Chapter Text
Stiles had let the tears run down his face, warm and salty streaks down his cheeks. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, but he almost didn’t need it as he navigated down the familiar roads to his house. As late as it was, he didn’t have to worry about crashing into other cars as he fled from the Derek’s loft, breaking a few speed limits as long the way and doing whatever it took to get home as soon as he could.
Derek’s words were still echoing in his mind, the cruel, vicious things spat at him.
“You’re not a part of the Pack.”
“You’re not welcomed here anymore.”
“Leave. Go. Never come back.”
He doesn’t really know what happened, or what made Derek kick him out the Pack. He was running late for a meeting - which, in his defense, was the first time ever - and when he finally did show up, a carryout bag in hand, a hush fell over the room and all eyes avoided Stiles’. He was confused for a second, because everyone would normally just smile or wave or nod in acknowledgement to avoid interrupting Derek, but the room was tense and Derek wasn’t speaking at all.
He’d set the bag on a nearby table, and sighed dramatically, but before he could get out a snarky remark, Derek had cut him off, a thick, even “ Get out, ” grounded out. Stiles froze for a moment, a smile falling into a frown, and a “ What? ” stuck in his throat. Everyone had fallen silent; Erica had inched closed to Boyd and Isaac, Scott, and Allison had huddled up on the couch. No one dared to move, to catch Derek’s attention, as he and Stiles argued.
They’d gone back and forth for a while, one stubborn head against the other. Derek would tell Stiles one thing in a strong, perverse voice and Stiles would whimper something back in a small voice. Erica would trace the lines on Boyd’s hand, while Isaac tugged on loose strings on Scott’s jeans and Allison picked at an imaginary hangnail. He’d look around helplessly for help and they all would avoid his eyes.
Derek had ended up throwing a glass at the wall, making Isaac - Bless his heart - flinch back in fear, but Derek didn’t even acknowledge him too focused on Stiles. A piece of glass had wedged in Stiles’ arm, and he hadn’t felt it, but he’d seen the blood, felt the warm trail of thick liquid. He looked at Derek one last time, dejection and sorrow filling his stare, bit back tears, and stormed out the loft without a look back.
Stiles pulled into the driveway, and stumbled out the car, up the steps, and to his bedroom. This would be one of the few times that he was actually glad that his father was working the night shift at work. He fell in bed, closing his eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow. He wasn’t very sure how he did it, but eventually he fell asleep, pushing the thoughts of harsh words from his head.
Stiles woke the next morning, muscles tense and sore, eyes puffy and red, and prepared for the day. It was Saturday, a day that usually meant that he would be spending his hours playing video games with Scott and Isaac or escorting Allison, Lydia, and Erica to the mall. Last Saturday, Derek and Boyd had helped Stiles make dinner for the Pack.
But those days were over and he had to move on. Derek had been very clear about that. Even though basically everyone he talked to on a regular basis was in the Pack, he couldn’t call him. If they didn’t say anything when he was being disowned by Derek, he was sure they wouldn’t want to hang out anymore. He wasn’t sure where he stood with any of them, whether they were friends or not, but he would surely never forget about last night.
So, instead of calling anyone, he’d scrubbed the blood from his jacket and tugged it on, and jumped in his Jeep. He hadn’t planned on going anywhere, but he just knew that he didn’t want to be home when his father was there because he really didn’t want to put on a happy face right now.
He drove and drove until he rode into town. Everything was the same; people were milling about, running from store to store under the hot California sun, but then he noticed a new building. Having been in Beacon Hills his entire life, he didn’t recognize the building. It was a pale peach color, paint chipping off around the doors and windows, and there were stones making a walkway to the front door. Lilies of all colors grew to the sides of the steps and neatly trimmed green grass lined the yard. A pile of book sat on the porch next the to door, old spines turned to the road. He wasn’t sure if it was someone’s home or a store because there were no signs for a business, but no mailbox for a house.
Curiosity getting the best of him, Stiles got out his Jeep and wondered over, a warm force welcoming him to the door. He could smell a sweet cinnamon aroma from the door. When he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open and an old man smiled lazily at him.
“Hello!” He said. His hair was gray and his face was beautifully lined with wisdom, but his voice was young and energetic.
“Hi?” Stiles squeaked. He glanced behind him, looking into what appeared to be a shop. There were shelves stacked high with books, and stairs on the far right, books trailing up on the side. As a matter of fact, the entire place seemed to be filled with old books that looked more like decorations than actual entertainment. “God, what is this place?”
“It’s a shop.” He answered simply, then walked away, leaving the door open behind himself.
Stiles followed him, not really seeing the danger in it, and it’s not like he had anything better to do than follow some old guy around a store for a little while.
It didn’t seem like a shop. There was a room that resembled a living room with a sofa and loveseat, and a long narrow hallway that lead to a wide dining room with a long feasting table in the center. There was a bookshelf there too, a book crammed in every space available. The air held the smell that made him think of classic books and dog eared pages.
“Well,” The man’s voice boomed, and Stiles followed it to the sun room. “It’s really a bookshop, I suppose, but no one hardly ever notices this place.”
