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Stiles didn't want to get out of bed. He wasn't even sleeping, he was just exhausted, and his bed felt so safe and warm. Considering he had somehow wound up with eight pillows and two very fluffy throws on his little bed, it seemed to him that no one could really blame him for never wanting to leave it. Plus, no matter how often people broke into his room, no one had ever actually hurt him in his bed, emotionally or physically. In fact, they had been known to drag him out of bed for the purpose of hurting him or generally putting him in the line of fire, metaphorical or otherwise. So staying in bed was really the most logical option, serving to preserve both is sanity and safety, ignoring the obvious question of whether or not he had ever had sanity--or if he had, if he had any left to lose.
But he could hear his dad getting ready downstairs, and he rarely saw his only blood relative; he didn't want to miss what might be the only chance he had to see him all day, if not longer. His dad worked long hours, and Stiles, well, Stiles was busy.
With, ha, magic, if you can believe it. Not like potions and incantations; no, that was all Lydia. Lydia who had chanted the house back into existence, using the loop of the pack bond to fuel the necessary magic. Although it was Stiles who had planned it with her, drawn up plans based on the original Hale house floor plan filched from the city hall. They had made changes, a lot of changes, but kept certain things the same. Just the right amount of things. That was mostly Stiles, though only Lydia knew that. No one other than Deaton and Lydia, not even Scott, knew why Stiles could control the mountain ash, why Stiles could channel magic for Lydia. No one else knew that the pack bonds went through him before they hit her, going through a sort of filter to convert it into magical energy she could utilize. No one knew the things he had seen, when he stood in front of the oldest house in Beacon Hills. He had stripped off his shoes so that he could bury his toes in the earth, eliminating the barriers he so often clung to.
The earth had missed him. It sang. It screamed. And, around the Hale house, once so full of life, of laughter and warmth, it wept. As tears streamed down his cheeks, he had fallen to his knees, burying his hands in the earth, and she had shown him her memories. Memories of paws and feet scampering over her, of plants grown with love and old-fashioned knowledge. It showed him a happy family and their beautiful home.
Lydia found him, after so long that the afternoon light had been replaced by dusk, bowed over the grass and still choking on sobs. He had wound up with his face in her belly, curled around her legs when she crumpled to the ground to accommodate him, as he finally gave in and wept, whispering to her of the things he had seen.
So when Lydia rebuilt the house and magic flowed between them, Stiles buried his fingers in the earth and breathed. And the earth breathed with him.
As the pack stood and watched, Lydia sweating and glazed-eyed in Jackson's arms, Stiles and Lydia combined their last spark.
Their audience gasped and stared in open-mouthed awe.
Plants burst from the ground. They exploded into startling life, leaves giddily unfurling as vines climbed up and latched onto walls and pillars. They weren't all the same plants, but Stiles had been careful, had been just specific enough in his request.
At the edge of the porch an enormous jasmine plant sprouted, sprawling and bunching and stretching and clinging, as if it didn't know whether it wanted to be a vine or a bush and didn't really care to decide. It wasn't the delicately sculpted tree, grafted bush that curled all around the porch as the earth had shown him, but Stiles figured Derek would like this slightly different, wilder approach better than a mirror image. There was a plant for everyone, actually: For Erica, a ridiculously gaudy rose straddled the line between shrub and tree, cuddled against and around a coiling trellis, covered in wicked thorns with the most vibrant violet and yellow blooms, huge and glorious with a heady scent and layer after layer of velvety petals. A patch of varying types of bromeliads, some with vibrant blooms and others baring wickedly curved thorns, all of rich, deep colors lit by streaks or blooms or patterns; for Derek again, one to reflect him rather than evoke a memory. There was a delicate gardenia spilling out from beneath the jasmine for Laura, though Stiles had never known her. Velvety leaved plants of various breeds sprinkled or huddled throughout a bed of varied ferns for Isaac, and towering elephant ears sprouted here and there, sheltering various other plants, along other taros in colors to compliment their different areas; for Boyd. The list went on, plants reflecting or celebrating or otherwise acknowledging each member of their pack. Although he had left most of the specific decision-making up to the earth's whim. In the back though, just for himself and perhaps his dad, since he doubted anyone but his dad would ever know its significance, there was a tree.
Nasczokin's Lime, a youngling, as all of the plants technically were, although some were exponentially large with the earth's blessing. It leaned gently against the back house, leaves swaying absently in every passing breeze, its trunk curved away so that it would never endanger the house. The curved trunk also reflected the famous Polish forest. A tree that sang of his ancestry, and, mostly, of his mother. It had been her favorite tree, one that had grown by the house she grew up in and won her heart. She had always been sad she could never grow one in Beacon Hills, not to mention the difficulty of obtaining and maintaining a sapling. Most of the plants that had sprouted around the house would never survive in this sort of climate. At least, not without the earth itself dedicated to keeping them alive. And it would, it would nourish and gentle and love all of those plants into well-being, if only to bring their sad little child happiness. One day, in the hopefully distant future, it would continue to maintain them, in memory instead. No matter what became of the house itself, this piece of land would never forget the pack.
