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Stiles leaned against a big old tree, tilted back his head and let his fingers meet its bark. He was wearing his usual layers and jeans, but he left his shoes and socks in the car, let the earth pulse through him. He had been driving home from college for spring break. A ten-hour flight followed by learning how to handle an unfamiliar rental vehicle, and then he was home free. Just a stretch of highway between him and his family, his pack. Not everyone in the pack had the same spring break, but those that weren't off were close enough to Beacon Hills that he'd see them anyway. Even Lydia and Jackson would be home for spring break, even though they both complained about all the parties they could have gone to instead. Stiles had been tired, jet-lagged, but excited as he drove, excited enough to struggle only slightly to stay awake.
And then, just when the woods were starting to feel familiar, a fucking who the fuck knows what slammed the side of his (fortunately insured) rental car, shoving him right off the empty road and into some trees that were nice enough to catch him. His head was bleeding, and the windshield had shattered which meant other parts of him were bleeding, and there was already a bruise forming from the seatbelt, and generally speaking everything sucked and it all hurt. On the up side, that wasn't really anything new.
Wait, back up. Was that an up side?
Never mind. He had grabbed his bags, shucked his shoes and socks, called for a tow from the rental company (priorities) then booked it into the woods after the thing. Which somehow ended up with him leaning against an old oak and listening to the forest cry over a giant deer(no exaggeration necessary) huddled on the forest floor.
The very same giant deer which had totalled his rental and probably concussed him. He supposed deer were all sort of the same, even if they were giant, white, and weirdly sparkly. The giant rack of antlers were silver, and its dainty little hooves were black, and overall Stiles was just not overly fond of the niggling suspicion that this was basically a unicorn. There was no story involving him and a unicorn that wouldn't wind up with him getting laughed at somewhere down the road. Probably by Jackson. In gratuitous amounts.
Also it was dying, and even though it had rammed him, Stiles felt remarkably guilty. He may or may not have killed a unicorn. At the very least, he'd had some hand in the damage of a(or was it The?) White Stag, previously thought to be just people getting way too excited over albino or leucistic animals.
Stiles considered booking it. The tow was probably already there. It might even have started hauling the car off already; which was fine, everything Stiles owned was in his dorm room or the bag slung over his shoulder, and he wasn't attached to the rental. But he could pull out his cell and have a ride there in thirty minutes, probably less. He was close to Beacon Hills, and nobody would pull the sheriff over for speeding. Actually, he could probably call an ambulance. There was precedent for one after all.
Instead though, he heaved a sigh, set his bag down, and began to shrug off his layers as he strode over to the deer/possibly unicorn. The stag. He was down to boxers and tattoos by the time he carefully sat beside the stag, trying not to make too many pained noises. Blue eyes rolled at him, the stag's ribs heaving and legs scrambling as it panicked, tried to flee. Stiles laid a hand on its heavy neck and breathed a soothing noise, his connection to the earth flowing through him and into the deer. Its breathing slowed, the whites of its eyes showing less and less as it welcomed Stiles as the friend the earth call him.
"I think I can heal you. Try not to move until I give the go-ahead though, or you might hurt yourself," Stiles murmured, putting a pulse of magic into the words so the stag would obey. He'd be pissed if he got the damn thing half-healed only to have it rip everything apart again trying to bolt.
With his blood dripping all over the place, Stiles pressed his palm into the stag's fluttering pulse, channeled magic down his arm, and let the earth do as it saw fit. His only real method of healing. "Healing." Sometimes it was a killing stroke. Sometimes Stiles reached to heal and the earth knew it could not be done, and the body under Stiles' fingers, the body he had been desperately willing to life, would go still. Into a gentle and peaceful end, but...Well, he didn't heal his friends much anymore. This time though, the magic sang through his veins, rushing to the task of healing the deer. He felt internal organs knit, felt blood return to its rightful place and ruptured veins heal. It was--it was unbelievable. It was breathtaking and heartstopping and all kinds of amazing, awe-inspiring, and it always was, always would be, no matter how many times he healed someone, something. The white stag, for the earth whispered, laughing that that was what it was and not a unicorn(Stiles ignored the feeling of unicorns don't look like that because, one thing at a time) was a whole new level of heady, because it wasn't just a deer that was inexplicably white and as tall as a horse. It was magic. Every fiber of its being, every cell and bone and hair, was pure magic. The white stag was a dream come to life, and healing it felt like nothing Stiles could ever have imagined. He felt ley lines, actual ley lines connected to a living being, sew themselves back together, and bit back a scream as they stitched him into the fold as well.
