Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s 1841 or 1920 or 1987 and Stiles Stilinski made one mistake too many. He’s a boy without a home, or a wanna be blues musician, or someone just looking for a little luck with handful of graveyard dirt and and thimble of candle wax. Hoodoo is in his blood either way, and hoodoo is what seals it—because when he goes down to the cross-roads on the dark side of town (and it doesn’t much matter when it is, who he is, what he is) he doesn’t come back.

Stiles knows all about the practice. His mother (grandmother) (great grandmother) (father) all told him the same things. You do the job work, you take the ends, and you put them in the ground by the railroad tracks or the cross-roads somewhere deep and dark and late.

And you never, ever, look back.

Stiles looks back.

.

It’s a century, or the next hour, or a dream and he’s still Stiles—but not. And he’s a demon—but not.

It wouldn’t much matter if it weren’t for the girl (child) (woman) (daughter) with her arms wrapped around his neck, pressing her chest down against his body like she wants to drag him all the way back down into hell. There is earth on her breath and a wolf’s scent draped across her shoulders like a pelt. It smells young and its impossible not to know: she is the hunter who will become hunted.

“I want it.” She says with a little girls petulance (a woman’s anger) and he would give it to her. He would give her everything—because he’s a teenage boy (but not). She breaths into the hollow of his throat and he feels like he is on fire. “I want respect.” And underneath that he can feel the vein of contention pull taught. “They train women to be leaders—such bullshit.”

“You know what it will cost?” Stiles feels the crooked stretch of his smile before he knows what he’s saying. It’s like this, sometimes, where he is (but isn’t) there. “No freebies, no take backs, Ms. Kate.”

“Ten years, right?” Her smile is old and brittle—like ten years have passed in a heart beat while still being ages away.

He nods and she kisses him. Kate tastes like fire and brimstone, like cheap soda-pop flavored chap-stick and scorn. Stiles laughs into the kiss because he knows, then, what what will happen, what has to happen.

What happens after the fire, though, now that’s something unexpected.

.

It’s not a moment later (or a week) (or a month) (or a year) that he lands back in Beacon Hills. It’s home (and not) and its so unchanged he doesn’t quite see, doesn’t quite remember there are things to be done and people waiting for a deal.

The wolf-scent is back. Babyfaced manchild (boy) (teen) (wolf) with an older sister (mother) (beta) (alpha) holding him taught against her side. Her eyes glow red and Stiles watches the teeth under her lips sharpen.

He grins, half bows, and then laughs in their faces. “You can’t destroy me.”

It’s as good as true—but not.

“That’s not why we’re here.” The wolf-woman (Laura, her name is Laura) says but there is a growl in her throat that promises yet.

Stiles cocks his head to the side and walks a wide circle around the pair. “Oh?” It’s a mocking thing he can’t quite control. “Oh?”

The boy-wolf (Derek—this is Derek—the one Kate loved and hated) growls deep in his throat but it’s a rattling thing, a dying thing. Stiles tuts, shushing him just out of reach.

“We want to make a deal.” Laura says and Stiles turns his attention back to her.

“It will cost you.” He says but she grins—a wolf smile under a pretty face that has gone white with grief.

“No,” She answers. “I think it will cost you.”

That is the most interesting thing that has happened all day (week) (month) (decade) and Stiles laughs again, delighted. “That so?” The laughter subsides into a thoughtful sort of silence. “That so?”

Laura nods. “Let us be your hounds for now.”

“Until the Argent woman.” Stiles nods as they do, pretending to think about it. “It will have to be a deal, you know.”

“I do.” She looks to be stealing herself for it—the kiss to seal their world into this subsection of hell but Stiles walks up to her and waves a finger back and forth in front of her nose.

“Oh, no.” He smiles again. “Not you.” He points at Derek. “I think I would prefer a matching set.” The howl is no surprise and neither is the lunge towards him—all teeth and fur and fury. Stiles grabs him by the shoulders, throws him down on the dirt, and then leans down into the wolf’s face. One day, soon, he will be broader than Stiles—but that is a long day coming (ten years) (ten days) (ten minutes) for this pet and he will never, ever best him. “Come on, what’s a little kiss Derek?”

Its a taunt and both know it. Behind them Stiles can feel Laura fighting with her urge to protest—to try to rip Stiles off her family even if it would be futile(knows its futile).

Derek tastes of grief and tears but Stiles knows (will know) how he tastes before he tears Kate down to the rack. Just before he will taste of vengeance and fury and brimstone.

“Good dog.” Stiles says and gets up, patting down the broken in jeans he’s worn for a week (a month) (a year). “Lets go home.”

Laura grabs Derek by the shoulders, presses him close enough that her nose disappears into his curly flop of hair, and says nothing.

Stiles doesn’t look back once. He simply says, “Scott will just love you.”

And then they disappear.