WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED, EVA SINCLAIR PLACED A HAND ON HIS SHOULDER AND SAID, "FOR SUCH A SMART BOY, I THOUGHT YOU'D KNOW BETTER THAN TO SUFFER UNBEARABLE PAIN ALONE." Eva was dressed in a black and she spoke with a softness that wasn't typical—Too motherly for someone who seemed so harsh with every action. Even as a child, the woman hadn't been fond of him. She tolerated him for Remington's sake, indulged in his rambles with just a tad more patience than his teachers.

That day—It was the only time that Eva spoke to him without her daughter's presence around to urge it. It was also the only day Eva looked at him with something similar to love, even if it was diluted with grief.

For such a smart boy, I thought you'd know better than to suffer unbearable pain alone. Who even speaks to a kid like that? At the time, he had been alone; his mother had died, his father was grieving with a bottle of whiskey. He didn't have extended family. He didn't have anyone else. For all he tried to comfort himself, Stiles knew he had been completely and utterly alone in the world.

Then, true to her spirit, Eva Sinclair had stormed his home with the temper of thorn crown; a snarl sickened her features as she confronted his father's alcohol-induced negligence before it became uncontrollable and the beauty in the gentleness of her worlds as she spoke at Stiles.

For such a smart boy, I thought you'd know better than to suffer unbearable pain alone. He hadn't really spoken to anyone after his mother's passing, not to Remington or Scott—only thank you's and mumbled responses whenever someone paid their respect. He never shared how it felt like he wasn't there anymore, how the urge to scream and cry and not exist overwhelmed him. The guilt, the uncertainty, the—the absolute hurt of losing his mom.

But somehow, Eva had known.

Eva saw. She understood, and more, she comforted him.

Now, remembering his father walking away without another word, unemployed because of him—because he doesn't think of others, because he is not smart like Eva believes—Stiles couldn't help but want the witch's comfort once more. Even if it's spiteful, even if it's more shouting than calming; anything to not feel like another parent abandoned him.

Leaning against his mother's jeep, bags of black dust by his feet and with the weight of an impossible task in mind, he looked at his cell phone. He called the witch earlier, informing her of the plan to stop the Kanima. Stiles didn't have any reason to bother Eva anymore and he didn't want to wake Remington when the girl barely rested nowadays.

He forced himself to lock his phone, shoving it in his back pocket. The muffled music erupting from outside the nightclub served as background noise, providing a bit comfort as he psyched himself. "C'mon, Stiles," he muttered to himself, picking up the black bag.

Scott ran off inside the club earlier, leaving him alone. Deaton's instructions were clear enough to follow, though; all he needs to do is create a barrier of Mountain Ash around the building where the rave is happening.

And he almost did do it—then the hunters arrived.

Stiles worked quietly but quickly, hunched over as the Mountain Ash continued to pour and only glancing up when the sound of tires screeching disturbed the foggy night. In quick succession, several vehicles arrived in the empty parking lot, all huge with tinted windows, their headlights blinding as several men exited quickly.

Leading them was Gerard Argent.

Ominously, the sky thundered. "Careful, gentlemen," Gerard said as his eyes were dragged upwards, a ruthless glint in them as the hunters stopped, Chris among them. "Something wicked this way comes,"

How fucking poetic, Stiles thought angrily, willing his heart to calm as he hid behind a cement column. The barrier was half-finished and now that he had a moment to notice, the first bag of Mountain Ash was nearly empty too. Not that it mattered much when he didn't know how to complete the barrier without being spotted by the Argents.

His phone felt heavy in his pocket.

Stiles watched, almost felt faint with relief, as the hunters walked further into the nightclub. He prepared himself to crawl back to his jeep. Then, another voice spoke up, obscured from his line of sight.

"Back off?" Derek Hale scoffed; Stiles lowered himself to the ground again, resisting the urge to bang his head against the column. "That—that's really all you've got? I got to be honest, Chris. I was really expecting more from the, uh, big, bad veteran werewolf hunter."

Chris Argent's tone was cold with dullness, his words followed by the sounds of several guns cocking. "Okay, then. How about 'didn't anyone ever tell you not to bring claws to a gunfight?'"

The sound of growling and gunshots were chilling.

Stiles forced himself not to panic as he raced to the other side of the building, away from the confrontation between werewolves and hunters. He continued to pour the Mountain Ash, praying the fight wouldn't disturb his work.

Another gunshot and his hands trembled.

Finally, the bag ran empty. Stiles watched with a hollow feeling in his chest as the last residues of the black dust spilled out of the bag. "Oh, no." He heard himself whispered but could not remember moving his mouth.

