Chapter Text
Prologue: Tested
“Go!” Peter roared, blue eyes flashing red fury as he turned away from him and set himself in the path of their pursuers. Stiles ground to a halt, because no! He couldn’t lose another, not the last -
Peter didn’t look back at him, facing away, braced, ready, meeting death on purpose and fearlessly this time, this final time. “Stiles. Go.” His voice was soft now. “I’ve been gone a long time, you know that. Go. Fix this. Finish this.”
He was crying, he knew he was, there was so much he wanted to say - and they didn’t have time. They were out of time. “Even broken, Peter, you’ve given your all to protect your pack. Thank you.”
He turned and he fled. The Nemeton, he had to make it to the Nemeton. Peter’s snarl filled the surrounding woods. Screams of dying things joined the cacophony. Stiles ran. And then he was there, the stump, the hollowed out, despondent aura, the lingering sense of evil that hadn’t dispersed with the destruction of the Nogistune. He leapt onto the log and bared the silver athame, gripping the blade with his left and slashing down with his right, splashing blood across the pitted surface of the stump. He clamped the blade in his teeth and plunged his fingers into the welling wound and frantically traced runes around the edge of the stump. Reach back through time, he thought, before this shitshow started, to the death that started it all, to the one I can save first that will change everything. Restore the balance, bring back the Nemeton, halt the dissonance between packs, supernatural and hunters before it gets so out of hand it triggers the end of times - he pled to magic, to the universe, throwing his case into the void with desperation.
Let me fix this. Let me right the balance. Let them live.
He slammed his power into the final rune - sealing the circle and setting the spell in motion, just as his pursuers crashed into view. One man took aim at him - and a bloody, shredded Peter came out of nowhere and took him down. The magic around Stiles was roaring - he lifted his hands, the athame in one, the other covered in unleashed, crackling lightning, teeth bared in a snarl of defiance, prepared to fight, to go down dragging as many of these bastards as he could with him. For one moment he met Peter’s glowing, blood frenzied gaze - peripherally saw the blade plunging into his packmate’s back - and the next he was staring into a nondescript wall, not two feet away from his upraised hands.
Two startled inhales had him spinning around, and two young people scrambled into standing positions - the young woman leaping backwards into a defensive crouch on top of her bed, while the man slid into a supple glide forward between the woman and Stiles only to lock into a moment of frozen promise. Stiles knew from experience how fast a werewolf could explode into movement after they’ve gone into that hunting stillness. The movement so quintessentially lupine that Stiles knew was in the presence of werewolves even without the two pairs of glowing wolf gold eyes locked on him. The protective posturing was so familiar. Hadn’t he seen that move countless times in his relatively short life?
Stiles shifted his hands up in a ‘no, wait’ gesture. “Sorry, sorry, no, I’m not attacking. I… please… give me a moment.” His breath was panting past his lips, he knew the wolves heard his rapid heartbeat, probably smelled the pure agro of his fight mode, trying to quell the battle fury and panic. Forcefully, he took two, long breaths. He closed his eyes and dragged in another longer breath, and let it out as slowly as he could. Centered enough to hopefully not trigger these two into an attack, he opened his eyes and looked at them, meeting each gaze firmly before the urge to check for pursuit or attack overwhelmed his impulse control and he darted his gaze around the room.
“I have a really odd question for you two.” He said, hands still up, palms out, unable to fully relax, waiting for the attack, for someone to follow his magical trail, not knowing if it was a possibility or not.
“As weird as you appearing out of nowhere ready to demolish the wall?” The young man drawled sarcastically, and Stiles almost, almost laughed.
“Yeah, about that weird. What year is it?”
Both werewolves blinked at him before exchanging bewildered looks. “Uh… 1993.” The woman said, her brows creased in confusion, and it felt like all of the marionette strings were sliced clean through. Stiles dropped his hands, his whole body wilted, and he stumbled a step backwards until he could use the wall to slump down to the ground, relief and exhaustion turning his bones to jelly.
