1.01: Stories

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Stiles likes stories.

He's always liked them, ever since he was small and had first been wrapped up tight in his mother's arms and told the story of his grandfather's namesake - and, by extension, his own - and the tragic love between him and Deirdre. Sad as the story was (and even at four, he'd had a lot to say about how they could have done things differently), it had captured his imagination, blooming behind his eyes in vivid colors and sounds. Even now, he can remember the lilting tones of his mother's voice overlayed with the low hum of fat, furry bees, the smell of wisteria thick in the air as they swayed back and forth in the hammock in the yard, buttery sunlight dappling her face as she spoke, slow and soft.

It's still his favorite memory of her, even if the exact shade of her hair is dulled in his mind's eye, and some of the words are drowned out by the rasp of death.

He still has her books, though, and he's read through them time and again. The stories of the Ulster Cycle are still his favorites, mostly for nostalgic reasons, but he's not terribly picky - he'll devour anything with a dynamic plot, even something as short as The Giving Tree. He finds comfort in the words, the lessons, the way they can take him out of his fluttering, skittish mind and give him a moment to think of nothing else. After Claudia had died, stories had become Stiles' favorite place to hide, letting his imagination sweep him along in Orpheus' steps to rescue her from the afterlife. In the end, though, no matter how he swore not to repeat the legend's mistakes, he would have to open his eyes to look for her, and she would be gone again.

Nowadays, Stiles sticks mostly to the stories movies and comics and games tell - all wonderful and engaging in their own way, though he could always see the stories of his childhood playing out in them, because really, there were only so many stories in the world, weren't there?

The story Stiles is currently living is unfamiliar to him so far (although the whole abduction of a virgin thing is pretty common in even the oldest of tales...or perhaps especially in the oldest of tales, so really not so unfamiliar, then), and it's definitely not going in his top ten favorite stories ever. It's probably not even going into his top one hundred. It's mostly going to be relegated to his ever-expanding library of least favorite stories ever.

"Y'see, this is what happens when innocent virgins run around with packs of hairy-ass night-fiends," Stiles moans as he stumbles into Deaton's office. The pack clusters around him, murmuring amongst themselves as Scott leads him to one of Deaton's exam tables and helps him clamber up. It's cold and steady beneath him, but it does little to clear the fog from his brain. Whatever his captor had done to him, his systems are reacting to it like too many shots of tequila. "Did I not say that I needed an emergency deflowering? Did I not warn you all that if someone didn't tap this it would only lead to trouble?"

He doesn't like the amused looks everyone is giving him. He'd just been kidnapped, for crying out loud! They should be tearing their hair out with worry!

"We were plenty worried, Stiles," Allison reassures him as he sways a bit where he sits. "We still are. We're just glad that you're okay."

"Okay?" Stiles narrows his eyes at her and accidentally winks. He glances at Isaac, because they guy is unpredictable, and it would be unfortunate for him to get the idea that Stiles is flirting with his girlfriend. Isaac doesn't seem to think that, though, because his lips are twitching in way that's more tickled than bordering-on-fang-bearing, so Stiles turns back to Allison. Except she's Deaton now, and she's holding up several fingers for him to count. He doesn't let this deter him. "I am not okay, AlliDeatonson," he informs the person, holding up a matching number of fingers and wagging them in her...his...their face. "I was abducted and held prisoner in a very nicely refurbished basement rec room for a whole twelve hours. I know. I counted along with the clock."

"We know how long you were gone," Scott reassures him from somewhere behind him, "because we spent that entire time looking for you."

"The house is empty, by the way," Aiden says, swimming into Stiles' line of sight in a haze, like Stiles is looking at him over a steaming bowl of soup. Mushroom soup, he decides, because Aiden has a mushroom kind of personality - spongy and gross, hard to tell when it's okay to eat versus when it will kill you horribly, and it grows on you against your will in dank, dark, unpleasant conditions. Especially if you're a corpse. "Whoever kidnapped you headed out of there in a hurry," he continues in a strangled tone while everyone else coughs and snorts. Stiles isn't sure what's funny, but he snickers along anyway. Then what Aiden says catches up to him, and he's not snickering anymore.