Stiles staggered to his feet, blinking away fatigue. He was used to fatigue; hell, it was all he really knew. Lydia had already collapsed, unconscious in Jackson's arms, her magic fading away and the constant tug between them with it. The house settled with a few soft creaks and groans. Stiles locked his legs. He would not be falling over. Not yet, not in front of his pack.
Derek was just staring in awe though, and Scott and Allison were being romantic over something, and the leather trio(no they would never be rid of that name) were inspecting everything like eager puppies in a new home. Peter stood to the side, looking contemplative, although Stiles was pretty sure there were tears in his eyes. Stiles was no longer needed here. With a soft, satisfied smile accompanied by a matching sigh, he made his way back to the jeep and drove away, knowing better than to go visit his mother's tree, not with so many people around. It could wait.
That was three weeks ago, and Stiles was exhausted, and honestly, it had nothing to do with magic. Stiles knew that well, though he had no problems with letting the pack think it was still just the aftereffects of magic.
It had been months(over a year, maybe longer) since he and Scott even tried to get some lacrosse practice in; most of the time he practiced with the other wolves while Team Human sat on the sidelines and cheered(jeered). It was fun. Stiles didn't really go for walks in the woods anymore, for obvious reasons. With the rare exception of running from monsters, Stiles didn't do much but school and research, and hang with the pack.
Stiles loved the pack. The pack were great. He would kill for the pack. He had killed for the pack. It was like he suddenly had a huge family; a ridiculous, nonsensical, possibly incestual family, but a family. He needed to bring his dad in, needed to share this family. He would too, soon. Maybe after he got out of bed.
"Stiles," John called up the stairs, sounding more cheerful than he had months ago, before Stiles had somehow fixed, or at least bandaged, their breaking relationship. That roused Stiles, dragged him out of bed. He still wasn't sure how he had fixed them, since he hadn't yet come clean about anything, but they had started talking again and Stiles was doing nothing to risk breaking it again.
"Just a sec!" he called back, practically falling into his closet to drag off pajamas and on actual clothes. He was pretty sure they were clean. His whole body felt like it was weighed down by lead though; he didn't have the energy to find anything cleaner. His legs already ached by the time he made it to the top of the stairs, and he focused on the steps, put his mind elsewhere, away from the world spinning around him, as he tried to hurry down the stairs. He wanted nothing more than to sit down at the bottom and sob.
Instead, he grinned, reaching out for his uniformed dad and dragging him in to a good old Stilinski hug of manly love. His father's arms crushed him, and Stiles wanted to protest, wanted to whimper, but he would never, not even if his muscles wept and even his bones seemed to tremble.
"Love you, Dad," he said cheerfully as they separated. "Be safe!" He gave a jaunty salute that had the sheriff laughing as he left with his own 'I love you's and 'see you later's throne over his shoulder. Stiles was good at this; no one noticed when someone didn't say good bye, so long as they found an acceptable substitute. Lots of people liked to mix it up a little. Fortunately none of his friends--family--compared notes, no one would think to wonder why he was always saying be safe and never goodbye.
Stiles was good at this.
He wandered into the kitchen, stared around, considered breakfast. His chest tightened. The base of his throat knotted, threatening a mutiny. Ignoring the disagreeable roiling of his stomach, he made a few PB&J sandwiches for later; if he didn't eat them, the pack would. He shoved them in the same Captain America lunchbox he'd been stubbornly using for six years, checked that the time ended in 5, and headed out the door. He locked the door, then gave it a few tugs(three) and jiggles(three) to make sure it was secure, before strolling towards the jeep. He put his bags in the backseat first, then got her started with just the right turn of the key. He heard his family's old oak sigh, a sad and longing sound, but he ignored her; she sighed an awful lot lately, but whenever he tried to find out why, she would just sigh some more while reassuring him gently. The trees were always gentle, at least with him. Gentle and helpful in unexpected ways, like telling him how to help Scott, at least as best they could, in the beginning of all this...nonsense. He sensed their regret sometimes that they had not been able to warn him in time to save the Hales, but never blamed him; his mother had only just died, and he was too distraught to listen to the trees properly, and trees rarely placed blame anyway. Trees were always aware of nature, of the cycles, and were rarely swayed by any but the most evil of acts.