“It worked.” He laughed, sounding a little crazed even to his own ears. “Holy fucking shit. It worked.” He covered his eyes with his hands. “Shit. Sorry, sorry. Fuck.” 1993, fuck, that was before, hell, so much. Before the Alpha Pack formed, even. Before Paige. God, if he could keep that from happening, that would stop so, so much.
“Are you… alright?” The woman asked, and Stiles let out a hysterical little trill.
“Not even slightly. I just fucking time traveled. Who fucking does that?”
“You time traveled?” The man, who seemed so very familiar, drawled the words with a tone that dripped in disbelief.
“Dude,” Stiles dropped his hands to level him with a look. “Can’t you hear my truth? What kind of a werewolf are you?”
“How did- no. I can’t hear your body’s functions. I can’t smell you, either. How are you doing that?”
“What- oh! Shit, sorry. I warded myself, god, that was, what, a week ago? Would’ve been fucking handy to know earlier, anyway, let me fix that.” The mountain ash symbols on his skin flashed, broke apart, and glided into the bag he wore on his belt.
Both werewolves tensed. “You’re bleeding!” The woman exclaimed, coming off the bed and taking several quick steps towards him - the man grabbed her arm to keep her from moving forward further.
“Tell us again. And tell us you mean no harm.” He demanded, and that trill of recognition shivered through Stiles again. He knew this man from somewhere.
“I time traveled. My name is Stiles, I mean you no harm - time travel works like that, it takes you to the person whose continued existence will most change the events you’ve petitioned magic to change - if magic, the universe, the powers that be, whatever, find your petition worthy, that’s where they send you. I wasn’t obliterated by the spell, ergo, magic, the universe, and everything found me worthy and sent me to… one of you. Where are we?”
The woman shook off the man’s hand and they both came to crouch next to him, the man pausing to grab a rather well stocked first aid kit from a shelf.
“New Haven, Connecticut.” The woman responded shortly, gently grabbing his bleeding hand before her eyes narrowed on his middle and she reached out to pull it up. “Gunshot?” She asked, eyes widening.
Stiles looked down at the round, sluggishly bleeding hole in his stomach. “Huh. Fuck. When did that happen?”
The man let out a string of nasty curses in a particular rhythm and cadence that was very familiar to Stiles. Just so did Peter fucking Hale cuss when he was particularly vitriolic about something.
“Holy shit. You’re Peter Hale.” Stiles blinked against a wave of dizziness. “I… huh. Wait. Connecticut? New Haven? You’re attending Yale, aren’t you? Are we in fucking Yale?”
“A few minutes from campus, but not actually in it.” The woman said, pulling out a decidedly not sterile looking bag, it looked rather occult. “You’ve perforated a bowel, from the smell. This is a healing bag my pack’s witch makes - it’ll heal your wounds, but it’s going to burn like alcohol and salt water and hellfire all in one. Scream if you want, we don’t have close enough neighbors to worry about it.”
“How nice-” Stiles started to say sarcastically as she dumped the bag right on his wound - and fuck if it didn’t hurt just like she’d described. He clenched his teeth on the scream that wanted to come out and slammed his head back against the wall. His vision went white and pain lit up every nerve ending he had. After a few minutes he blinked rapidly to clear the dots swimming in his vision, the pain fading away, taking with it the pain from the wounds he’d been too hyped up to feel before. The werewolves had sat back on their haunches, waiting for him. He glanced down, his hand had been cleaned and had a neat, light bandage on it, the same for his stomach. They’d patched up neatly while he’d been out of it.
“Wow. That wasn't a nice feeling at all, but it’s handy. Would have been nice to have a few of those on hand when-” Stiles cut himself off. Too many times, those little bags would have been lifesaving. Grief and severed packbonds yawed inside of him, and he bent his head against the loss of it, of them. All of them. For a moment all he could do was breath through it, eyes clenched shut, grief crashing over him like a tidal wave.
When he looked up again, the woman said softly. “It was bad, then? The time you came from?”
Stiles swallowed, and forced himself to straighten up. “I - yeah. Fucking awful. End of times awful. I was the last.” He glanced at Peter. “Barely, there was one left, but he fell as I finished the spell.” God, what was his life when he was crying for Peter fucking Hale twice in a goddamned hour? He scrubbed at his face impatiently. Later. He could fall apart later.
