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There were only three people alive in the world who knew Stiles Stilinski’s real name.  (Well, probably a few government officials too, but Stiles didn’t count them.)  His father, Scott, and Melissa McCall were the only people he trusted with this knowledge. (Okay, so he didn’t have a choice about his dad knowing, but whatever.)  And Stiles liked it that way.  It made him feel powerful, like he would always have an advantage over (almost) everyone that he met.  Names had power (something he had learned from a summer of studying under Deaton.  And maybe from an episode of Doctor Who) and Stiles reveled in the fact that no one would ever have that sort of power over him.  It also helped that Stiles’ first name was practically unpronounceable.  His own father could hardly manage it.  So, if a baddie did find out his name, Stiles is pretty confident it couldn’t be used against him. 

But there was a small (tiny, some might even call it miniscule) part of him that whispered, maybe, maybe that wasn’t the only reason he kept his name hidden from everyone.  Stiles ignored it the lying tiny voice.  (Or, at least, he tried to.)  The little voice told him that he was just afraid, taunted him about it late at night. Said that the secret of his name was just the outermost layer of the thick wall he had built around himself over the years, the wall even Scott couldn’t penetrate all the way.  And yeah, if he had to, Stiles could reluctantly admit that it was partly true.  (Okay, it was completely true.)  He didn’t want to get hurt.  Emotionally, that is.  He doesn’t mind getting bruises or broken bones for the sake of his friends and family or the greater good.  But he’d rather get hit with a baseball bat over and over than let someone inside.  And that was screwed up.  Stiles thinks that maybe that’s his hamartia, that somehow, someday, his fucked up emotions are the fatal flaw that is going to get him killed. (That or one of the many wolves or bullets he sees on an almost daily basis.)




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