It was like drowning in clouds, like flying through lava, like breathing in fire and out life. Everything was bright and burning and crystal clear and there were more colors than he had ever known, more shapes and creatures and things he couldn't possibly name. The very air had a presence, a feel and taste and form. Stiles died with his hand on a deer's neck and was reborn against the flank of The White Stag.
You have my thanks, the earth and the stag and the air breathed, in a voice and a roar and a rush of feeling, thought, existence.
"Try not to run into traffic again," Stiles advised, in a daze, staring woozily at everything. Just...everything. He felt laughter in his bones, in his heart and belly and mind, and it warmed him.
I was driven mad by poison. You purged it as you healed me. The forest thanks you as well; it would have taken her a long time to form, or find another guardian. Although now, it appears, she has two. How fortuotous.
"Yep," was about all Stiles could muster. His eyes closed as the stag nuzzled his ribs, a flare of pain battering against his concious. He definitely had a concussion. He should probably call 911.
But, Sleep, the White Stag, whose name was Courien val Wrainth according to the earth, whispered.
"Can I call you Cory?" Stiles inquired, admiring the rainbow that played even against the backs of his eyelids. The stag laughed again.
I would not object to a nickname from you, the newly dubbed Cory replied and Stiles passed out against silky white fur.
Holy shit his phone was loud. Why the hell was it so loud? Stiles groped for it, and found leaves in place of his nightstand. And leaves in place of his pillow. And leaves in place of--pretty much everything, actually. That hadn't happened in a while.
Stiles opened his eyes, choked, closed them again. The sky was dark but the leaves were alive and every star was a fucking sun. Which, well, accurate, but still. He opened his eyes again and picked out the Rose nebula, and then he closed his eyes and listened to the forest breathe. Louder, no, clearer than he had ever heard it before, it thrummed joyously around him, embraced him, loved him intensely. He felt Cory running somewhere far away, sensed a quieter herd of (regular) deer browsing amongst the underbrush, a pack of wolves racing the trees, brushed against the quiet of a sleeping bear, against a rabbit nestling nearby and a family of squirrels in a tree far above while an owl alternatively contemplated the squirrels and the oddity that was Stiles. Stiles felt everything within the forest's bounds, and then he found himself and sighed in relief. He reined the magic back, pushing it carefully away where it belonged, although with some reluctance. Opening it again would be difficult, the trees sighed. He would not be so much a part of them again without great effort.
He promised to make that effort, setting them at ease, and intended to keep it. It was overwhelming, far too much, but it wasn't something he'd be able to resist forever. Some day he would succumb to the call of the forest. Maybe one of those times, he wouldn't come back. It seemed like a good way to go. But he wasn't dying today, so he secured himself inside his own body, reaffirmed his own being. He could still feel some of the forest, still a bit better than before, but nothing like before. With the exception of Cory, who he felt like a wandering limb. Which didn't make sense but he could accept that.
Stiles opened his eyes.
It didn't blind him, so that was nice. Focusing on his own being, he blinked, and breathed, and eased into his own self. He could no longer identify individual stars. That was nice.
Oh his phone was ringing again. It didn't make his ears or head hurt so much this time, although the sound was still obnoxious in the middle of the forest. He pawed at his hip, rolled his eyes at the lack of pants, and made himself sit up. He had already crawled over to his jeans by the time he remembered he should be in agony. Phone in hand, he contemplated his fully healed self, then silently thanked Cory and the forest before hitting the answer button without checking caller ID. If it was nighttime, he had probably been missing long enough to warrant answering his phone hastily.