He walked into a sunroom and had to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon light flooding through the many window panes. There was another sofa and loveseat pair in a lovely shade of red, and contrasting dark brown end tables with a matching coffee table in the center. A few blooming flowers were in the back in hues of orange, red, and yellow to match the furniture, and - surprise - another bookshelf sat across the room.
“Sit, won’t you?” The man waved a wrinkled hand to the sofa, and Stiles sat upon command. A hush fell over them, the air thick, but not uncomfortable. Stiles looked around the room, tracing the pattern carved into one of the end tables, or skimming over the titles on the shelves.
It had been silent for a while before it’d grew too quiet for Stiles’ liking and he broke it with a simple question.
“What’s your name?”
“Clive,” He replied easily and took a sip from a cup Stiles hadn’t noticed. More silence fell and Clive stared at him with a weird smile on his face. The look oddly reminded him of Peter, but he quickly pushed the thought out his mind before his emotions could come back.
“Aren’t you going to ask mine, or just sit there staring creepily?”
“I don’t need to... Stiles .”
He went on edge quickly, back rigid and chin high. His looked at the man in front of him, eyeing him with an uneven measure. He surely didn’t looked dangerous; his nails hadn’t turned into claws and his eyes were still that silver-blue, but over the years, battling in werewolf turf wars and fighting for his life, Stiles learned that looks can be deceiving.
Then he thought for a second, and decided that he knew absolutely nothing about Clive. He didn’t know whether he knew about the furry creatures that ran around every full moon, or whether he was another pack’s emissary. Hell, he didn’t even know the man’s last name. He shouldn’t have followed him into the shop because he had no clue what he was getting dragged into, and now he’s in this terrifying situation.
“How do you know my name?” He asked carefully, ready to bolt out the door if need be. He was sure he’d be able to outrun the old man.
“Oh, that name’s been imprinted in my mind for months! Such a relief to say it!” Clive smiled big, generally happy about the entire situation. For some reason, this seemed to take the smallest amount of tension from his shoulders and he breathed.
“What do you want?” His voice came out softer and calmer than what he intended, but Clive didn’t seem to mind.
“The real question is,” His voice was calm and even as he leaned forward to whisper lowly. “what do you want?”
Stiles scrunched his face up in confusion. What kind of question was that? He wasn’t here to get life advice from a bookstore owner. He didn’t even come here to get a book. Though he honestly wandered in due to pure curiosity, it was still confusing. Clive seemed to know a lot about Stiles, but he didn’t know exactly how much he knew.
“What do you mean?”
“We live in a very generous universe. It’ll give you anything you want, anything you need, if you just ask for it.” He took a sip of tea again, the steam fogging his glasses.
Stiles thought for a moment. The first thing he though about was safety, and not glancing over his shoulder for trouble, but then he thought about strength, to be strong enough to protect everyone he loved. He thought about the time Scott almost killed himself at the motel, and when his father was taken and almost scarified, and the fact that he was basically defenseless against the Alphas and Jennifer.
He didn’t know what he wanted honestly. He wanted safety, mostly for his father and, if he was being honest, the Pack too, but he want everything to be normal again most of all. He wanted to go back to the days when Scott still had lacrosse and a hopeless crush on Allison, and he was still deeply in love with Lydia and his biggest worry was his failing grade in Bio.
But some needs were greater than others.
Stiles looked at his hands as he spoke, his voice a whisper. “I want to be stronger.”
“Strength?” Clive repeated, surprised by the answer.
“Yes.”
“Very well then,” His smile returned and Stiles had the courage to look up again. “I can make you stronger...”
Stiles noticed the way he trailed off, leaving something unsaid, but he was smart enough to know. “There’s a price, isn’t it?”
Clive glanced up from the floor, and his smile fell the slightest bit. “Yes, there is,” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I cannot ask for anyone’s life - including yours - or anything that would interfere with your natural lifespan.”
“Well?” He asked when Clive fell quiet again. “What is it?”
He shrugged, the movement small and barely noticeable with his bony shoulders. “Depends on the person. My last successor paid his price in good favor; I gave him a wife, beautiful and loving, and he gave me all his bad memories. Nevertheless, it can also be bad. One young man had to give all the love in his heart, and he was never able to love his wife or his children.”
Stiles paused for a moment. He should’ve refused. He should’ve shook his head and stood to leave from shop. He should’ve thought about everything that he’d could lose.
But a nagging voice in the back of his mind told him otherwise. He didn’t have anyone except his father now. The same people he bled for had betrayed him, taken away the only source of protection, safety, and, not including his father, family. He couldn’t count all the times he’d stayed up late just to research the history of supernatural beings, only go to go school the next morning and fall asleep in class.
He weighed his options. He would be stronger, so he wouldn’t need Scott or Derek or anyone else to save him anymore. There was a price, which is extremely dangerous because he has no idea what it is, but maybe it won’t be so bad. Clive said he couldn’t take lives, so his life and his father’s would be safe, and that’s all that really mattered.
“I’ll do it,” He declared in a strong voice.
