Hello everyone! Sorry for the long wait, I'm terrible! Hope you enjoy the new chapter!

WARNINGS: Self-harm warning for this chapter.

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Chapter Seven

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Stiles is six when he crashes his bike and smacks his chin against the sidewalk. He remembers this because it had left behind a bloody cut on his chin that had eventually turned into a small scar — and because when a kid from school one day made fun of his scar, and he'd come home upset about it, his mother had looked him right in the eyes and told him that "Our scars make us who we are. There's a story behind each of them, and they're nothing to be ashamed of."

He remembers even more how she had hugged him, told him to ignore the boy at school because the scar on his chin was a badge of honor, something that he earned in learning how to ride his bike without training wheels.

Standing in his bathroom, staring into that mirror, he remembers all of this now because the little scar on his chin isn't there. The skin is smooth, unblemished, and all at once, he wonders what else is missing, and how long it's been missing for — how he hadn't noticed until now. He swears it'd been there before, that he'd seen it… just last week? Hadn't he? Except now he's not so sure and—

He strips off his clothes until only his boxers are left, and he twists and turns his body every which-way searching his skin, but no, they're — they're not there, they're gone, they're—

He doesn't remember breaking the mirror, but he must have.

He doesn't even really remember making the first cut, it's just suddenly right there on his chin, where his scar used to be, dark red welling up — and it's like he's on the outside looking in, watching himself with a kind of horrified fascination as he begins making cut after cut.

The scar on his elbow that time he fell off the roof playing spies with Scott.

The one running across his left index and middle finger when he was nine and slipped while cutting vegetables.

The one on his knee that time he'd managed to fall up the stairs—

Stiles' hand trembles, and the mirror shard he's holding drips red — blood trailing slowly down his pale skin and painting the bathroom floor in droplets and smears and small splatters, spotting the white ceramic sink and washing in diluted swirls down the drain.

—the scar on his arm that he doesn't remember getting, but remembers always being there.

The one across his right foot and left ankle, the first knuckle of his right hand, and another, and another—

And his moles aren't all right either, the patterns don't match up, not like how he remembers them, so he fixes those too with a quick jab, jab, jab—

He's panting; the air's coming in too quick.

Jab, jab, jab.

Hands grab him, arms wrapping around him tight, but it's all happening so distantly, his dad pinning him to his chest and wrestling the mirror shard from his hand. He sees himself struggling, sees the tears welled up in bloodshot eyes, and very faintly, he can hear himself gasping out words.

"No, no, no, please!"

There's a ringing in his ears.

"Have to fix it—just—it's not right, please."

His legs give out, he's sinking to the ground and his dad's sinking with him.

"—I just need to fix myself."

Because who is he without his scars?

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Apparently Peter Hale doesn't trust banks or the concept of leaving a paper trail because the aforementioned 'sizable cash exchange' is literally a shit-ton of crisp green bills — twenties and fifties and hundreds, more money than Stiles has ever seen in his life — and Peter carries it all packed into a nondescript backpack and slung over his shoulder like an aloof college student. Of course, Stiles figures that there's no better security than being a werewolf, and a part of him almost wants someone to try mugging Peter just so that he can see the resounding fallout.

No such incidence occurs though, not even when their destination takes them down a shadowed alleyway to a little hole-in-the-wall pawn shop tucked away in the back of a towering brick building. Stiles' nose wrinkles up at the faint rotten garbage smell that lingers in the alley air, and he glances between the two wolves — can't even imagine what it must smell like to them.

The shop itself has bars spanning across wide glass windows and a variety of large flashy signs plastered over every available surface. PAWN SHOP displayed above PAWN! BUY! SELL! Cash for Gold and In$tant Loan and Yes, We Are Open! It's as innocent in appearance as Deaton's veterinary practice.

Peter's hand closes around Stiles' wrist, dragging him through the front entrance when he lingers a moment too long staring down at a large cockroach that's been crushed into the pavement — exactly the sort of charming city details he'd expect from the back alleys of LA.

Liam follows quietly behind, the younger wolf's eyes scanning their surroundings cautiously as they enter unfamiliar territory, though what he could possibly be looking out for, Stiles doesn't know. It's some mysterious contact of Deaton's, sure, but the place is small and cramped and filled with junk, and there's even a cheerful chime that announces their entrance. The place is probably as dangerous as any other pawn shop out there.