"Stiles?!" his dad screamed and Stiles held the phone away from his ear at the ensuing slew of overloud questions. He rubbed his ear, then cautiously brought the speaker closer.
"Hi, Dad," he greeted with a rusty voice, and rubbed a hand over the guilty twang in his stomach at the sound of his dad nearly sobbing his relief, although the only-slightly hysterical laughter that accompanied it made him feel marginally better.
"What the hell, son? We've been trying to find you for six fucking hours," the sheriff told him, sounding out-of-breath. Stiles checked the time on his phone. He'd been out for almost eight hours. Possibly closer to seven, depending on how long it took him to find and then heal the stag. Huh.
"Yeah, sorry about that. Hit a deer. Had a life-changing experience. Bonded with wildlife. All that good stuff. I'm okay though. I'm pretty sure Scott's actually really nearby, so head on home and I'll catch a ride with him. We'll be there and I'll tell you all about it." Yeah, it was probably time Stiles told his dad about magic and werewolves and stuff, considering during the course of the coversation the owl had decided to come sit beside him and stare curiously at the phone. He put it on speaker and held it in front of him so the owl could see better, because really, at that point, why the fuck not. The owl seemed appreciative at least.
Fuck his life. Just, fuck it.
"You scared the shit out of me kid. What--" Stiles cut him off; that was not a conversation to be had via phone.
"I promise I'll tell you every last detail as soon as I'm home, okay? I love you dad. See you soon. Be safe." His thumb hovered over the End Call button, waiting for his dad's response.
The sheriff sighed, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice as he said, "I love you too son. Don't hit any more deer."
"Can do," he chirped and hung up. He set the phone down in the leaves, leaving the screen unlocked so it stayed bright and interesting. "Don't break it," he told the owl, then got up to start getting dressed.
He was pulling on his second shirt when the owl abruptly took off with a loud warning call. Scooping his hoodie up, he slung it over his arm and padded over to pick up his phone. Bending down, he cursed as he realized that he'd left his damn shoes in the car. There was probably a way to get them back but it would probably be a pain in the ass. He'd liked those shoes. And the socks were his Dalek ones.
"Stiles!" Scott shouted, throwing himself out of the woods, completely wolf'd out. Stiles pocked his phone, locking the screen, and flashed his best friend a grin.
"Scott," Stiles replied and Scott, having presumably assured Stiles was neither fatally injured nor in mortal peril, flung himself at him. Stiles let out and oof and was promptly tackled to the ground, since his legs didn't have a whole lot going on in the strength section.
Scott buried his face in Stiles' neck, clinging to him. "What the fuck, dude?" he cried, actual tears wetting Stiles' neck. Stiles patted his friend's back in a reassuring fashion as the rest of the pack's wolves(including Danny, as of half a year ago) spilled out of the woods, surrounding them while looking around suspiciously.
"I'm not going through this twice, because just thinking about it makes me feel like my brain is broken. I'm giving my dad 'the talk' as soon as I'm home though, and it's going to include tonight's adventures, so you all might as well tag along for the ride. Call the rest of the pack; if Lydia gets left out she will probably cut our testicles off. Also I've been in a car crash and I know I don't look it but it hurt a lot so please get off. And then somebody carry me. I'm too tired for shame and you fuckers are probably parked miles away." They could steal his dignity, sap his strength, cose him a pair of awesome novelty socks, but they would never take his sass.
Turned out, they weren't parked anywhere at all; they'd just hit the woods running. So Stiles was carried bridal-style all the way home, by Derek, for some reason. Scott offered too(along with Isaac, Danny, and, because she was a little shit and also his Catwoman, Erica), but Derek was technically stronger and seemed the least tired of them all so Stiles made the decision and it definitely had nothing to do with feeling some of those fucking muscles up close and personal. Danny was admittedly tempting as well, but riding in Derek's arms turned out to be smooth and downright comfy.