The trees had screamed when Kate returned, screamed their vengeful fury, and had not been pacified until her blood fed their roots. They had wept as well though, that Peter's blood did as well. The trees would always love the Hales.
Scott and Isaac had both forgotten their lunch, so Stiles handed over his sandwiches, swearing he wasn't hungry anyway. Scott made him promise to eat something as soon as he got home, since he knew a little about Stiles' problems, and Stiles laughingly agreed, knowing he would keep his promise too, whether he was hungry or not. Stiles always kept his promises to Scott.
And then there were harpies.
After that victory, while they were all recuperating at the house, Stiles elected to cook up a midnight feast with Isaac, Peter and Boyd's help; they were the only ones in the pack allowed in the kitchen. Considering Scott could barely boil water, and Allison routinely burned pasta, Stiles had no idea how they would survive if they managed to sort their shit out and move in together someday. He sort of figured they would be enlisting him and the other cooking-capable packmates, and he sort of didn't mind.
Derek was staring at him, so Stiles took a few bites of pie; the only thing that appealed. They were big, messy bites, so Derek stopped looking at him, and Stiles stopped eating, covering his discomfort with a smile as he forced the pie down. It sat heavy in his stomach, but at least it didn't start a revolt. He, Lydia and Jackson, of all people, packed up the leftovers into Derek's ridiculous fridge, while the alpha himself lurked and stared menacingly for no conceivable reason. They all departed after that, sated and safe. The pack house wasn't Stiles' home, not quite yet, so he honored his agreement with Scott by making a big batch of chicken-Alfredo pasta, which he ate a few bites of. He dished out a healthy amount into a bowl, which he stuck in the microwave with a note for when the sheriff got home, then put the leftovers in the fridge.
He wound up getting out of bed only a few minutes after laying down to go throw up in the bathroom.
He thoroughly scrubbed out his mouth, spritzed some air freshener(fucking werewolves) around, then headed back to bed. After only a few moments, he pulled out a near-full bottle of xanax and took twice his recommended dose. His mind played scenes on repeat, blood and screams and dying and dead, until the xanax dragged him under. He always had weird, hallucinogenic dreams when he forced himself to sleep with xanax, but for a while his head was silent, so he didn't mind. In his dreams, his dad came home a few times, saying or doing various things Stiles wouldn't remember when he woke; he wandered to the bathroom and fell through a chasm into the bathroom where he pushed the covers up and crawled out of bed to go to the bathroom; Derek flickered through vaguely, as did Allison and Boyd, for no conceivable reason; and then Stiles was actually waking up, the sun in his eyes and his alarm clock chattering over-noisy birdsong at him. Stiles had learned how poor an idea it was to wake up to an obnoxious alarm that got him all keyed up and panicked first thing in the morning.
He flicked the alarm off with a broad yawn. The xanax kept his head vaguely muzzy, which he appreciated because it kept his pulse sedate and his mind away from distressing thoughts, but it made his head spin even more and his eyes just weren't focusing right. Stiles sat with his feet planted on the floor, taking a moment to adjust to being upright. And then he stood, swayed, and fell back onto the bed where he took another, slightly longer moment. The second time he stood he swayed again, but he didn't fall. He counted it as a win and started towards the bathroom.
By the time he had brushed his teeth and showered(ew harpy blood ewewew was that a feather how did a feather get there, not to mention his own dried blood and new scars-to-be) his eyes were no longer swimming, although his head still spun a bit. His legs ached from standing in the shower. He sat down on his bed to dry off. Got up, pulled clothes on after sniff-testing them, sat down for another break. His dad was already in bed; he could hear the faint snores. There was no need to hurry.
His stomach whimpered though, deciding to be hungry today, so he got to his feet and stumbled towards the door, persevering through the world spinning and his eyes going off. He crept down the stairs, clinging to the rail as his teeth dug into his gum where he had managed to chew a little nub over the years. On the way to the kitchen, he leaned against the wall or furniture whenever possible. In the kitchen, he put some toast in the toaster, pulled out butter and jelly, then took a seat. Technically he was really in the mood for eggs, scrambled eggs with cheese and maybe bacon bits. Instead he laid his head on the table and waited for his toast.
His butter didn't melt right because he couldn't spread it fast enough, and he only had a little jelly unlike the sloppy mess he used to like, but the salt-sweet-crunch of the toast warmed him, settled his stomach. He shoved some snack food in his bag, prepackaged fingerfood he wouldn't have to work at, smiled at the note from his dad on the counter("Thanks for the food, kid. Got home at about 4 so I'm going to sleep. Have a good day. Love you.") then shouldered his bag and headed for the door.
He locked it behind him. Tugged. Jiggled. Thrice. Put his bag in the jeep. Started it with just the right turn. Check the clock; it ended in a 5. Stiles headed to school.