Or at least that's what Stiles thinks until his eyes are drawn to a small boy standing off to the side dusting, a boy who freezes at the sight of them and breathes out the word, "Lobos." Now, Spanish may not be Stiles' strongest subject, but he can recognize the word 'wolves' when he hears it — in a number of different languages at this point, given how much reading and translating he's done on the subject.

Even more startling than that though are the tiny fangs that poke out from under the boy's upper lip and the way those wide young eyes flash red — not the red of an alpha werewolf though, with the iris changing color, but rather the boy's sclera shimmers red in a way that Stiles has never seen before.

Liam rumbles warily behind him and Stiles eyebrows shoot up, not exactly sure how to proceed from here, but then Peter claps a steadying hand on his shoulder, unconcerned, and moves forward into the shop with an amicable smile on his face, barely even sparing a glance in the small child's direction. The boy in question immediately darts away from them and retreats in the same direction Peter seems to be heading; a glass checkout counter at the back of the shop where a tall woman stands, silently observing.

She appears to be in her 50s or 60s, dark hair pulled back into a tight bun and starting to go grey, with laugh-lines around her eyes and mouth – not that you can really tell though from the stern look on her face. She arches a single questioning eyebrow in their direction, her mouth pressed into a thin line and she looks about as thrilled to see them as the small boy is.

Of course, Peter doesn't seem at all fazed by the obvious unwelcoming atmosphere; the older man is probably used to such things at this point, and while Stiles and Liam stay a few paces back, Peter steps right up to the checkout counter and says lightly, "Hale, here to pick up a package for Deaton."

"Deaton didn't mention you," the woman says, looking down her nose at them, and Stiles suddenly feels like he's back in school, getting reprimanded by a teacher — and just how weird is that feeling after all these months without any real classroom time, save for quietly working on homework packets his school sent over during Rosenbrook's 'designated learning hours.'

"As of right now," Peter says as he slips the backpack off his shoulder, pushing the conversation forward, "the entirety of Beacon Hills is indisposed of, Deaton included." And here he pauses to dump the backpack on the counter-top, pulling the zipper open to show the piles of cash packed haphazardly inside, "Do you want the money or not?"

Stiles has to hand it to the older woman, she doesn't even blink at the sight of all that money, just gives it a disinterested cursory look. For a moment, he worries that they might have a problem here, that the woman will only accept a deal with Deaton himself and they came all this way for nothing — but then she shrugs, because apparently business is business regardless of exactly who it is that's bringing in the cash, and she pulls out one of those currency counter machines and passes it over to the small boy from before with quick instructions to 'make sure it's all there' before she disappears into the backroom.

Setting the clunky machine down onto the checkout counter, the boy clambers up onto a stool for easier access and immediately settles into the task. It must be something he's done plenty of times before, given how easily he operates the machine, and he only casts the occasional curious glance in their direction, the red fading out of his eyes. Stiles can't help but wonder what he is exactly, and if the older woman is one too, but they're here for more important things, and he figures he can always ask Peter later.

Just as the boy with the strange eyes counts out the last bill, the woman sweeps back into the room with a steel lockbox in her hands. It's definitely old —dinged and dented and worn down with age, and Stiles can tell that the blackened edges are from fire damage. He's sure Peter can too, but the older wolf gives no sign of recognition at the sight of it, so he doubts it's some long lost Hale artifact.

The contents of the box rattle around inside as the woman sets it down, briskly and without care. Whatever's in there means nothing to her, useless junk like almost everything else in the shop, something that someone probably pawned here years ago for forty bucks max because they needed gas money — and now they're just three morons who drove hundreds of miles to get it. He knows that whatever's in there is supposed to help, that's what Peter and Liam kept saying, but somehow Stiles doesn't think it's going to be the cure-all they're searching for. Call him cynical, but their luck is never that good.

"It all there?" the woman asks the boy, eyeing the stacks of cash, and as soon as the boy nods and makes a noise of confirmation, she slides the box over to them, as easy as that, and Stiles almost wants to say 'What, that's it?'

Peter reaches out, his hand hovering over the box for a fraction of a second before he draws back, and the woman's lips quirk up in a little smile.

"Problems, wolf?"

"Stiles," Peter says, flashing a fanged grin in the woman's direction, but otherwise paying her no mind. "Be a dear and open that box for me, I'd like to inspect what I just spent eight grand on."

"What?" Stiles says, faltering, and then he back-tracks, "Eight thousand dollars? For that?"

"Yes, hardly seems worth it for miserable little Beacon Hills — its current happy state notwithstanding," Peter says with a put-upon sigh, and he nudges Stiles over to the checkout counter.

