like the good little slave you are."
"That´s not true!" Jessica protested. "I broke with that tradition long time ago. I´m beholden to no one but myself!" Peter snorted.
"I don't believe you," he hissed. "In fact, I don't believe anything you´ve ever said to me." That sentence was like a blow into her gut.
"I submitted my resignation today," Peter continued. "I´ll return to Beacon Hills and if I ever see you again, I´ll rip out your throat with my teeth." One last look at her – so full of contempt that it broke Jessica´s heart – and then Peter turned around and walked away.
Jessica was left standing there, alone, bereft, crying and wondered what she had done to deserve this.
The next time she heard about Peter was that his whole family had been killed by a fire that had consumed their whole house. Jessica didn't go to work that day, instead locking herself in her apartment, emptying a bottle of whiskey and toasting to Gerard Argent, the old bastard, for having whipped out yet another innocent family without leaving any trace leading back to him.
"It doesn't matter what happened," Jessica said. "It only matters that you get him to agree."
"I can´t do that if I don't know everything," Harvey shot back on the phone.
"What are you so fond of saying?" Jessica said. "'Don´t play the odds, play the man'? Well, then play him."
"Maybe if you weren't too cowardly to face him yourself, you would actually get him to agree," Harvey muttered.
"What did you just say?" Jessica dared Harvey to repeat his statement, her tone and her rage as cold as a blizzard.
"You´ve heard me," Harvey replied.
"For your sake I let that go this time," Jessica hissed over the phone. "Don´t come back until you´ve made him agree." Then, without waiting for Harvey to reply, she hung up on him and let out a resigned sigh.
She looked out of her office window, down on the busy streets of Manhattan. Sometimes…sometimes Jessica just wanted to lay down and never wake up. To just fall asleep and keep staying in her dreams where there was no adversity. But she opened her eyes every morning, ready to fight another day, because she was stronger than that. Maybe if she could finally face her regrets she would be able to find again the joy in the profession she once had felt, many years ago.
For a short moment Stiles couldn't breathe. He just stood there – frozen – and stared at the blonde like he had grown a second head. The man had known his mother. The familiar aching pain that accompanied every thought of her in Stiles' mind made itself known in his heart and he could feel his breathing quickening. He was hyper-aware; he could see every particle of dust floating in the air, he could sense every ray of light flooding in through the windows, could smell the odour of disinfect and animals that hung in the air.
Absentmindedly, Stiles noticed that his hands were shaking.
"Everything okay with you?" Mike´s face appeared in his field of vision. Worry shone in these cerulean orbs and Stiles hated them a little bit for making the bigoted man a little bit more likable. Stiles wanted to answer, but a memory pushed itself in front of his mind.
"You were there," he whispered. "At her funeral." Mike furrowed his brow in confusion.
"At whose funeral?" he asked confused.
"Claudia´s. My mother´s," Stiles replied. Mike´s eyes widened. "You were this lanky teenager in the last row with some old woman accompanying him…"
"Grammy," Mike remarked.
"…I know because I wondered who you were," Stiles continued, his eyes still fixed on Mike but his mind back on awful day. "I asked my dad, but he wouldn't answer."
'Some people your mother knew,' he had said. Stiles had wanted to prod further – everything to distract him from the pain, from the black casket displayed in front of the altar – but his father had just looked at him. 'Not now, Stiles,' he had begged his son, 'please, son, not now.' And Stiles, seeing the indescribable pain in his father´s eyes hadn't asked any further.
"You´re her son?" Mike asked and Stiles just nodded, too afraid that his voice would fail him if he tried to talk now.
"Your mother taught me everything I know," Mike admitted softly.
"So, she was a mage as well?" Stiles wanted to know.
"Yes, she was," Mike answered. "Though, she wasn't very enthused about it. With power comes responsibility and she confided in my once that she hoped that any child of hers wouldn't have her gifts. Maybe that was why she never told you." Mike shrugged. "I was a child when she taught me. We weren't close. As close as teacher and student would get, but nothing more."
"Why didn't she heal herself?" Stiles asked. "When she got sick, why didn't she…?"
"Because her illness affected her mind," Mike replied. "The mind is a mirror of your soul. It contains everything you are – everything that makes you yourself – and only the darkest or the most powerful kind of magic can affect it. The former Claudia would have never resorted to and the latter wasn't available to her. Magic isn't the solution to everything. As unfair as that appears to be."
"How would you know?"
"Because," Mike replied, "I lost my parents as well. And like you I have asked myself why I couldn't have used magic to save them. Why I couldn't use magic to bring them back. I lived with my grandmother and when I reached my rebellious teenage phase I didn't spray graffiti or lifted shops, no –" he shook his head "- I dealt with shady figures of the supernatural world for books on necromancy and death magic. I owe it to my grandmother that it never went further than reading. She interceded in time. So, yes, I know what questions buzz through your mind."
Stiles contemplated the other man.
He would never be friends with Mike. He just couldn't muster any sympathy for the other mage´s prejudices against his friends. But his mother had been the one to teach Mike and this was one of the rare chances he had in his life to get to know a part of his mother´s life that he had never known even existed. Mike teaching him would be as if his mother was teaching him by proxy; it was a way for Stiles to have some form of connection to the woman that had departed his life too early and Stiles would do anything for such a chance.
"Why do you hate werewolves so much?" Stiles couldn't help but ask anyway.
"That´s not something that´s up for debate here," Mike grinded out. "I´m here to teach you how to control your magic, not to discuss the reasons for my likes and dislikes." But Stiles wouldn't – couldn't – let go. He needed to know.
"Half of my friends are werewolves," he shot back. "They´re the bravest, smartest and most loyal people I know. How can I trust you when you hate the people I love for reasons that aren´t their fault?"
"I don't hate werewolves," Mike replied and Stiles had to snort at that. "I despise them. I despise them for their inherent weakness that allows anyone stronger than them to just walk over them. I despise them for just rolling over for anyone who flashes their eyes red at them. I despise them for placing their biology over justice." He had become more agitated as he continued talking, his eyes flashing with fury.
"What do you mean?" Stiles asked.
"My parents…my parents were killed by an Alpha," Mike confessed. "And yet, when I appealed for justice there was none forthcoming from the werewolves. Because he was an Alpha and therefore someone worthy of respect – of power – and only another Alpha willing to challenge him would be allowed to punish him." He laughed, a bitter, weary sound. "But there was no other Alpha near and so he continued to live his life undisturbed. All because the other werewolves were too weak to stand up for themselves." A burnt smell creeped into Stiles' nose and when he looked down he saw that the metal underneath Mike´s hand was smouldering. Apparently, recounting the reason for his dislike eroded his control over his powers.
"Not all werewolves are like that," Stiles replied.
"Really?" Mike snorted. "So, your friends wouldn't just roll over if their Alpha roared at them?" Stiles wanted to defend his friends, wanted to say that they weren't controlled by their biological imperatives, but he remembered how cowed Erica, Boyd and Isaac had been when Derek roared at them, his full Alpha authority on display or how Scott hadn't been able to control himself back when he had been first turned and Peter had set him on Stiles, Jackson and Lydia at school.
Yet, he knew that when it came down to something truly important, his friends would stand by his side, no matter what. They cared not for species, for eye colour or for power – in the end they were his friends first and werewolves second. But Mike seemed to take his silence as admission of guilt.
"See," he said, "I knew it."