For a few seconds after the Fae queen vanishes, Stiles can only stand in amazement, staring at his palm. He tilts it this way and that, still feeling the lingering warmth of whatever the queen had done to mark him. If he squints and holds his hand to the light just right, he can still see the dim outline of the mark. Faint streaks of silver that curl and loop over his skin, glittering like a hologram. Holy shit.

Holy shit.

His body jerks all of its own accord, flailing around until he nearly stumbles into his own desk chair. He clutches the back of it, mouth working soundlessly as he struggles to take a deep, calming breath. Okay. Okay. He can handle this. He flexes his hands for a moment, before lowering himself to his knees on the floor. Mechanically, he scrapes up the remains of his sandwich, piling the mess on the (luckily unbroken) plate and grimacing at the globs of mayonnaise that coat his fingers. He makes himself take the whole mess downstairs and throw it in the garbage, then grab the carpet cleaner and a dishrag from under the sink and scrub up the rest of the mayonnaise before it can stain.

The whole time, he tells himself repeatedly that he needs to keep a cool head; that he absolutely cannot freak out and rush into anything. Not with faerie magic. He forces himself to be calm and deliberate, forces himself not to immediately jump on the phone with Scott. He needs to get his information straight first, and he needs to do it in a calm and thorough manner.

Hell, these days it's kind of a tossup as to whether or not Scott will even answer his phone anyway.

Once the mess is cleaned up, he slowly he lowers himself into his desk chair, reaching with one hand for the stacks of books that he's yet to return to Deaton. He can't…he can't lose his head over this. He wasn't kidding when he said 'gifts' from the Fae tended to end badly for mere mortals. Even though something tells him the queen was being completely serious when she promised him that no harm could come from his wish, some of the consequences of trusting the Fae he's read about—yeah, he's not really willing to risk that. So, he pulls the books to him, boots up his laptop (the internet had turned out to be pretty useless as far as real information about faeries, but there were a few decent sites), and forces himself to look at this calmly.

First things first. He has to figure out what the exact parameters of the magic are. He has to figure out if it's really a wish he gets to make. Even if she had said 'no limit,' surely there are rules…that was the first thing that had been drilled into his head when he'd stepped into this world of werewolves and creatures and now honest-to-God magic. There are always rules. He needs to find out what the rules are before he even lets himself think of…

Think of what he might ask for.

His mind shies away from that thought, from anything he might be able to wish for. He won't even consider it, won't allow himself to even think in those terms, won't allow himself to think of this as real. Not until he knows exactly what he's getting into, exactly what the Fae queen did.

He breathes again, the fluttering in his stomach calming at the formation of a solid plan. One thing at a time. He will find out what the symbol means, what the regulations of a faerie wish are. He will figure out the rules. Nothing else matters until those goals are accomplished. He throws himself headlong into the familiar rhythms of research, cross-referencing and checking and plucking at the threads of stories and legends until the few seams of actual truth become visible. The time slips away from him, hours bleeding and blending together until his phone beeping with a text alert startles him out of the single-minded focus he only ever really manages to achieve when he's looking into something supernatural.

He blinks hazily for a moment, gradually becoming aware that his room is now lit only by the glow of his laptop screen and the desk lamp, and that his neck and back are aching fiercely. His stomach growls as he swipes his thumb across the phone's screen, reminding him that he hasn't actually had anything to eat since lunch at school and even that had just been an apple and a couple of bags of chips.

The school's fish tacos had betrayed him once too often, thank you very much.

The message scrolls up, and he sighs softly. Looks as though his father will be working yet another double shift tonight. Just as well, as he'd completely forgotten to put the fish in the oven, but he just knows Dad's going to take the opportunity to grab contraband at the diner around the corner from the station. They still haven't been able to replace everyone they…everyone they lost down at the station the night of Matt's rampage. The few remaining deputies have all been pulling ridiculous hours as they scramble to fill the slots, and it'll probably be another month or two before they're at full capacity again. Dad refuses to ask his deputies to do more work than he does, and the result is…

Well, there's several families in Beacon Hills with basically absentee parents right now.

