Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been some years since the Hale pack had any sort of big earth shattering trouble. Sure there were the usual hunters, and various supernaturals trying to take a hit against them, but nothing that needed 'save the world' level measures. Cora and Peter had moved back to town, along with Derek, who crawled in a year after them. Lydia who had spent the better part of two years travelling, was finally living in her lavish one bedroom apartment. Stiles had his condo on the outskirts of town, doing remote FBI work. Scott and Kira were expecting their first child, Liam and Mason living in San Francisco, both living the college lives.

But it was Chris Argent that sounded the alarm.

Chris and Melissa had moved into a comfortable family home, one with enough spare rooms to support the pack should they need a place to crash. Chris had his illustrious shooting range in the basement, and Melissa had her personal library secured in the attic. Both were content with the lives they were living. Until Chris received a phone call, from his Aunt Melinda.

It had been over 20 years since Chris had heard from his mother's side of the family, with his mother Joan having passed when he was seven. But he did remember the encouraging words his aunt Melinda had given him when he showed her photos of the newborn Allison.

Melinda Craw, was well into her 80s when she gave her nephew a call, her lungs blackened from years of smoking giving her an unsmotherable rasp. The rasp made her words seem ominous, dangerous, a warning, or perhaps it's because that's just what it was. After she hung up, an apology falling from her lips before the line when dead, Chris stood frozen in the corridor of his home, staring down at his phone.

"Chris? You okay?"

His eyes were brought back into focus, when he felt hands on his cheeks. Melissa stood in front of him, her face scrunched in concern and confusion, her hands were warm, he spotted the cup of coffee that had been placed on the small bookcase.

"Chris?"

He could barely shove out the words, "Call Stiles."

Stiles Stilinski hadn't changed since when he was a teenager; jittery, suspicious and nosy. So when Melissa McCall, his pseudo mother gave him a call, in a cautious voice and said that Chris Argent had asked for him, his leg was already halfway swung over his motorbike by the moment she hung up.

Stiles sped through the streets of Beacon Hills, landing in front of the McCall/Argent household in a matter of minutes. Pulling off his helmet, Stiles walked up and gave a quick knock against the door. Melissa had the door open in seconds, ushering him inside, shoving him towards the living room, refusing to acknowledge any of his questions.

Chris was sat in the couch, cradling a mug of coffee, staring blankly into the wall. He looked up when Stiles entered the room, and a sigh of relief ripped out from his throat.

"Thank god you're here."

Stiles squinted, "whats going on?"

"I need your help."

Chris Argent didn't ask for help, it was a widely accepted fact by majority of the pack. Chris Argent didn't ask for help, he was the help. Stiles sat in the armchair opposite the man, and gestured for him to continue,

"I have a nephew."

It was lucky that Chris was the one with a drink, because if it had been Stiles, he surely would've spat it out. It hit him immediately, millions of thoughts darting around, putting together the puzzle he was given,

"Kate?"

Chris nodded resigned, "That's not the problem."

Stiles spluttered, how on earth could that not be the problem, any spawn of Katherine Argent was a problem. Melissa had walked in by now, with a sad, conflicted face, and gave Stiles a mug of hot cocoa. She sat next to Chris, resting a comforting hand on his back, Stiles' eyes darting between the two of them, uncharacteristically silent as he tried to figure out what question he had to ask was.

"He's 16, Stiles."

Stiles still didn't get it, and it must of shown on his face because Chris' face crumpled.

"Who was Kate sleeping with 16 years ago?"

It was like Chris had waltzed into Stiles' lungs with a vacuum cleaner and sucked out all of the air. He choked, putting his mug on the side table to properly stare at the hunter, "How can you be so sure?"

Chris buried his head in his hands, "because she told me."

He peered up at Stiles through his fingers, "Derek is his father-" Chris sighed, "-and he's coming to stay here, Stiles."

Taj Argent didn't look how Stiles expected, whether he was just picturing a 16 year old Derek or a male version of Kate, Taj Argent looked like neither. That is to say, the teen did look like a cross between an Argent and a Hale. Cold blue eyes that he could easily find in either Chris or Peter, short dyed white hair, with dark roots peaking out. Said hair had faint curls, and his height was something he'd seen from every Hale he'd met.

Taj watched Stiles with caution, like a skittish animal unsure of whether or not it's worth running. The two sat in the living room of Stiles' condo, the agreed on neutral zone. Taj hadn't spoken after the initial greeting, instead fiddling with his backpack and tapping his finger rhythmically against the armrest.

