A/N:

Creating history for things that absolutely don't exist is a particularly pleasant way to pass the time.

Scott was sixteen the first time he'd transformed into a werewolf.

The ridges of his brow and cheeks had raised, forcing his features to contort into a wolfish mask rather than a complete body transformation. The hair on his body grew, his nails turned into razor-sharp claws, and his eyes glowed as bright and as golden as the sun. His skin had turned pale white and ice cold; he'd started to sparkle in—

(Damnit, not another brain spiral. Curse you ADHD—but mostly Bella Swan.)

But really, Scott had gained speed, strength, and an impressive healing factor. Stiles was mildly jealous of how Scott had taken their lacrosse team by storm until he'd seen the actual physical transformation for himself.

It wasn't something that Stiles would call impressive, given that the rapid and inexplicable disappearance of Scott's eyebrows made the whole production rather silly. But, it was still a strange sort of comfort for a boy like Stiles, who'd been looking for confirmation that something other existed in this world for a long time.

(The realization that Stiles wasn't alone was a warm relief he'd felt behind his ribs for weeks after that first full moon—his original plan of handcuffing Scott to a radiator had gone awry, but in the end, no one Stiles loved had been mauled, so he didn't really care.)

Stiles still regrets that he'd dragged Scott into the woods that fateful night to look for Laura Hale's body. Derek didn't deserve all of the pain that had followed them falling down that particular rabbit hole (but seriously, Derek was partially responsible for the miscommunication—he had Murder Face and half of a sister buried on his property, like come on man, think of the optics!).

But, that doesn't mean that Stiles regrets that Scott was the one who was bitten that night. It's a selfish truth he's never said but one that both he and Scott know anyway. The fact that it still took years after Scott's health got supernaturally turbocharged for Stiles to finally clear out his stashes of spare inhalers speaks enough on the topic for the both of them.

Because as much as Scott was a great human being, he made for a pretty damn good werewolf.

Except for the whole running around on all fours bit—that's still so fucking ridiculous.

(Like Scotty, those are your hands, bro what are you doing?)

Stiles can't wait for Derek's full-wolf transformation lessons to finally click in Scott's brain.

(It's been three years since they started, so Stiles isn't exactly holding his breath.)

It took Peter Hale explaining the entire origin of his species for Stiles to decide he no longer hated the man.

It was shortly after his high school graduation and Stiles was loitering in Derek's apartment waiting for the guy to get back with dinner. Stiles had arrived early to the casual pack meeting (as he always did because he's nosy as fuck and he has accepted that about himself) and was spending that awkward amount of time browsing through different college curriculums.

Stiles had felt Peter's presence long before the guy had decided to make himself known.

(Dramatic bitch.)

"Thinking about college?" Peter had started, lounging on the couch across from where Stiles had sprawled out.

"Me and half of all other high school graduates," Stiles had muttered, eyes glued to his laptop. "I'm not special."

"I disagree."

That had gotten Stiles to look up.

"I've seen the compendium you made for the supernatural creatures you researched, Stiles. There was even an index and colored sketches. It's very impressive work."

Stiles squinted at that. "You mean the compendium I keep locked inside my safe?" Stiles scoffed, mildly disturbed at the visual of Peter pawing through his things. "Did you also have a looksie through my underwear drawer, you creepy weirdo?"

"Purple really isn't your color," was Peter's bland response.

Stiles had shuddered and mentally promised that pair swift immolation.

"But really, Stiles, you should think about playing to your strengths going forward. I think you have a future in research."

"There are supernatural college programs?" Stiles had asked incredulously.

"Of course there are," Peter explained, exasperated. "There are programs embedded in universities everywhere. The world of creatures and magic has always been here, Stiles. You just have to be in the know to see it all."

That had made Stiles's brain short out for a bit. He'd looked at Peter, recalculating everything he thought he knew about him. "And you know about these courses from personal experience, I take it?"