He made Derek put him down before they knocked on the door though. One thing at a time.
"Stiles!" the sheriff exclaimed and dragged him in to a bone-crushing bear hug.
"Ow," he stated and settled for patting his dad's back, too tired for much more. He had slept for way too long, but he still just wanted to lay down and sleep for a while more. Too bad. Life-changing conversations first. Unfortunately.
"Why--?" his dad began, looking at the pack with only a little-ish suspicion.
"Proof, support, etcetera," Stiles waved it off, and headed for the living room where he let Scott, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd claim the couch then flopped down on top of them. His dad took his usual chair and everyone else found a spot around the room.
"Well?" the sheriff asked after a few moments of silence. Stiles flapped his hand around again.
"Wait for it," he advised. They spent five minutes with Stiles dozing on his friends before Jackson got up to let Allison, Lydia, Chris, and Melissa in, who all proceded to find their spots.
"Stiles," Dad began in his warning tone.
"We're good now. Everyone's here, right? I'm too lazy to do a headcount so I'm assuming yes. Okay, so, dad. Everything I'm about to tell you is the truth and I can prove it, don't interrupt, etcetera-etcetera. You see, it all started with werewolves."
Three hours later, the window was open and the living room was full of wildlife and Stiles was already tired of Disney princess jokes. He wasn't tired of squirrel kisses though. Those were pretty cute.
His dad had scotch, which he was graciously sharing with Chris, Melissa, and, for some reason, Peter. Derek was looking at Stiles in a way that was frankly freaking him out. Scott kept giggling because he liked squirrel kisses too. Lydia was examining an owl. Jackson looked traumatized because there was a cat on his shoulder but he was still making fun of Stiles in-between freaking out over the cat. And Erica was bonding with a mountain lion. Because of course she was. Stiles was not sure why there was a mountain lion in his living room. He was very concerned. But not half as concerned as he should have been.
"No matter how much you drink, it's all still real," he told the drinking adults sagely.
"And Stiles is still the ugliest Disney princess ever," Jackson supplied, and winced as the cat, who apparently loved him, dug her claws in particularly hard as she massaged his shoulder lovingly.
"I'm past disbelief at this point. This is the drinking of solititude and acceptance," the sheriff muttered and threw back another shot.
"Fucking unicorns," Chris Argent muttered and took his own shot.
"Maybe we'll get less monsters with two proper forest guardians," Melissa mused optimistically, and a little wistfully, sipping at her own drink. She could throw back shots better than the sheriff but tonight she was being supportive so she wasn't actively trying to get drunk. Yet.
"That's what it sounds like, but apparently we'll get more 'friendly' things," Stiles told Isaac's stomach, which he was wrapped around like a monkey. Isaac was fucking comfortable. "So if an actual unicorn shows up in our back yard, I'm just--I'm warning you ahead of time, okay? This is not my fault. I refute all blame. In fact, I actively blame Jackson."
"What? Ow, what the fuck cat. How is this my fault?" Jackson squawked.
"I don't know it just is," Stiles harrumphed and burrowed more securely into Isaac. "Why are we all still awake? Shut up and let me sleep at least."
They didn't shut up, since everyone was still having some mind-numbing revelations(or alcohol), but someone eventually threw a blanket over him and got him an actual pillow to add to his Isaac pillow(which he refused to relinquish) and obligingly, they let him sleep.
Stiles stood at the edge of the territory. His territory, not the pack's. The pack didn't own the whole forest, couldn't dream of keeping that much land under control, but Stiles--the forest was his, and he was hers. He had had to drive for a while and then walk a while more to reach the very edge, but he made it, the forest urdging him on every step of the way, keeping exhaustion at bay. The pack were going to throw a fit when they realized he was gone. He had woken up alone in his own bed and crept down the stairs, magic keeping his presence silent even as he slipped past the whole pack asleep in his living room. The window had been closed and the animals sent back to their homes, although the cat had stubbornly remained and was sleeping on Jackson's chest when Stiles left, much to his amusement.