"You mean it's out there now? Somewhere? Lurking? Have you checked the caves?" He can feel his chest getting tight, his fingers skittering against the smooth metal tabletop, and Allison's hand comes up to rub against his back. She's on his other side now, her and Deaton having resolved into two separate people (which is a relief, because as much as Isaac likes the vet, that would have been awkward), smiling at him comfortingly. "Check the caves!"

"He can lurk all he likes," Scott growls, and Stiles instantly feels safer, "we're not letting him get you again, Stiles. I promise."

"We're checking everywhere," Ethan adds. He's not so mushroomy as Aiden is, but he still puts Stiles off. Maybe because they share a face. Sometimes literally. "Even the caves."

"Good. He's probably there," Stiles mutters, pursing his lips. He's momentarily distracted by the fact that he can see his own lips, oh my god, is that normal? before he remembers to add, "Or in a castle ruin somewhere. Dragons like castles."

Everyone blinks. Not simultaneously, which would have been creepy enough, but like a ripple of blinking. Like The Wave, only with eyelashes instead of hands. Stiles blinks back, because he's a joiner.

"Dragon?" Deaton circles around in front of Stiles, and Stiles glanced to the side to make sure Allison is still herself this time. "Stiles, what makes you think the man who abducted you is a dragon?"

"Uh..." Stiles thinks about it, because he has no real proof, he supposes, except for the scales and the claws and the noxious fog he'd breathed into Stiles' face that had knocked him unconscious, which, wow. Rude. And then there was the tail. And the wings. And the fact that he'd told Stiles he was a dragon. He could have been lying, though. He was probably lying, because dragons? Not historically so human-shaped.

Stiles tells them this, hoping to reassure them that it probably wasn't a dragon, but if anything, they look more concerned. Lydia even stops twirling her hair around her finger the way she tends to do when someone is boring her and stares at him. It's not the sort of stare he'd have liked her to direct at him, but it's nice to have her full attention when he's not having a panic attack. He wants to preen, or spread his plumage, or...something. Scott is trying to get his attention, though, so he makes a mental note to posture later and tries his best to focus.

"Stiles, do you know who it is? The dragon? Is it someone you know?"

"Nope," Stiles says, popping the 'P' with a grin, because Scott. Scott's his best friend, even if he is spending all his Stiles-time with Isaac, which is weird. It's weird that Isaac stole Allison from Scott, then stole Scott from Stiles. Isaac is a person-stealer, and it's weird that no one seems to hate him for it. Stiles doesn't even hate him for it...much. It's the curls, Stiles thinks, nodding to himself and peering at Isaac, who looks torn between hurt feelings and laughter for some reason. Maybe because he's psychic. Stiles peers at him harder.

'I know your secret,' he thinks as loudly as he can, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction when Isaac jumps. Everyone jumps, actually, but Stiles is positive it's just because Isaac jumped first. 'I know you can read my thoughts, Poodle-face. Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow-'

"Stiles," Scott grinds out with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "Stiles, stop. Please."

"Stop what?" Stiles asks absently, still peering at Isaac. He must been peering a bit too hard, because he nearly slips off the table, and Allison has to yank him back up.

"Stop...oh, my God, just stop." Scott's practically wheezing now. In fact, everyone looks like they're struggling to hold back laughter.

It's Deaton who elaborates, though, the only one in the room who is still infuriatingly straight-faced. "Whatever the dragon did to you," he murmurs as he shines a light in Stiles' eye like the ambiguous dickbag that he is, "it seems to have produced an effect not dissimilar to copious alcohol consumption. You're having some trouble keeping your thoughts to yourself."

"He made you all psychic?" Stiles jabs a finger at Isaac, whose eyes widen in oh-so-false innocence. "I knew it!"

"No, Stiles," Allison elaborates gently. "He means you're saying what you're thinking. Out loud."

Stiles gives her a look of pity. Clearly, she's in denial about her newfound psychic abilities. He doesn't blame her - he wouldn't want to hear what went on in some people's heads, either. Like Derek. Derek's thoughts are probably all depressing and forlorn. Like an Edgar Allen Poe poem. Or Toy Story 3.

"Uh, speaking of Derek-"

Stiles' head whips around and he points at Isaac again. "No one said anything about Derek! You are totally reading my thoughts! Don't deny it!"