“My name is Stiles - I said that already, didn’t I? Okay. My future ended in 2013. From what I know, shit started hitting the fan in a way that turned into a slow moving, but ever growing avalanche in 2003 - no, the first fire was in 2001. You- you are Peter Hale?” He asked the man, who nodded slowly. “Awesome, okay, so you were alive and kicking during the whole shebang, scarily capable and deadly as fuck - I am so not mad about running into you this early in the game - so that means that you are who magic sent me to find.” Stiles turned to the woman, who gave him a slim sliver of a smile.
“Meaning I presumably wasn’t - won’t be? - alive and kicking in my future?”
“Hey, the goal is to turn that around, yeah? Can I get your name?” Stiles gave her a lopsided smile.
“Alaina Mercer, of the Boston Pack.”
Stiles closed his eyes again. Mercer. He’d researched the shit out of the time spell and plagued Peter for all the information he could give him about the state of the packs, what he knew about Gerard and Kate’s movements prior to the fire, anything unusual or unfortunate to happen to larger packs, like the Hale fire, supposedly accidental though the facts just didn’t add up - too many pay offs and cohorts in those messy plans. Peter had shared that four other large, peaceful packs, long standing families with ties to their communities, had burned to the ground across the country. The packs were largely insulated groups that rarely shared news or ties. By the time the Hale fire happened, the alarm was just going up about possible arson, Peter had heard about the destruction of the Doyle, Marrick, Graceland and… Mercer packs. He’d brought it to Talia’s attention just a few days before the fire. Mercer. Gods. Hale Fire… 2005, two in 2004, one in 2003 and the first in 2001. But it was 1993. He had time. By magic, the universe and everything, he had time. He took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly.
“Okay. Okay. Mercer, I recognize the name. Yeah. Hey, your witch, can she do anything to fireproof homes? Because she needs to get onto that, like, yesterday. If not, I can. Actually, fuck that, whatever she does, I want to add to it - and, you, Peter, if you can convince your sister to get someone, anyone, other than that bastard Deaton to be the Hale Emissary, I would highly recommend it. Someone who does more than make vague-ass, useless comments in the worst possible moments would be a definite plus, but you also need to fireproof the fuck out of your home. There’s time. Thank fuck, there’s plenty of time, but, yeah, hell. That’s mega important.”
Peter and Alaina exchanged another speaking look, and then Alaina grabbed what looked like a black brick with an antenna off the dresser and Stiles groaned, confronted by what passed as 1993’s cellphone technology. “Ah hell, the 1990’s tech was absolute shit.” He muttered. “I miss the future.”
Peter snorted, and Alaina tossed him a mildly offended look. “This is the hottest thing on the market, thank you very much.” She said a little snootily, fingers punching a number by memory. “Yes, it’s Alaina. Tell Mom I need to speak to her on the office phone, please? No, it really can’t.” She pulled out a desk chair and sat.
“Let’s get you off the floor. The window seat, there? In case you need further attention, or pass out, you might as well be comfortable.” Stiles looked at the space indicated. It was a generous space, long enough that two people could easily sprawl out and bask, the bay window large and the trees and sky through it were breathtaking. The sunlight, the blue sky he could see, the vibrant green foliage - he hadn’t any of that for over a year. Nothing but grey ash clogged skies and winter-killed, apocalyptic surrounds. He wouldn’t let it come to that again. He couldn’t.
And the first step of that is to get your ass over to that seat and convince stubborn werewolves who believe themselves to be untouchable that they’re on the verge of an extinction war. Taking stock of his body, he nodded, and grabbed Peter’s still extended hand. The world roiled around him as the blood rushing from his head caused his ears to roar and his vision to black out for a breath of time. Only Peter’s grip kept him from going right back down. The effects of the time travel ritual? Maybe it’s that he hadn’t eaten more than a handful of molasses grains in the last three days, or the injuries? All of it? Who knows. Slowly, Stiles crossed the room, and settled on to the seat. Peter got him propped up against the cushions and pillows, and then stepped out of his space, retreating prop a hip against the desk Alaina sat at.