There's several more, though, whose parents will never come home again, so Stiles doesn't complain that his already limited time with his father has dwindled these days. All things being equal, it's probably the fact that they hardly see each other these days that has kept their relationship from completely splintering under the weight of all the werewolf-related secrets he's been keeping for the past year. He rubs the back of his neck, puffing out his cheeks with a forceful huff of air, and sinks back against the chair.

There's nothing in the books so far that can tell him exactly what the Fae queen had gifted him with—what kind of wish he might be able to make, what the consequences might be, and if her simply promising him that there would be no harmful consequences holds water. He's inclined to think so—she'd said something about swearing on her blood. He's not managed to cram all the nuances of faerie culture into his head in the couple of weeks he's been researching them, but he's pretty sure that a blood oath is a Big Deal. Capital letters and everything. He's not about to risk a Monkey's Paw scenario on an inclination, though.

His stomach growls again and he rolls his eyes, heaving himself to his feet. Might as well go downstairs and make something for dinner. He thinks briefly of the salmon still sitting in the sink, but decides he's much more interested in the Hot Pockets crammed in the back of the freezer. There should still be a Philly Cheesesteak one left, if his dad hasn't been nosing through his hiding places again. As he turns to head for the door, his elbow knocks into the stack of Deaton's books, toppling the one next on his list to look through down onto the floor. The book hits the carpet with a muffled thud, falling open, a few of the pages threatening to tear from the ancient-looking binding.

"Damn it," he mutters, stooping down to pick it up. He freezes in a crouch, eyes zeroing in on a corner of thick paper that is poking out of the tome, the page its on nearly torn clean out of the book. There's an illustration on it, drawn in ink that has gone rust-red with age and faded so much that the thinner lines of the drawing are nearly invisible. The swooping, curving lines of the illustration are familiar, though, and as he snatches the book up and flips it open to that page, his eyes widen.

It's the mark the queen had put on his hand. Exactly. He plops back down into his chair with a triumphant whoop, all thoughts of Hot Pockets flying straight out of his head. The page with the drawing is filled with cramped, spidery handwriting, so faded with age he has to squint to read it. The notes are copious, though, and highly, highly informative. Despite his determination to look at this coolly and logically, his heart starts to pound as he reads. This is what he was looking for, all of his questions answered right here on the page—and by a source that's probably as reputable as it's going to get. A grin starts playing at the corners of his mouth, his excitement growing the further he reads. God, wait 'til Scott hears about this…his friend is going to flip. Eagerly, Stiles flicks to the next page, skimming through a slim few accounts of actual people who had done some service for the Fae, and been rewarded with the same token that now marks his palm…how the magic had worked for them, what they had chosen as their rewards. He gets to the end of the page—

And he swears he feels his heart stop in his chest.

It's nearing ten 'o clock when he brings the jeep to a near-screeching halt outside of Deaton's office. There are no other vehicles in the parking lot, unsurprisingly—the place has been closed for hours. Deaton's own car is nowhere to be seen, but there's a light on in the back office window and he can see a shadow moving across the glass. He's not really surprised…Deaton always seems to be at the office, most especially when they need him.

Stiles most definitely needs him right now.

Nonetheless, he takes a moment to just breathe in the quiet of the cab, listening to the soft ticking of metal just starting to cool under the jeep's hood, to the faint whistle of wind he can hear outside the windows. He takes a moment to try and calm the racing of his heartbeat. He knows he should have called ahead—he should have at least texted Scott, and possibly Derek to have them meet him here. This is important. This is potentially so, so important, and they should know.

He can't, though. He can't bring himself to tell anyone what he's discovered out loud, can barely bring himself to think it. He can't say anything yet. Not until he gets what he thinks he's found out confirmed. He blows out a deep, gusty breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. Then he swallows heavily, forces his fingers to relax, and snatches the book he's been poring over feverishly for the past hour up off the passenger seat.

His mouth feels dry as a bone, his heart pounding in his ears as he throws himself out of the jeep and practically runs to the front door. He needs to know, oh God, he needs to know if he is reading the book correctly, if it means what he thinks it does. He feels jittery, electrified, as though he's going to rattle right out of his skin if he doesn't find out right the hell now if he's right.