A soft, bitter sort of smile had spread across Peter's face. "According to my 'official' paperwork, I have already completed a mastery in Medieval History. But in reality, I was working on my doctorate on the migration patterns of medieval blessed-wolf tribes before Argent murdered my pack." The smile fell. "I've been finishing it recently through correspondence courses."

Stiles decided to side-step that landmine. "Blessed-wolf?"

The glazed look in Peter's eyes had faded as he focused on Stiles's question. "Yes, there are two distinct creatures that call themselves werewolves."

"Really?"

Peter hummed and leaned back further onto the couch. "All supernatural beings can be categorized broadly into two types: magical, or blessed as some call it, and cursed."

Stiles started typing notes, eyes staring intently at the werewolf.

"The difference between these beings is that magical or 'blessed' creatures have evolved to their state of being through naturally occurring magic. This can either happen in the form of evolution over millennia, like the werewolves that make up my family, or from a random burst of concentrated natural magic. Our kind, and those like us—witches, druids, and fae—evolved thousands of years ago through a natural twist of magic that mutated our DNA, making us a step to the left of homo sapiens. At least genetically speaking."

"Fascinating," Stiles breathed out.

Peter smiled. "Isn't it?"

"And cursed beings?" Stiles prompted.

Peter had smirked at Stiles's impatience. "Cursed creatures differ in that their state of being did not occur by natural magic, but by some sort of man-made curse that simply twisted, channeled, and used magic. Technically, though these creatures are no longer human, there always remains a way to turn them back. It's a proven theory in academic studies on the matter that what is done by humans with magic can always be undone by humans with magic." Peter folded his hands in his lap. "That's not the case for blessed creatures. Our spirits and bodies have evolved past the human genetic model. There is no way to turn a magical creature 'back,' because there's nothing to go back to."

Peter continued thoughtfully. "The most prominent examples of cursed creatures are the cursed-wolves and vampires."

"Vampires?" Stiles groaned. "Please tell me you're joking."

Peter chuckled. "I'm afraid not. But back to my original point: the cursed-wolves are the other type of werewolf. They came into existence because of an ancient grudge from some witch in Greece. It was meant as revenge against a murderer but quickly devolved—as magical curses tend to do because witches are sanctimonious wind-bags—into a prominent bloodline curse. To unlock the curse, you have to kill someone—and then you suffer the rest of your full moons in agony as your bones break and your skin rips apart until you transform into a slavering beast of a wolf."

(Stiles had gagged at the thought.)

(He'd also taken Peter up on his offer to sponsor him at his alma mater. Which happened to be Princeton, because of course it was, that dramatic bitch.)

The first time that Stiles had come face-to-face with his first vampire, he'd been at the end of his second year of undergrad.

He'd been at his favorite local pub, finishing his dinner and sipping at a celebratory glass of chilled Belvedere when a woman had sidled up to the bar.

She was gorgeous, in that very obvious, bitchy-maneater kind of way.

She smelled caramel and woodsmoke. Her expression had been coy but her position at his elbow was carefully measured.

Stiles had practically tasted the blood on her breath when she spoke to him.

"What's a girl gotta do to get a shot of that?"

Stiles had refused to shoot back the rest of his drink for courage and obstinately took another small sip. "Ponying up the six-dollar retail price is a good way to start," he'd replied neutrally. "I'm sure they take cash or credit."

The vampiress had stared at him confused, her sultry pout frozen for a moment as she registered what he'd said. But then she'd just grinned at him, her smile, though sharper, somehow more real. "You're funny," she declared. "I like that."

Stiles looked her over before setting down his drink. "Did you want something?"

She pouted again. "Just a drink with a handsome stranger."

"Didn't your parents ever warn you of Stranger Danger?"

Another toothy grin. "No. No, they didn't. But if your only objection to the drink is the fact that we're strangers…" She stuck out her hand to him like a lady in some sort of romantic period piece. "Then let's not be strangers."

Stiles stared at her hand like it was a cobra out to strike. After all, vampires probably go to bars for the same reason humans do—they're thirsty.