Cory approached, silent, swift, graceful. The woods didn't hinder him, barely stirred in his wake, but it felt as if all around him the trees sighed. Stiles had begun to notice a similar effect around himself, still wasn't sure what to do with that. Mostly he just ignored it.
He turned partially so he could see when Cory became visible, stepping elegantly along and eating up more space with each step than should have been possible. It seemed moments--eternities--passed and then Cory was by Stiles' side, head bowed to bump affectionately against Stiles' hand, his antlers harmlessly passing by.
Brother, Cory sang/murmured/laughed.
"Am I going to talk like you one day?" Stiles inquired, running a hand down the deer's neck. Cory snorted, the least graceful sound Stiles had heard from him yet.
Possibly. In a few centuries. If things play out in certain ways, Cory shrugged, seemingly uninterested but willing, happy even to answer Stiles' questions.
Stiles nodded slowly. "You know humans don't live for centuries, right?" Cory laughed at that, and didn't respond. Stiles added it to his mental folder of "things we don't think about."
They turned as one to look across the invisible boundary between their forest and someone else's, although even the trees that were not theirs called gentle affection to them, welcomed them with open arms. An unclaimed forest, without a guardian, Cory/the forest's knowledge provided Stiles with a reason for such welcoming. Besides, trees were trees. Even ones with their own guardian would welcome another.
"Could we expand our boundaries?" he asked curiously as they waited. Cory shrugged again, apparently having no concern for how ridiculous the motion looked on a deer.
If we desired. One day, perhaps, when you are stable in your roles. For now, this is enough for the two of us. Stiles nodded, wisely deciding to not ask questions he didn't actually want the answers to, and felt into a comfortable silence.
When the forest whimpered and shrunk away and badwrongitchyno approached, Stiles stepped forward to toe the line. Cory stood silently behind him, a comfortingly supportive presence even as he ceded this confrontation to Stiles.
When they spilled out of the trees, Stiles watched them skid to a halt at the sight of him, no doubt completely unexpected. A human out in the middle of the forest. Although he wondered how anyone could think him a mere human with Cory stood just behind him, with the forest singing in his veins and the earth dancing over his skin. But so few paid proper attention to the important details, particularly ones so out of touch with the earth that their eyes skimmed over Stiles, skipping right past Cory, and their expressions twisted into sneers.
"Alexander Ray Stephen. Son of hunters. He who bares arms against those who harm innocent, and against innocents themselves." Thrice-named, the forest cried, and Stiles felt an invisible first curl around the man before him. He looked over the men and women just outside his territory, ranging in age and features but all armed to the teeth. "You dealt poison unto a guardian, and now you seek to invade his territory, bringing with you death and darkness. I am a messenger, to tell you this: the guardian lives. Leave, and do not attempt entrance again. This is your warning--" the hunters were protesting, snarling and snapping, more like rabid dogs than most of their prey, and Stiles spoke over them--"and the warning to all of your people. Spread the word to all who will listen. This land is protected, and those who come with ill-intent in their hearts will find themselves most unwelcome."
Message delivered, Stiles turned and began to walk away. Behind him, the hunter, Alexander, stepped forward with a snarl. His rifle lifted and his foot crossed the line, and then he screamed as the earth surged up and dragged him down. Plants rose to claim his weapons, dirt filled his lungs, and the forest guardians walked away. The hunters didn't follow.
Out of sight, Stiles stumbled; Cory caught him, thrusting his neck under Stiles' hands.
Climb on, brother. You have much more to heal from than only today and yesterday.
"Do I?" Stiles wondered, distantly amused, and somehow found himself crawling onto Cory's back when the White Stag knelt. Cory's head bobbed as he rose again, Stiles draped over his neck.
The forest has wept for you for a long time now, little brother. But now she and I and your pack will heal your heart. Rest now. I will see you home. As the world bobbed and swayed gently around him, Stiles clung to the great stag under his hands, and he slept.