"Chris will be here in 15." Stiles remarked after taking a glance at his phone, he looked to see Taj's jaw clench before again the teens face blurred back into impassivity. Stiles couldn't take the silence anymore and stood abruptly, startling Taj into pressing his entire body back into the chair, chin jutted up defensively, eyes boring holes into Stiles.

"Do you want a glass of water?" Stiles asked,

Taj shook his head, so Stiles sighed and sat back down. He knew he shouldn't do anything without Chris, but Stiles Stilinski wasn't known for his patience.

"What do you know?"

Stiles watched the question spin around Taj's eyes, as if trying to decipher exactly what Stiles' angle was.

"Know about what?" Taj's voice was soft, as if speaking any louder might disturb the fragile peace.

"About your parents."

He flinched, opening and closing his mouth, looking anywhere but Stiles. He sucked in a big breath, "I know who they are."

Awfully familiar blue eyes connected with honey brown, "I know what she did."

Stiles felt an unknown emotion flood through his body, but he was very quietly relieved he didn't have to explain just why the teen's father may not want anything to do with him. Taj was stiff in his chair,

"Who are you to Chris?" Taj asked. Stiles considered the question, it wasn't easy to say that the man was one of the very few adults he could trust to save the world when he was a teen. That would bring on the question as to why the world needed saving in the first place, and why Stiles was involved as a teenager.

"He's my best friend's step father."

Scott didn't consider Chris to be his dad, not on the account of Rafael McCall, but simply he didn't want a dad. Scott had Melissa and Stiles, and those were all he needed when it came to being called Scott's family. But again, it was an easier excuse than the reality. Taj mulled it over, before nodding. The two fell into silence once again.

Stiles couldn't handle it. He needed to know more about this kid.

"Who raised you?"

Taj narrowed his eyes, "Is that relevant?"

And silence again.

Chris Argent hadn't seen his nephew since the kid was 12, at his sister's funeral. The death of Kate Argent was remarkably unremarkable considering the chaos she wrought over the supernatural populace. The funeral was equally unremarkable. There were only a few attendees, and around three quarters were simply there to check she was actually in the casket this time. Chris was one such guest.

And when he went, he saw him, a kid sat uncomfortably near the front dressed in an ill-fitting suit and hair styled back with a tad to much gel. He was sat next to a severe woman he quickly identified as his Aunt Ethel, a woman who was too much like his father for Chris to ever like.

Chris knew of Taj, he'd known of him since Kate had called him up in a rare showing of fear all those years ago that she'd got knocked up, by a werewolf no less. The obvious answer was to abort the damn thing, which Chris had said quite plainly at the time. But Kate was different, in what Chris saw as a child being pulled into a cruel world, Kate saw an opportunity.

An opportunity to raise a werewolf to kill werewolves.

Of course once Taj had shown that he was in fact as human as the rest of the Argents, Kate had lost interest in her little pet project and threw her son into the arms of Aunts Caroline and Ethel. The two women designated to train and shape the upcoming Argent children into becoming mindless killing machines. And Chris never heard about him again, until that funeral twelve years later.

So Chris Argent walked up the path to Stiles' condo, pretending like he was meeting a normal child, a normal nephew, and he pretended extra hard that the handgun shoved into the waistband of his jeans wasn't there.

He knocked on the door, and it swung open almost immediately, Stiles standing there awkwardly.

"Chris! Come in!"

And there he was, in the living room, looking much different from Kate's funeral. Taj had stood up the second Chris entered the room, and quite easily reached the same height as his uncle. He held the strap to his bag tightly, breathing slowly.

"Taj."

"Chris."

It's all the two Argents could muster in that moment. And in some sort of twisted horror, all they could think of when faced each other was Kate Argent.

It was Stiles who broke the staring competition with an awkward cough, both sets of blue snapped to him, and he threw his hands up in surrender.

"Alright look, you both need to talk about what's going to happen. And I need more details on how to help."

Taj's lip curled, and Stiles fought the urge to stare open jawed as he finally saw Derek Hale in the kid. "I fail to see why this concerns you at all."

"Stiles stays." Chris rumbled before Stiles could even shoot out a witty retort. Taj glared over at his uncle, his knuckles turning white, thunder easily gathering in his eyes.

"Too afraid to face me by yourself?"

It seems that with the arrival of Chris, Taj's locked up feelings and words were leaking through. No longer faced with a stranger, but with a family member he'd barely seen since he was 4. Chris stiffened, his jaw clenching.

"Stiles stays." Chris repeated firmly.