For such a smart boy, I thought you'd know better than to suffer unbearable pain alone. He isn't a smart boy like Eva said. If he was, he would find a way to figure it out—All of it. How to complete the barrier, how to solve the Kanima issue, how to deal with the hunters, Remington's illness. If he was smart, he would know how to repay Eva for everything. He would know how to help Scott and Allison with their relationship, even help Lydia and—Isaac and Erica, and Boyd, and everyone else who ended up in the shitty world of werewolves.

If Stiles was truly smart, he would—He would—

A touch to his shoulder scared him. Stiles let out a shout as he turned, taking several steps backs, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, pounding, banging, trying to get out.

When he finally registered who was standing in front of him, it might as well have stopped.

Stiles gasped, fright mixing with aghast bewilderment. "Remington?"

She stood in front of him in her lace-trim striped pajama set, a familiar one she has owned for years because they still fit despite her all growth spurts over the course of the summer. Her tweed coat was skewed, buttons in the wrong holes and her cheeks were a flustered red as she huffed, blonde hair messily pulled up in a ponytail by a loose ribbon.

"You looked like you were scared!" Remington smiled sweetly, as if this—gunfire and roars mixed with EDM music, her being out at this hour—is normal, and oh God, Eva is truly going to murder him.

"Holy fuck, what—What the fuck, Remington!" Stiles cursed, cradling his head as he paced, dread chasing off his fear. "What the fuck, what the fuck! Oh, I am going to die. What the fuck?" He blinked repeatedly, but the girl did not disappear. If anything, her smile seemed to grow. "Oh fuck!"

"I guess you're not scared anymore," Remington nodded, pleased. "It'll be okay, Stiles! I'm here to help you and Scott now!"

"H-help?" Stiles repeated with disbelief. Irritation choked his words, and he let out an aggravated whine. "Help, Remington? Are you—Are you serious? Do you hear that?" He paused, hoping the girl understood the severity of his words as another pained howl filled the night. "Those are gunshots, from guns. With bullets! That can kill people!"

He let out a hysterical laugh, unable to stop it. "You know what else kills people, Remington? Claws! Werewolf claws! Kanima claws! And—and you are here! I don't know what to do. And I'm—And I'm all alone, and I can't protect you, I can't, and I'm—and I'm standing here like a frickin' idiot all by myself with a handful of magic fairy dust."

"Fairy dust?" Remington asked, tilting her head to the side like a dumb puppy.

Stiles let out a whine, his thumb flying to his mouth out of instinct. He bit on his nail hard enough to taste blood. "Of course, that's the only thing you heard. Damn it, Remington! I'm being serious!" He spat out on the ground, glaring at the girl with all the annoyance and frustration he has felt since—Well, since Scott got bitten by Peter Hale and damned their lives. "Look, I got, like, 50 feet of ash left, and I'm out." He pointed at the circle of Mountain Ash, not caring if the girl even knew what he meant because he had enough. "Okay? And now! Now, you are here—and I love you, Teddy, I really do, but I don't think you love me because if you did, you would actually listen to me—"

Remington ran into him.

Stiles huffed, the force of Remington's hug driving him a step back. "Are you done?" She asked teasingly, words muffled by Stiles' chest. She looked up at him with bright blue eyes, chin digging into his chest.

Stiles, unsure of what to do, just placed his hand on the back of her head. "Do you want me dead? I'm starting to think you actually want Eva to murder me."

"Mom likes you," Remington insisted, tightening her grip around briefly before letting go. She brushed her bangs aside and beamed at him.

"Doesn't mean she won't find a way to severely injure me," When he breathed out, Stiles found him far more relaxed than he was moments ago. Groaning at the realizing, he asked tiredly. "Why are you here, Remington? If I asked how you even got here, I think I'll have a heart attack."

"I called a taxi!" Remington said innocently, ignoring Stiles' distraught face. "And I already told you, I'm here to help. What's the fairy dust you mentioned?"

Trying to think of the fastest way to shove the girl into his jeep without getting struck by a stray bullet or bitten to death by a werewolf, Stiles replied absently. "Mountain Ash. It's, uh, supposed to create a barrier against the supernatural."

Remington's eyebrows furrowed skeptically, taking Stiles' clenched fist to examine the black dust. To his horror—and disgust—she pitched a small amount between her thumb and index finger and placed it in her mouth, tasting the ash.

"Spit it out!" Stiles ordered immediately, grabbing the little witch by the back of her neck to lower her head. "Remington spit it out! It could be poisonous—Oh my God, I've never hated someone so much in my life. Spit it out!"