But still, while Stiles may be an asshole, he isn't necessarily a rude one. He took her hand and awkwardly shook it, refusing to put his lips anywhere near her person (she might consider it an open invitation to put her lips—and teeth!—all over him in exchange).

She smiled when he took her hand and said, "Call me Kate."

Stiles immediately dropped her hand like a hot coal and jumped out of his seat. "That's three strikes, lady. I'm out."

Kate had looked at him, completely bewildered. "Excuse me?"

Stiles reached into his wallet and folded a few bills on the bar to cover his meal and his drink. "Let's just say I've known a Kate who looks, walks, and talks just like you." His eyes turned hard, and he let her see it. "She was a user and a complete nutcase. I'm not so sure if you've got squirrels chattering away in your head like she did, but I can smell the manipulation on you at ten paces." He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "And blood. Might want to invest in a stronger mouthwash, Kate."

And then he got the fuck out of there.

(She tried to follow him, but when she'd flashed to the alleyway outside, Stiles had already disappeared.)

"I am one of seven siblings," Elijah begins his story, voice soft and lilting. "And I am also one of the last."

They had moved to Stiles's porch swing for their conversation, their hands still wrapped around each other's.

"My oldest sister Freya died in the Old World. A plague, my parents told us. Finn, my older brother, was the only other sibling that had been born in our homeland." Elijah looks out at the quiet lake. "Our parents had decided to escape the plague, which had been foretold by local witches as seemingly endless and unyielding. They crossed the ocean, looking for a better life, as all men and women do, and landed here."

"Here?" Stiles asks.

Elijah nods. "In what is now known as Mystic Falls, Virginia." He curls further under Stiles's quilt. "I was born there, and so were the rest of my siblings—Niklaus, Kol, Rebekah, and Henrik." His dark eyes hold Stiles's own. "We all died there, too."

Stiles doesn't look away.

"It was not an easy life, but for the most part, we were content. The greatest strains on my family were that of my father's volatile and abusive temperament, and my youngest brother's death at the hands of the local wolf tribe." Elijah's thumb slowly circles the back of Stiles's hand. "My mother had been a powerful witch, one who trained under the tutelage of our village's greatest sorcerer, a woman called Ayana."

Elijah clears his throat. "But even she was not powerful enough to bring back Henrik once he had passed on. In their fear for our lives, our parents hatched a plan that ultimately took them." He glances at Stiles when he rests his head on Elijah's shoulder. "My mother cursed us to a life as immortal vampires. She concocted a spell that used the longevity of the white oak tree, the healing nature of vervain, the strength of the power of the sun, and a sample of the life's blood of a local woman that both Niklaus and I had been courting." Elijah hesitantly rests his head against Stiles's. "She fed us this potion at dinner, and then our father stabbed us each in the heart."

Stiles doesn't breathe.

"I've never truly forgiven them for it."

"And you never have to," Stiles says firmly.

Elijah's lips give a ghost of a smile. "When we awoke, our mother forced us to swallow another mouthful of the woman's blood. And thus our transition into vampires was complete. We were faster than the wolves; stronger, hardier, fiercer, but we soon realized that nature had also turned on us—the ingredients used in our rebirth now weakened us. We also constantly hungered for the blood of humans." He paused as his voice became tense and angry. "And still, after all of this madness, Henrik remained dead, and us dead with him."

Elijah sighs into Stiles's hair. "I am over one thousand years old, and I still cannot fathom the idiocy of my parents."

Stiles chokes on a sob. "Jesus Christ, Elijah."

"A little before my time, actually," Elijah murmurs.

Stiles muffles his hysterical laughter into Elijah's shoulder.

"As the years passed, we found that we could create more of our kind, though they were always weaker than ourselves. We became progenitors of an entirely new species. They called us the Original Family, though that became untrue as the years progressed and our father decided we were abominations." Elijah's smile turns bitter. "He's hunted us since nearly the beginning of it all."

Stiles can't even imagine such a father, given his own dad that he calls every Saturday to shoot the shit (and badger him into eating leafy greens). "And your mother?"