"Fine." Taj pushed his head up, staring at the two in a now silent defiance.

Stiles sat down on the couch, and lent forward, "Speak you two."

Chris wasn't really sure what he had to say to the kid now that he was put on the spot. He had thought about it from the second he was informed his nephew was being dropped on his doorstep. It looked like Taj was equally as unsteady in what he actually wanted to say.

But they do say teens know what they want.

"I'm here because there's no one else. I need to stay until I'm able to go to court for emancipation. And I need you to sign consent to let me be emancipated as my legal guardianship was passed to you."

Chris sighed, and sat down next to Stiles.

"You know why you being here is gonna be hard, right?"

Taj swallowed, and slowly sank down to the chair he had sprung from, "My dad is here and doesn't know I exist."

"And you know that your conception wasn't legal- or consensual?" Chris bit out, bile building up in his throat. Taj flinched, before looking at his uncle with a pained look,

"I know. I don't want- I don't- I don't want him to know I'm here. He doesn't need to know anything."

Stiles' eyes flickered back and forth between them, "How long until you go to court?"

"Three months."

"And you're prepared to hide for three months?" Stiles asked, uncharacteristically soft. Taj looked at him, and let out a sigh,

"I've hidden for longer."

When Melissa McCall heard her husband's truck roll into the driveway, she shot up and peered through the blinds to the car. A pit settled into her stomach as she saw the second figure slink out of the backseat. She and Derek Hale may not have always seen eye to eye, but she loved that boy, the sweet man who she had witnessed give up many things for the betterment of kids who had no place in the supernatural world. And here was the living proof of his suffering.

When the door opened, and Taj Argent stepped through, Melissa imagined she would be struck with recognition of his two parents. But instead the face that floated through her mind was the man standing next to him. Taj Argent looked so much like her husband, it almost made her take a step back. However she put on a soft smile, and welcomed her husband home, and introduced herself to the teenager.

After the long talk with Chris and Stiles, his uncle had driven them back to his house, where a very nice woman called Melissa waited for them. With a cheerful deposition, which Taj spent too long trying to figure out if any hidden meanings from, she showed him the guest room she had made up for him.

As soon as the door shut behind him, he dropped his backpack, and he felt his body crumple to the ground. On his hands and knees, Taj felt his throat constrict and a pit grow in his stomach. He heaved empty breaths, the navy carpet below him spinning unnaturally. Pulling himself slowly towards the bed, taj flopped onto the bed and cried.

When he woke up, his head was heavier than a brick, straining his neck through the effort to check the time on his phone. 6.08am flashed back at him, along with the stock photo of a lake he'd found online. He had two notifications, one a message from his Aunt, and another from a random app he had forgotten to delete. Taj felt his head slump back into the pillow, and rolled onto his back,

"Fucking hell." He whispered to himself, taking in a big shuddering breath. Time seemed to pass over him, uncaring of the unseeing eyes that stared up at the ceiling. A knock at the door interrupted his well thought out plan of lying catatonic in that bed for the rest of his life,

"Yes?" He called out softly,

"It's me, Melissa. There's breakfast on the table, and your uncle would like to have a chat."

Taj squeezed his eyes shut, before sighing, "I'll be out in a moment, Mrs McCall."

Taj Argent wouldn't exactly call himself a rebellious teenager, more, an anti-authoritarian one. There was something foul inside him that reared its head the second someone older than him gave him a sneer and told him to make himself useful. Truth be told they didn't even have to sneer, just be slightly rude and demanding and Taj will refuse out of spite.

However he wasn't stupid, and he didn't want to incur the wrath of a Senior Argent on his second day. Pulling himself out of bed, he dug through his backpack, and pulled out his only other pair of clothes, and dressed himself. Shoving his phone in his pocket, he cracked open the door slightly, before opening it, and stepping past the threshold.

A right, down the stairs, another right and he stood face to face with his uncle. Or rather his uncle was sat at the dining table with a cup of coffee, a couple fried eggs and a truly sour expression on his face. Taj swallowed, and took the seat off to the side, perhaps in some attempt to not be in view of the older Argent. Footsteps alerted him to the presence behind him, and before he could even spin around, Melissa breezed past, taking a seat next to her husband.

"Sit down, Taj." Chris gestured to the seat in front of him, Taj gripped the back of the seat tightly as he pulled it out to sit. The second he hit the chair, Chris lowered his knife and fork, and took a long sip of his coffee, never once taking his eyes off the boy in front of him.

"You know what Kate did, correct?"