Stiles glanced around the, rather large, open, well lit bedroom. Wooden floors, beige walls, green trim along the floor and ceiling. The green floral bedspread and dresses he could see through the open closet door hinted that this was Alaina’s room, unless she and Peter shared a room? Stiles glanced at them both. Alaina was tapping her foot on the floor, the other propped up on the chair, the arm not holding up the phone crossed over it. She seemed lost in thought while she waited. Peter returned his look, seeming completely at ease in his observation. He was young, younger than Stiles would have expected for Yale. He cast back on what he knew about Peter and did some quick math.
“Dude, you’re, what, seventeen- are you a freshman here?”
Peter arched a brow at him. “You know quite a bit about me. I am seventeen. We're, Alaina and I, freshmen. I graduated early.” He shrugged. “I’m brilliant, my parents are rich, I made it into Yale.”
“Super humble, too.” Stiles said dryly. “Such a wonderful trait to find in the youth these days.”
“Easy there, grandfather,” Peter replied, matching Stiles’ caustic tone perfectly. “I would hate for your ancient wisdom to shatter my youthful exuberance.”
Stiles barked out a laugh. “Alright. Fine, I’m eighteen. Fuck. I was on the fast track for Yale, too, before everything. Pure brilliance only, though, we were practically paupers.” Peter rolled his eyes, but cut his attention over to Alaina and the phone before responding. Alaina straightened. Apparently her mother had gotten to the phone.
“Yeah, mom, I’m fine. I have an unexpected visitor. From the year 2013.” She cocked her head at whatever her mother was saying, and Peter snorted softly.
“Mother,” Alaina said very dryly. “You know the substances that would get me high aren’t available at a price or location that would escape your notice. I assure you, I am one hundred percent serious and sober both. The traveler came in gut shot and reeking of ozone and war. I read the truth in his words, and so did Peter Hale. Yes, yeah. I’ll wait.”
“She’s calling for their witch.” Peter told Stiles in a soft undertone. “Our glorious pack leaders do their best to keep their hands clean of the occult. That’s the emissary’s business.”
“An interestingly puritan view for werewolves to take, I’d think.” Stiles said, eyeing the man speculatively.
Alaina rolled her eyes at them both, and Peter grinned. It was such an odd, carefree, cheerful expression on his face - Stiles wasn’t used to Hale’s face doing that. It was a devastatingly handsome look, too. Geez. Old Peter had his looks, but he’d been a broken vessel. Sometimes Stiles had looked at him and only seen those broken packbonds, seen how the fire had burnt out so much of who the man had been, leaving a functioning husk behind. From what he’d learned about the older man, he’d been a scarily efficient Left Hand before the fire, so the ruthless calculation he kept showing flashes of was definitely familiar. His protective caution. But the humor wasn’t razor edges, his smiles didn't solely threaten, and had warmth tucked into the corners. Something about old Peter had screamed threat and predator. This Peter, unburnt, untouched by madness, with ties to family still intact? This Peter was still dangerous, yeah. But that wasn’t all he was. Stiles’ attention snapped back to Alaina when she spoke again.
“Emelda, yes, hi. I’m doing just fine. Yes, a time traveler. He says magic sends them back to the person whose life continuance will most greatly change the timestream, after being weighed by magic itself first. Yes, I’m very cognizant of what that implies, thank you.” Dry as desert stripped bone. “Ah, really? That’s actually really amazing.”
Stiles glanced at Peter. “The witch’s family had an ancestor who time traveled, back in the 12th century, so, your claims are confirmed. Convenient for you, hm?” Stiles rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the ongoing half of the conversation he could hear.
“Yeah, no I haven’t strung him up for interrogation. He seems surprised to be so far back in time, and relieved by it. 2003 is the start of what he seems to think of as a… problematic timeline, but he says it’s important that our home is fireproofed as soon as possible, as much as possible. The Hale house, too.”