Remington escaped his grip, looking thoughtful. "It's not poisonous," she said blithely. "It's Rowan..."

She stilled, suddenly. "Stiles, when I was younger, did you know mom used to teach me control with ground-up petals?" She looked at him oddly. "I would mix them with water for cleansing spells, turned the powder into a paste for healing ones. For boundary and sealing spells, I would create a barrier with them."

A weird feeling settled in his stomach. "I..." Stiles cleared his throat. "I didn't know,"

"For a long time, I thought the petals were the source of magic, because she said they were special, hand-picked from a Rowan tree common in Northern California, so I needed to be careful with the petals and focus, even if they were already turned to powder." Remington continued, watching him carefully. "Later, when I finally gained full control over my powers, I found out it was just a guide, like training wheels. The petals weren't magical—they just worked as an extension."

Stiles remembered Deaton's words; It's just powder until a spark ignites it. You need to be that spark, Stiles. "I don't—I don't understand," he stammered out.

Remington bit her bottom lip, squinting her eyes as she thought over her words. "The Mountain Ash isn't magical, Stiles." She said slowly, "just like the petals weren't. It's all just... means to help us visualize magic. If we don't have magic within us, then they're just—Ash and dust."

A sharp laugh of disbelief left him.

"Oh, okay, yeah. Who do you mean by 'we'?" Stiles said sardonically, but his mind started racing, a million thoughts at once; because—because Remington's words just made sense. Why Deaton said he's the only one who can perform the boundary spell, why Eva introducing him to magic at such a young age despite not liking him, trusting him to be her daughter's caretake when dozens of others were more qualified. Eva's cryptic words made sense now too if what Remington is implying is the truth.

"The spark," Stiles realized, mouth falling. "The spark is magical. And if—If I'm the spark, then..."

He didn't want to say it. He's human in a pack of supernatural creatures, and he accepted that; he's human. He doesn't heal or have claws like a True Alpha or do whatever the hell Lydia is capable of. He's just Stiles, and he's fine with that.

Who can he possibly be if not the weak human?

A hand touched his wrist. "Hey," Remington said softly. "Don't overthink it,"

"I'm not," he denied immediately, hands jittering nervously. "I'm just—Shouldn't I like, feel something? A connection to like the earth or something? 'Cus I don't. I don't really feel different. We should just forget this and finish the circle."

For a moment, Remington looked annoyed. "Would I lie to you, doofus?"

Stiles scoffed—of course, doofus is the highest form of insult to someone like her. "I don't know about lying," he snapped. "But it's not like you listen to me or Eva anymore, so I can't be too sure."

Hurt pooled in Remington's eyes, but it quickly faded away into that gooey-hearted compassion she had endless amounts of. "I know it's really shocking, Stiles," she said, stepping forward to touch his wrist hesitantly. "I know you are very skeptical. But mom and I will help you understand—and mom will mentor you, and I'll—A lot of things about yourself will start making sense, too. I would never, ever lie to you, Stiles. You just... You need to believe."

It's a terrifying thing, to learn something so primal about himself that others seemed to know already.

It made him feel transparent, a little off-script.

But if there's any way to repay Remington's boundless affection and optimism over the years, despite how terrible he treated her at certain moments, the times she helped him just by smiling, then it's by gifting her his whole faith.

At some point during his personal crisis, his eyes had fluttered shut, and when he opened them, Remington looked up at him with that dumb puppy eagerness and admiration, like she couldn't believe Stiles is real and the fact he is right there in front of her is enough to feel like she had won something.

If this is going to work, Stiles, you have to believe it. "Um, okay." He breathed out shakily, closing his eyes again. He tightened his fist, sensing the last traces of Mountain Ash. "She said you got to believe. You need to believe. Come on, believe, Stiles."

"Just, uh—just picture it!" Remington called out helpfully.

He couldn't stop the quirk of his lips at that.

"Just imagine it working, okay?" Stiles told himself. "Just—Imagine."

Surprisingly, he didn't think of anything for once. His mind didn't buzz in a mixture of ADHD and the constant need to label each and every thought; instead, he recalled of nine-year-old Remington with twin pigtails and a missing front tooth, smiling as she declared I am a witch to her classmates. He thought of Scott, too, the scrawny one from middle school who used wheeze and grip Stiles' forearm for balance after getting pushed around by the bullies. Stiles conjured an image of his mom and his dad and Eva, all three who revolved around the word 'parental in his mind.

When he opened his eyes, he was fifty feet from where he last stood.