Taj felt his nails dig into his palms under the table, and his throat grow impossibly tight,

"The rape or the murder?" He got out shakily, Chris pursed his lips.

"The murder. The murders. There were eleven people in that house, Taj."

Taj looked down, growing up he didn't really spare a thought to the gruesome massacre of his paternal family. In fact, when he first learnt about the Hale fire, he resolved to never think about it again.

"I know." He murmured.

Peter Hale couldn't truly be summed up in one word, there was simply too much to the eldest werewolf of Beacon Hills to be boiled down to one characteristic. Peter Hale was clever, he was cunning, he was only the tiniest bit insane. Peter Hale was ruthless, he was cruel, he wielded his words as viciously as his claws.

But all that being said, Peter Hale, if you asked the right person, was a good person. He was loyal to his pack, to his land, to his wolf. If the right person asked, he'd be right next to them in battle, ready to end whatever dared threaten those he cared about with brutal efficiency. For awhile that list of those high on Peter's priorities was small, for a moment the only person on that list was himself.

Though as time passed, and the desperation to hold onto every opportunity of power slowly slipped from Peter's waking thought, certain people crawled further into Peter's circle. There was his nephew, who Peter admitted quietly to himself, never really left his list, his neice, who shot up in rankings the second Peter realised she was alive. There was Noah Stilinski who was so much like his father, he had considered reincarnation for roughly 35 minutes whilst drunk on wolfsbane. There was Noah's son, Stiles Stilinski, who fought him with teeth bared for their entire first six years from their meeting. A human who masqueraded as a wolf so well, Peter wouldn't entirely be surprised that Stiles was something other. 

And then there was Chris Argent, a man Peter fully expected to want to rip to shreds.

Chris Argent was a character. He was rather like Peter, in some ways. He was smart, he was articulate, he had connections. He was also brutal like Peter, as deadly as Peter, he was a man Peter Hale considered one of the most dangerous people to ever grace the lush grounds of Beacon Hills.

And he went for drinks with the man every Tuesday at 5.30pm without fail for the past four years.

Until now that is. A simple text, 'Something came up, won't be able to make it.'

Peter squinted down at his phone, coming to a standstill inside the supermarket where he had been pushing his cart.

'Trouble?' He sent back, before starting back up on his stroll through the aisle. Not two minutes later, just as he dropped three different types of pasta in the cart (Derek liked spaghetti, Cora penne, whilst he was a bowtie man himself.) He heard his phone buzz.

'Unlikely.'

Another pinged through,

'Just some business that couldn't be postponed.'

If Peter listed his gripes about Chris, his vagueness would be at least number two on the rankings. Only topped by the fact that he's related to the woman who murdered his family. He didn't blame the man, just it was a sort of annoyance whenever they made contact he had to remember that his entire pack was massacred by someone who shared those eyes.

Not that he looked into Chris' eyes all that often.

But Peter was also very curious, and far too nosy to ever let the break in tradition go uninvestigated. So he bought his groceries, put them in his car, and drove to the Argent and McCall household.

Taj sat on the back steps of the home he had been holed up in for the past week. He leant up against the doorframe, his back to the kitchen. He stared out at the fathomless darkness that creeped out from the woods. His hoodie battling back majority of the cold.

Beacon Hills was majority woods, in fact it was more woods than hills if Taj was being perfectly honest. The preserve, as he had heard Chris call it, spanned far and wide through Beacon County. And it was owned by the Hales.

Taj knew he wasn't a Hale. Had known it the moment his mother had gleefully recounted the tale of burning the Hale pack alive. He'd known it when she whispered that it was the son who told her about the family gathering that night. He'd known it even when she mentioned it was nine months before his birth.

Hales and Argents don't mix. You were one or the other, and Taj knew he didn't have a damn chance in striking the Argents from his name.

Taj Alexander Argent.

He leant his head back, so it could rest against the wood of the doorframe, pulling his eyes up to the moon, that glittered apathetically in the sky. It was a gibbous moon that night, waxing gibbous if he could hazard a guess. Meaning the full moon was soon approaching.

"Well, well, well, I didn't know Chris picked up strays."

Taj jolted, immediately jumping up and stepping back into the house as a soft voice rippled through from the woods. He tugged up his hood, surveyed the darkness, waiting for the voice's origin to make itself clear. 

An older man stepped out, he was tall, with light brown hair, and a plain white t-shirt. His head was cocked and arms were crossed. 

"Who are you?" Taj asked, wrapping a hand around the door handle pre-emptively. 

"A friend of Chris'. The question is who are you?" 

"A stray."