Clive smiled, and stood, so Stiles did the same. “Come,” He beckoned, and Stiles moved closer.
He laid two cold fingers on Stiles’ forehead. Stiles didn’t know what was happening, but he felt safe as his body began to feel warm and light. Clive began to mutter a foreign language under his breath and closed his eyes. Stiles stood there, a bit awkward, but ignored the temptation to move or speak, and let the man work his magic.
After a few seconds, he pulled back with a large smile. “Ah,” He said as they both went back to their seats. “You’re a clever one. You could be Sherlock Holmes with a little more practice!”
Stiles just shrugged. He didn’t really know what to say, or how to react, so he sat quietly as Clive finished talking.
“You now have the ability to practice white magic. It’s an ancient form of magic. Few in the entire world possess the power to practice such magic, and I am grateful to say that I have the ability to give others my gift as well.” Clive’s cheeks tilt up at that statement. “Your price isn’t much, quite simple actually. It’s just a rare hybrid of wolfsbane you have access to called aconitum napellus.”
Stiles vaguely recalled reading the name in Deaton’s scratchy handwriting across the top of a bottle. “Yeah, actually, I do.”
“Deliver it to me by Monday, but as of now, I’ll give you a Guardian.”
At Stiles’ knotted eyebrows, he continued and moved to scan the bookshelf.
“White magic is dangerous - not as dangerous as black magic, but there’s still a possibility of death. A small possibility, but still. Since you’re new to this, you’ll need someone to watch over you as you practice.”
“So, it’s like a chaperone? No offence, but I think I’m okay without one.”
While Stiles was speaking, Clive was shaking his head, still facing the bookshelf. “No, you don’t understand. White magic is a delicate thing, and if you’re not careful, you can catch a curse just as easy as you can catch an illness from the air. Guardians are to make sure you don’t harm anyone, or yourself.”
Stiles nodded. He really thought he wouldn’t need a Guardian, nor did he want one. It was basically what he was trying to get rid of now - the constant need for someone to protect or watch over him. He was strong enough to handle himself, and he was sure a little magic wouldn’t hurt him.
“Her name is Lucinda, or Lucy for short.” Clive smiled as he carefully pulled a book and blew off the dust. “She’d be best for you since you don’t want a guardian. She’ll protect you without smothering you.”
Clive put the book on the table, right next to his tea, and opened to a seemingly random page in the middle. He began to mutter in that foreign language again and Stiles noticed it was some form of Latin. He closed his eyes and waved his hand over the book, and the book responded by glowing slightly, a glow that wouldn’t be noticeable unless you searched for it.
After a few more seconds, he pulled back with a grin and plopped in his seat again.
“She’ll be here soon, just give her a moment. I think you’ll really like her. She’s a sweet girl, and she wouldn’t try to control you or anything. Another thing - she’s not too hard on the eyes,”
“Damn right,” The voice from the doorway made Stiles look over. A girl stood there, leaning against the doorpost with a few grapes in her hand.
And Clive was right; she was beautiful. Her hair was so brown that it almost almost looked black, and it fell in loose curls around her shoulders. She was tall and lean, wearing high heels that made her appear just a few inches shorter than Stiles, with soft features and long legs. Warm blue eyes sat over a button nose, and she looked just like any seventeen-year-old girl from his school.
She moved over to Stiles and sat gracefully on the couch next to him. “You want a grape?”
He shook his head with a small smile, and Clive spoke up. “Lucy, you’ve been here for two minutes; how’d you have time raid my fridge?” She shrugged with a smile, and he finished talking. “Anyways, meet your newest student, Stiles Stilinski.”
“Hi,” He greeted lamely and she wiggled her fingers in response with a mouthful of grapes. Clive handed him the book that he waved his hand over.
“Keep that with you at all times; it has all your spells in it. Lucy has a connection with it, so as long as you have the book, she can find you. Stiles,” He continued. “She’ll be with you all day, everyday. She can vanish upon command and reappear when the time is appropriate, so don’t worry about that. She has good sense, and never forget; she is a magical being. Treat her right, or pay the consequences.”
He nodded quickly and said, “Yes, sir,” as if he was being granted to take a father’s daughter to prom.
“Well, now that that’s settled,” Lucy spoke up from next to Stiles, playing with a loose string on her jeans. “Would anyone like some tea?”
“No, thanks,” He said.
“Yes, darling, please,” Clive said, and handed over his cup, and she walked off to the kitchen.
He didn’t know why he continued to sit with Clive and Lucy. There was no logic behind it, and he wasn’t gaining anything from it, but yet, sitting on the dusty red sofa, he listened as the man as he told stories from decades ago and listened to Lucy as she ranted on and on about old students she had.
By the time he left, the sun had set and the sky was a dark purple. Lucy had promised to meet him back home once she had packed a few things and talked to Clive. The drive back to his house seemed shorter, but once he finally made it home, he made a place for the spell book on his bookshelf and immediately opened his laptop.
He could vaguely remember falling asleep at his desk and Lucy sneaking in his room in the middle of the night, pulling him from his work and shoving him in the bed. He does remember falling asleep with burning eyes on him and a warm body.