A neat row of Mountain Ash traced his footsteps.

Remington cheered from where she stood. Unable to believe it, Stiles let out a shout. "Yes!" He jumped in the air, fist-bumping. When he got back to Remington's side, he grabbed her in a tight hug. "I have no clue what the hell is happening or how I did that, but for once I think I'm okay not knowing."

She giggled, legs nearly caving underneath from the weight of the older teenager on her. "We'll figure it out with mom! Don't worry." She smiled sunnily. He tried not to wince the reminder of Eva finding out of her daughter's midnight quest.

"Now, let's go help Scott!" Remington continued.

Stiles nodded, blinking quickly. "I—Yes, yeah. Let's go help Scott,"

He stepped back just in time to avoid Erica's claws, shoving Remington behind him as the werewolf growled. "Woah! Just me, it's just me!" Stiles said, looking at Isaac and Erica with apprehension, locking the door behind them. They were in one of the empty rooms inside the venue, Jackson Whittemore unconscious in a chair. "Don't freak. He okay?"

No one replied, then a small voice asked. "Teddy?"

"Hey, Isaac..." Remington acknowledged Derek's Beta, hands twisting in front of her unsurely. The boy hunched himself inward, shoulders drawing up when Remington didn't fling herself at him like usual.

Stiles sent her a questioning look, but Remington shrugged heavily; "He okay?" Stiles repeated, hoping Isaac took the hint and moved on. The werewolf looked at him, his accusatory eyes dragging up and down before an angry glint overtook them.

"Let's find out," Isaac scowled, raising a hand as he displayed his claws.

Just as he was about to bring down his arm, like a puppet, Jackson's—the Kanima's—arm shot out without warning, twisting Isaac's hand until the werewolf let out a pained hiss.

"Isaac!" Remington gasped, stepping forward but Stiles stopped her before she left his side with a silent don't. They agreed to keep her powers to a minimum, only as a way to protect herself and at worse, defend herself.

Remington frowned. "He's hurt!"

"He'll heal," Stiles countered.

At that, a flame burned in Remington's lustrous eyes. "Doesn't mean he should still feel pain, Stiles." Sidestepping him, she touched Isaac's shoulder carefully, looking up at the tall teenager who had been cradling his arm to himself, gasping out in pain.

He huffed as they spoke to each other inaudibly, Isaac extending his injured arm to the witch who held it with immense care. Stiles glowering at Erica warningly. "Okay, no one does anything like that again, okay?"

"I thought the ketamine was supposed to put him out," Erica said, staring at Remington with a strange gleam in her hazel eyes. Stiles didn't like it.

"Yeah, well," he said snappily. "Apparently this is all we're going to get. So, let's just hope that whoever's controlling him just decided to show up tonight."

Just then, Jackson twitched, his head snapping upwards. His eyes—the same blue as Remington's but appearing like a frosted wasteland, unlike the girl's almost see-through gaze that revealed so much emotion—pinned him down.

"I am here," Jackson hissed. "I'm right here with you."

Remington clutched the back of his hoodie, tugging him urgently when Stiles took a step forward. "It's okay," he said to her. "Lahey, take her."

"I don't understand why you would even bring her here in the first place," Isaac commented but shielded the girl behind him swiftly.

Stiles waved him away. He crouched in front of the Jackson slowly, keeping an eye out for those paralytic claws. "Jackson, is that you?"

"Us," the Kanima said. "We're all here."

Stiles' mouth fell open, unsure of what that meant. He continued, "Are you the one killing people?"

"We are the ones killing murderers,"

Behind Isaac, Remington said. "So, all the people you've killed so far—"

At the sound of her voice, the Kanima seemed to wind up. "Deserved it!"

Stiles frowned at the vivid reaction, taking a step back as the creature's head snapped towards Remington. Isaac covered her once more.

"See," Stiles said, diverting the attention back to him. "We got a little rule book that says you only go after murderers."

"Anything can break if enough pressure's applied."

Stiles tried to decipher its words, trying to distance everything he felt for Jackson Whittemore while staring at his stolen face. "All right, so the people you're killing are all murderers then?"

"All." The Kanima trembled. "Each—every one."

"Well, who did they murder?" Stiles was afraid of the answer, of the way the Kanima's jaws flexed and his neck started to twist unnaturally.

The Kanima closed its eyes like it was preparing itself. "Me,"

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

What I really want is to see how far I can take Stiles without losing his character. Hopefully, a certain Mister Mikaelson can help explore his morally grayness once he arrives...

Please comment and vote! Until next time!