“The Marrick, Graceland and Doyle pack houses, too. The first fire is - no, would be - in 2001, but none of the Graceland pack survives it.” Stiles said. “If there’s a way to protect the homes from being entrapped by mountain ash, or ward off wolfsbane and mistletoe poisoning inside the homes, that would also be good to get set in.”
Peter had gone pale at hearing the details of several packs’ demise, his eyes gleaming gold in reaction. Alaina was as pale, as golden eyed.
“None?” She whispered the question.
“Not until the Hales. Derek and Laura were at school. Peter survived the fire, but he suffered massive 3rd degree burns and ended up in a coma for six years.” Stiles frowned. That had always been weird - Kate fucking Argent had been so thorough on the previous arsonist - serial killer sprees. Three, no four, he’d forgotten Cora, Hales had escaped her grasp was weird. Suspiciously weird.
“Who?” Peter whispers. “Who killed us then?”
Stiles shook his head slowly. “She’s, what, ten, right now? No dice. I hate the crazy, pedophilic bitch as much as anyone, but I don’t murder children. But…” Stiles frowned, trying to remember everything he could. “Someone might want to get eyes on Gerard Argent. The sooner there’s proof that he doesn’t live by his family’s fucking code of convenience and does something about that sick bastard, the better.”
Alaina nodded. “So, a to do list: Fireproofing, poison proofing- or at the very least identifying, and a way to keep from being trapped inside the house by mountain ash, letting the families mentioned know to look out for the danger, getting bead on Gerard Argent.” She paused. “Can you get Camden on getting an identity together for Stiles?” She turned and raised a brow at Stiles. “Surname?”
“Gajos.” Stiles said, claiming his mother’s maiden name after a moment’s thought. Stiles Stilinski was a pretty unique and recognizable name, it didn’t need a double running around.
Another nod. “If Camden can get him ‘transferred’ to Yale, he should probably stick close to me for a while. He mentioned he’d been on track to go here, anyway, so we may as well give him a decent chance of a future in the past, hm?” She nodded decisively at whatever she heard on the other end of the line. “Yes. Degree plan, Stiles? Just run of the mill freshman courses or do you want to go for something in particular?”
Stiles couldn’t help but gape at her. She smirked. “We’re rich and influential. No biggie.” Her mirth was gone in a second, replaced by solemn seriousness. “And if you can keep my whole family from going up in flames and being eradicated, well, we’ll owe you. So?”
“Uh.” Stiles said intelligently. He hadn’t thought about school in over a year. “I… yeah. Okay. Um. Criminal Justice major. I can swing that easily enough.”
“You want to be a lawyer?” Peter, the future lawyer, asked.
Stiles shook his head. “Nah, my dad was a Sheriff. I solved about half of his cold cases before the supernatural shit vamped my life by being an over-invested, nosy delinquent. I was planning on going to the FBI.” He smiled slightly, the time he expected the college and future adult drudgery seemed so far away. It had been… two years and eight months since Scott turned? Wild. “No. Wait- what are you studying? Whatever it is, get, Camden was it? Get him to get me in as many of your classes as possible. Magic wouldn’t have plopped me in the here and now unless it was close to when I needed to make that first crucial difference.”
Alaina met his gaze steadily for a long moment before letting loose a slight, twisted smile. “Lucky for you, Peter and I are taking the Criminal Justice track. Lawyers, us, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to follow your own career goals and meet the same. Mom’s asking if you’ll be able to keep up if we fudge the first semester’s grades for you - this one is just about over, but Peter and I are taking summer courses - they’ll start up in two weeks. I think we can keep you on track between the two of us, but it’s a good question.”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah, no problem. Maybe a little bit of culture shock, but, hell, why not?” He frowned, thinking it over. “You’re just going to help me? Just like that?”
Peter met his gaze across the room and Stiles looked into those very steady, sane, serious blue eyes. “You sacrificed yourself, your future, to warn us against a threat that would destroy all of us. That’s huge, Stiles. My family will help you. Alaina’s will. We owe you a debt we can never repay.”
Help. He hadn’t been expecting that, at all. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do it then.”
***