Not wasting time with asking why he's the one who has to open the box — from the slightly smug look on the woman's face earlier, he's sure there's some sort of wolfy reason — Stiles tentatively reaches out, his mouth pressed into a thin line. For eight grand, there better be a magic golden dagger inside.

He nudges lightly at the sides of the lockbox in the same way someone would check to see if a pan's too hot, with overly-cautious and hesitant touches, and when nothing of significance happens, he flips the latch holding it closed and slowly, so very carefully lifts up the lid.

And stops.

And blinks.

And lets the steel lid of the lockbox clang open against the glass counter-top, because really? They drove nine hours for this? A stained hunk of wood — which looks broken, by the way — and several pieces of paper? Of course, there's writing on the paper, but important information or not, there's no way it's all worth eight thousand dollars.

"A wooden stake?" Liam says, drawing Stiles' attention back to the two wolves behind him — and yes, he supposes the piece of wood could be a stake, once upon a time before what was probably the pointy end was broken off. "So, what, we're fighting vampires?"

"I doubt it's as simple as that," Peter says, stepping up behind Stiles to stare over his shoulder at the contents of the box, yet still for some reason keeping his distance, "and anyway, the vampires you've read about in books don't exist, certainly not ones that feed on an entire town's sadness until only unnaturally blissful happiness is left. Other blood-suckers, however…"

And here, Peter pauses to cast a sardonic look up at the older woman, seeming entirely too pleased with himself.

She looks less than impressed to say the least, arches an eyebrow and says dryly, "Thank you for that not-at-all subtle comment."

Peter holds up his hands, smiling with a kind of 'well, if the shoe fits' look on his face, and says in his defense, "To be fair, you are asking for quite a lot of money here—oh, I'm sorry, did you think I was referring to your supernatural status here?" he grins, eyes flashing blue, "How politically incorrect of me."

The woman is not at all amused; her own eyes shimmering back red, just like the young boy's eyes had been.

"Regardless of that," Peter says, quickly moving on, "For some scraps of paper and a chunk of wood, even if that wood is mountain ash, I hardly think the contents of this box is worth eight grand."

Ah, mountain ash, that would explain why he's the only one from their group fishing through said box. Stiles nudges the thick piece of mountain ash with one hand, lightly rubbing his fingers over the dark stains coating its surface.

He really hopes that's not blood—because gross.

He pulls his hand back, wipes his fingers against the hideous over-shirt he's wearing.

It certainly doesn't look like blood—too dark, a black oil-like color really, whereas dried blood would be more of a brown. Either way, it's not exactly the magic 'fix-it' item he'd been expecting. Whatever help it may have been at some point, someone had worn out any usefulness the thing had long ago.

"Look, if you don't want it," the woman says, appearing indifferent on the matter, "I'm sure the people who were looking it over yesterday would be happy to take it off my hands."

"Wait, other people?" Liam cuts in, taking a wary step forward, "Do you think there are other places being affected by the same thing? Maybe this is more widespread than we realized."

"Well… no, I don't think that was the case with this group," the woman admits, and when she looks over at Liam, some of the hostility fades from her eyes. It's clear that her problem is with Peter's charming personality and not so much with werewolves in general — or maybe it's just the puppy eyes Liam seems to be so good at; Scott McCall's beta indeed.

After a moment's hesitation, she continues to explain, "Said they were collectors, some kind of strange… romance-themed Dungeons and Dragons group?" She makes a random hand gesture and shrugs, like she has no idea how else to really explain it. "They didn't seem to be at all in-the-know about the supernatural. Could have flashed my fangs and they'd think it was costumed special effects. Get a lot of people like that around LA here. Wouldn't surprise me if they wanted this stuff because it's old and the stake would make a good prop."

"And you really think some nerdy role-playing group would be able to afford the eight thousand you're asking for this?" Peter asks doubtfully, a long-suffering look on his face.

"Maybe I like them more than I like you," the woman says haughtily, "Give them a friends and family discount — and anyway, you seem like you need it more, and I am running a business here."

For a good long moment, the two stare each other down; teeth sharp and eyes flaring red and blue, and Stiles can't help but worry that Peter's going to turn this into the kind of teeth and claws encounter he seems so fond of — the outcome of which Stiles has no way of predicting considering that he still doesn't know what the woman even is, not to mention the fact that neither Peter nor the woman appear at all concerned with losing in a fight against the other — but just as Stiles turns towards Peter and twists a nervous hand up in the older werewolf's shirt, because god, he is just so not ready for any kind of supernatural showdown just yet, Peter bites out an annoyed, "Four thousand for the box."