There is a thought building in his mind, poking quietly at the corners of his consciousness. It's been there since he read the last page of the entry on the Fae mark in Deaton's book, growing and growing, and he's frantically trying to beat it back, to not even let it fully form because if he's wrong. Oh God, if he's wrong…

He can't think it. He can't think that he might actually…that he could have…he can't think it and turn out to be wrong.

He pounds on the vet office's door, knocking so hard the side of his fist aches. Almost immediately, more lights in the office start going on and he shifts nervously from foot to foot, clutching the book to his chest. The light over the office door comes on, and he can see the blurred shape of Deaton's body through the frosted glass of the door. He bites his lip as he hears the locks on the door undoing, and damn near bowls Deaton over as soon as the door starts to swing open.

"Stiles? What's—" Deaton looks as surprised as Stiles has ever seen him (which still isn't very surprised at all) as he steps back, letting Stiles all but explode into the office.

"Is this legit?" he demands, whirling on Deaton and thrusting the book at him. He's well aware that he sounds half-crazed, desperate, but he can't help it. "This book! Is everything in it real?"

He needs to know if he can really have…if he can really wish for…

Deaton glances down at the book, raising an inscrutable eyebrow. "Can I assume by the lack of howling werewolves and or blood and weapons that this is a personal question?" he asks mildly, taking the book from Stiles' hands and cradling it in one arm. Stiles wants to scream. He rakes his hands back over his buzzed hair, scrubbing roughly at his scalp.

"Dude! Seriously…please…are the things that book says true?"

Deaton's brow furrows, the mild—and in Stiles' opinion, a touch condescending at times—interest fades from his face to be replaced by real concern. "Did something happen? Derek said the Fae clan had promised to move on tonight."

"Yes. I mean no, nothing's wrong, they left. I think they left, I mean—" His words start pouring out faster, and he knows, he knows he needs to calm himself down before he starts flying apart.

But he needs to know…he needs to know if he can really have…if there's a chance he can have his—

"Stiles!" Deaton interrupts firmly. "Sit down and tell me what's going on. What part of this book do you need to know about?"

He doesn't sit down, though. He just grabs the book back, and flips it open to the page he'd marked with a piece of folded up notebook paper. He feels like he can barely breathe as he hands the tome back to Deaton, tapping his finger once on the illustration of the Fae queen's mark. "This," he says softly. "The things it says about this—are they true?"

Deaton glances down at the page, and goes still. His eyes widen before they snap to Stiles' face with laser-like intensity. "Why are you asking?"

Stiles darts a look down at his shoes, and consciously forces the tense set of his shoulders to relax. He presses his lips together and holds his hand out, palm up. He tilts his hand slightly until the telltale shimmer flashes under the office's fluorescent lights, the lines of the queen's symbol flaring to brief visibility. Deaton's hand snakes out and takes his wrist in a gentle grip, turning it under the lights again and again.

"What did you do?" the man asks, and there is something that sounds almost awestruck in his voice. He listens intently as Stiles relates the story of how he'd come to save the little girl—Aine—and the encounter with the faerie queen in his room. When Stiles finishes, he shakes his head a little, one side of his mouth twitching upwards slightly. The look he shoots Stiles is almost—proud.

"Only you, Stiles," Deaton murmurs, closing the book and tucking it under one arm. He moves towards the back of the building, into the examination rooms, and Stiles follows silently, at a loss. "What is it you want to know?" he calls over his shoulder as he walks.

Stiles inhales sharply. "I…I just…was she serious? Do I really get a wish?" he asks. He tries to keep his voice steady, but there is a slight tremor in the words. He follows Deaton back to his own private office, watches as the man slides the book back onto a tall shelf of similarly aged and brittle-looking tomes. When he turns back around, he pins Stiles with an intense—but not unkind—stare.

"Dealing with the Fae is dangerous, Stiles. It's old magic…real magic, and it hardly ever turns out well for humans getting involved in it." He holds Stiles' gaze for a long beat, but before Stiles even has time to start processing disappointment, he sighs, swiping a hand back across his bald head. "That mark, though? It's rare. The last confirmed instance of a Fae granting a token like that was nearly three hundred years ago. And it's exactly what the queen said it is."