"Hmm? Oh, our father killed her shortly after we were turned. You see, the bloodlust of our newfound vampirism drove Niklaus to accidentally kill a villager. The curse of the wolf activated, and he became something even more than me or the rest of my siblings—he became a hybrid."

"Twice-cursed…" Stiles mutters, forehead scrunching in thoughtful contemplation.

Elijah raises an eyebrow at Stiles's phrasing. "Indeed. It turned out that my mother had had an affair with the leader of the local wolf tribe. It certainly explained my father's hatred of Niklaus. After he had unlocked his wolf heritage, my father demanded that my mother kill him. Instead, she bound his wolf, cursing Nik once more through blood and magic."

"Father killed our mother in his madness over her supposed betrayal, and the rest of us ran from him when he came to kill Niklaus himself. We ran from him for centuries. Even when we would find peace, he would always break it—him or Niklaus."

"Your brother?"

Elijah hums. "Yes, over the years my brother became paranoid of our father, of Finn's suicidal melancholy, of the chaos my brother Kol invited with his massacres, of the constant string of deceitful lovers Rebekah took, and of my own inability to agree with Niklaus's decisions. He became irrational and fickle in both his desires and his hatred. He started enforcing decades, and for Finn centuries-long, naps in coffins for my siblings and I with spelled daggers designed to keep us asleep."

"Your brother forces you into time-outs?" Stiles asks, horrified.

"Yes. Each of us has cycled in and out of sleep at the whims of my brother. It is only until recently…" Elijah chokes. "It is only until this past century that I learned that he has gotten bored of that particular punishment." Elijah grips his hand tighter. "He informed me that I am the only one that remains."

"What?" Stiles whispers.

"He said he killed them and tossed them into the sea. My brother has murdered my brothers and sister, and I have done nothing but plot his death ever since." Elijah turns to look at him searchingly. "It wasn't until our meeting in that damn diner that food didn't taste like ash, that the sky didn't look gray, and that the world didn't reek of sulfur."

"You, Stiles," Elijah continues, dipping his head to breathe softly against Stiles's neck. "Are the breath of fresh air that I didn't know I needed." Elijah cups Stiles's cheek in the cradle of his palm, lifting Stiles's face to peer into his eyes. "You say you want to know me, and I cannot help but want to share. You simply talk to me, and I burn to know everything there is to know about you. I desire so much from you—I desire to give you so much of these buried parts of me—that I don't know what to do with myself." Elijah looks at him mournfully. "It isn't as though we've known each other long, or deeply enough, to explain this ease I feel around you. But I am old enough not to care about such petty things if you are amenable to continuing our acquaintance even after I've revealed what I have tonight."

And Stiles?

Stiles can't help but hug the man. He wraps his arms around Elijah and buries his face in his chest.

He shudders when he feels Elijah's arms hold him back just as tightly.

"You've said a lot of things I still need to process," Stiles begins. "But you should know that you're not the only one feeling this way." He closes his eyes. "You're incredibly interesting, polite and witty and so very unapologetic. You're definitely the smartest person I know. You shine against the rest of the world, Elijah—I don't want you to doubt that. I knew that the moment I first saw you."

Stiles lifts his head and says, "So, yes, I'm in this with you. Nothing you've said has changed that. I do think we need some sleep before we continue this conversation, though. You look...tired." Stiles gently pulls out of his arms and directs the vampire back into his house. "But I'll say it again—I want to know you, Elijah." He swallows, turning his back to Elijah as he leads him toward the spare bedroom.

"And I want you to know me," he whispers.

Stiles can't see Elijah's satisfied smile, but he can feel it.

The heartfelt goodnight Stiles receives a few minutes later makes him blush.

The sight of Elijah in a set of cotton pajamas makes Stiles painfully aware of how muscular his chest is.

(Of course, the tragic, but emotionally intelligent and sincere vampire also has to be drop-dead gorgeous. Because of course he does.)

A/N:

Fictober, Entry 5. Prompt: "You're the smartest person I know."