The woman grins widely, and suddenly Stiles can see how she got so many smile lines over time.

"Sorry my furry friend," she says. "Can't go under the eight thousand. It may look like junk, but I paid a pretty penny for it."

"If by 'pretty penny' you mean an actual penny," Peter growls, "And I'm sure you're aware that's not how bartering works. Five thousand for the box full of junk."

"Tell ya what," she says, giving Peter the look of a sales person about to offer them a great deal, "you pay the full eight thousand and I'll even throw in a cleansing ritual that might help whatever's mucking up your friend there."

And here, Stiles freezes, because the older woman is looking at him now, her eyes narrowed with a kind of curious and calculating glint to them, unnerving to the point where Stiles takes a few faltering steps back until he walks right into Peter. The older werewolf presses a steadying hand down onto his shoulder.

"What?" Stiles blurts out.

"Hueles mal," the little boy seated on the stool says with a simple shrug, only for the woman to lightly swat him upside the head a second later.

"Hey now, don't be rude!" she scolds.

"Lo siento," the boy immediately says, shoulders hunched up apologetically, though he does mutter quietly under his breath after, "Es cierto…"

Hand tightening on Stiles' shoulder, Peter draws him back until he's standing behind the older werewolf, effectively blocking him from the woman and child's line-of-sight.

"I can assure you," Peter says, tone lackadaisical, yet Stiles can clearly see a challenge in the man's stance, "that the scent you're picking up on is the doctor-prescribed medication in his system, much more effective than any sort of cleansing ritual."

The woman seems to tense up at the condescension that's clear in his words, her eyes flaring red again and a hint of fang poking out from her pursed lips.

"How about this for a deal," Peter plows forward without pause, confident as always, "I pay the full eight grand for the lockbox and for your services as a future business contact in all things supernatural and otherwise. You seem like a fairly well-connected person, and maybe one day I'll need assistance with… oh, I don't know, gathering information on some subject."

"I don't know, you seem like a real asshole to deal with," the woman says, arms crossed over her chest with a look of clear distaste on her face, "Hardly seems fair."

"For eight thousand dollars?" Peter says, and then he shrugs, "Take it or leave it."

Mouth pressed into a tight frown, she turns the offer over in her head for a few minutes, before she finally sighs, "As long as you understand that whatever assistance you may be after won't always be free, and that I can tell you to fuck off if I don't agree with it."

Peter holds out one hand, a pleased smile on his face, "Of course."

The woman gives him another look of distaste, but she shakes his hand anyway, as briefly as she can get away with. Reaching behind the cash register, she pulls out a business card and holds it out to Peter between two fingers, grudgingly introducing herself as Lorena Flores.

"Peter Hale," he offers in return, tucking the business card away in his back pocket, "It's a pleasure."

"Yes, charmed, I'm sure," the lovely Ms. Flores drawls, rolling her eyes. "Would you just take your box and go?"

Later, as Peter's leading them back through the alley—this time with Stiles carrying the backpack and the lockbox tucked inside, seeing as how he's only one in their group who can actually hold onto it—Liam finally blurts out what they had both apparently been wondering this whole time, "So what exactly were they?"

Peter tosses an amused look over his shoulder at them, asks, "What, you couldn't smell the goat's blood on their breath?"

"I mean," Liam stutters defensively, "I smelled something, I just wasn't sure what."

Looking almost delighted at the admission, Peter shakes his head, sighing something about young wolves, and simply says, "Chupacabras, of course. Perfectly harmless unless you're a farm animal or house pet."

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End of chapter 7!

I swear I was going to go into detail about what the box contained, but the chapter was getting to be too long between this scene and the next, so I've split that part up for the next chapter. Luckily, that next chapter is mostly written, so you won't have to wait too long for it.

True story, when I was briefly living out in LA, I had a job as a costumed zombie. When I would get off of my shift at 10pm, I wouldn't bother with removing the special effects makeup until I got home, so I'd drive home and walk through the streets of LA with my face all bloody and torn up and zombified, and I swear, I only ever got one reaction from it. I walked through crowds of people and no one even batted an eye. There was just this one valet guy who thought someone had attacked me and got all defensive and concerned for me. Like, yeah, it was October, but it wasn't even that close to Halloween. LA, man, they're desensitized to that shit.