Stiles freezes, a cold, electric chill sweeping through him. Deaton shakes his head slowly. "Never actually thought I'd see something like it in my lifetime, to be honest. You really do get to make a wish, Stiles."

There is a roaring in his ears, and all he can think of is the faded words on the page in Deaton's book. The last known account of someone receiving a gift from the Fae like his. What the woman who'd earned it had done to receive it. What she'd asked for as her reward.

"And—" He pauses, swallows hard. "It can't hurt anyone?" His voice is small, brittle to even his own ears. Deaton's face relaxes further, and he smiles kindly.

"It's not a game like they usually play. This is meant to be a reward…you need to think carefully when you choose, but no, if this faerie swore a blood oath to you that no one could get hurt because of your wish, then there's no danger." He hesitates a moment, leaning one hip back against the desk in his office. "But you still have to be careful. Think very, very hard about what you want, and I'd like it if you'd come and discuss it with me before the three days are up. The Fae have different definitions of what constitutes 'harm.' There are still going to be checks and balances."

Stiles nods numbly, feeling hollowed out and breathless. He can't believe this. He can't believe it's actually true. "What if—what if I want to ask for something like one of those journals mentioned? Are those kinds of wishes safe?"

Deaton's look turns soft and knowing. "They should be," he says gently. "As long as you're very specific when you lay out your thoughts. Have you told the others about this?"

"No. No, I didn't want…I wanted to be sure it was real, first."

Deaton nods thoughtfully, crossing his arms over his chest. After a moment, he lifts his chin slightly. "Don't."

Stiles looks up sharply. "Huh? Why not?"

"This was meant to be a reward for you, for risking your life for that child. Whatever you ask for, it has to be be something you decide…don't let anyone else influence your decision."

Stiles bites his lip, hating the thought of keeping something this big from Scott. But…it does make a certain kind of sense. He needs to think about this, and he needs to do it without anyone else putting their input in. At least at first. He can always tell Scott later. Deaton watches him with narrowed eyes for a few heartbeats, before nodding slightly.

"All right, then. It's getting late, and I'm not as young as I used to be. Go home and get some sleep, Stiles. If you have any questions, you can call me at any time." The words are kind, and sincere, but clearly a dismissal and Stiles takes it as such.

"Yeah…yeah, I will. And thanks." Stiles lets Deaton shepherd him out of the office, walks back to the jeep in a daze. The hand with the queen's mark on it is clenched into a fist, so tight he can feel the throb of his pulse in the center of his palm.

It's real. It's really real, and in three days—more like two, now—he's going to be able to ask for anything he wants. His mind races as he mechanically fishes his keys out of his pocket and slides into the driver's side of the jeep. The jumpy, nervous energy is still rocketing through his system, buzzing through his skull and swooping in his stomach. He doesn't start the car as soon as he fastens his seatbelt, instead leaning forward until his forehead is resting against the top of his steering wheel. He can still see the rusty, faded handwriting in the journal he'd just returned to Deaton, can see the words as clearly as though they'd been painted on the backs of his eyelids.

Upon rend'ring a service to the Fair Folke in this past winter, the year of Our Lord seventeen hundred and twenty-eight, was granted upone one mistress Catherine Upton the gift of her heart's desyre. Thereupon, she didst wish for the return of her lover, here these five years dead and buried. By all 'counts, wast the lady's wish granted, and the young man restored to life and health…

And he needs to consider. He needs to look at all the angles, and to truly think about what he can ask for. He needs to look at this logically.

But the words are dancing in his head. Deaton's calm assurance that the wishes accounted for in the book had all turned out fine for everyone involved is dancing in his head.

And deep in his heart, a ragged, gaping wound that time has managed to scab over—but never close—pulses. The thought that has been trying to form since the moment he'd seen the illustration of the Fae mark in the book pushes its way to the forefront of his mind, gleaming and glittering like a diamond, and he can't help it. Can't help the single idea that crystallizes in his head and his heart and his soul.

Mom.