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Summary
There are secrets he holds close, trapped tight against his chest and heart, where no-one knows to look and where he can keep them safe. Secrets he dares not tell anyone.
A time-travel fix-it one-shot, where Stiles manages to fix everything.
Secrets
**Author's Note:**
* Inspired by [Weave Ourselves in a Circle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445188) by [Akabit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akabit/pseuds/Akabit).
There are secrets he holds close, trapped tight against his chest and heart, where no-one knows to look and where he can keep them safe. Secrets he dares not tell anyone.
-
When he is seven, all long limbs and wide eyes, innocent and untouched by the horrors of the world, he finds a book. It is written in a language he doesn't understand, and bound in leather. The smell of it makes his pulse race and his mind stir, focused in a way it has never been before.
He spends the next few years of his life focused on that book. He studies it, memorises it, and spends inordinate amounts of time tracking down the language it is written in and learning it.
Because of that book, he meets Deaton, who teaches him. Because of that book, he meets Talia, who smiles at him and holds him tight when his own mother dies.
Because of that book, he learns to control his spark.
-
When he is ten, he is laughing with Cora, waiting for Laura to come gather them up after school and take them back to the Hale house for cookies and milk and the stories that Uncle Peter tells. He can hear Derek nearby with his friends (he had convinced Cora that they should go looking for her siblings rather than passively waiting for Laura to come collect them, it wasn't like the high school was that far away).
Suddenly, something smashes into him, sending him reeling forwards. He stumbles, gasping, before tripping over his own feet and crashing to the ground. He bites his lip, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. By him, a basketball tumbles away. Cora gapes, staring around for where it came from.
In the next moment, Derek is there, leaning over him and helping him up, brows creased in concern. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Stiles?”
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