He wants to shout some more, because he has been through some serious shit today, and no one seems to be as concerned about the dragon and his weird psychic mojo as they should be. Allison is rubbing his back again, though, and it's really hard to think about worrying things like what the dragon was trying to do to him when she does that.

Her hand stills. "Things?" Everyone is crowding close again, and Stiles flails. Allison ignores his jerky shooing motions, though, and grasps his hands warmly. "Stiles. What things? What was the dragon trying to do?"

"He..." Stiles frowns. There had been something. A strange oil that tingled against Stiles' back. Candles and a silk robe. Something about... "He married me? I think?"

Everyone leans back. Stiles kind of wants to, too, because they're still looming oppressively, but Allison's hand on his back is keeping him in place.

"There was...an anointing. And colored candles. And a lot of Latin." Stiles sighs through his nose. "Figures. The one person who wants to sex me and he can't even bother to buy me flowers like a normal dude. He knocked me out with his morning breath and went...I don't know. Maybe he really was gonna buy me flowers. But then I woke up and climbed out the basement window like a boss. Hey," he interrupts himself loudly, causing everyone to jump again, "am I actually married? Should I introduce him to my dad? Cuz I think my dad might shoot him in his stupid dragon face. Which...yeah, I should totally introduce him to Dad."

"Why don't we hold off on that," Deaton recommends, poking at Stiles' throat on either side where it meets his jawline. "Your father is on duty, correct?"

"Yeah. Or, he was. He didn't join in the search?" Come to think of it, it's odd that his dad isn't around. He hadn't been in the vet's office when Stiles had stumbled up, shirt sticky from the oil and head spinning, and he hadn't arrived since, even though Deaton had put the call out to the rest of the pack as soon as Stiles had slumped against the counter out front.

Scott and Deaton side-eye each other warily. "We, uh, didn't tell him," Scott offers finally, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stiles cackles. "He's gonna kill you, dude."

He gets it, really. After the whole thing with the darach and the alpha pack, it had been hard enough to convince his dad not to lock him away like Rapunzel, which would have sucked, no matter how fabulous Stiles' hair could have been. Scott's been working hard at making sure Stiles is as safe as possible at all times (which isn't terribly safe, admittedly, because it's Beacon Hills, their very own real-life Hellmouth), always making sure to keep John informed of what's going on and what he can do to help. John, for his part, is equal measures eager to help and incredibly reticent about allowing a bunch of seventeen-year-olds to run around risking their lives for the greater good.

Possibly Stiles' speech about Teen Titans hadn't helped much with that.

So Stiles definitely gets why the pack had held off on informing John that they'd let his only child get kidnapped by a dragon who had been, if the pictures of littering the rec room had been any indication, stalking Stiles for the better part of a month without the knowledge of the werewolves in residence, and forced through some kind of weird dragon mating-slash-marriage ritual. And he also gets why they're worried about telling him now. What Stiles doesn't get is how they all look vaguely hopeful, like they think they might get away with not telling him ever.

Stiles cackles again.

Deaton swabs at the traces of tingly oil left all over Stiles' skin for testing, checks his reflexes and looks in his ears, asks vaguely uncomfortable questions about the state of Stiles' virginity (still intact, thankfully, although it was really starting to prove to be more of a risk than a simple inconvenience), then asks if Stiles can give a description of the dragon.

"Uh...well, usually about six-two, except when he was all wormy...wait, does the tail count? He had a tail sometimes, and it was...it was long. He was, like, eleven feet long when he was wormy. Blue scales, when he had them. And wings. Those were blue, too. Brown Edward-y Cullen-y hair, when he had it, and blue eyes. Except they were yellow sometimes?" Stiles thinks hard. "He sounds like a motorboat. And he doesn't smell. Like, at all."

"No, we got that part," Ethan says, wrinkling his nose. "There was nothing in the house but scented candles and some kind of spices. Nothing that smelled even vaguely alive, much less supernatural."

"Dragons," Deaton puts in mildly as he offers Scott a washcloth to help rub the oil off of Stiles, "can sometimes display natural stealth abilities. It varies from species to species, and takes different forms - the ability to blend into one's surroundings, for instance, or move silently even to werewolf ears. Stiles' dragon, it seems, can mask his scent."

"He's not my dragon, oh, my God. We're just married, it's not, like, serious or anything."

"It's also possible," Deaton continues as though Stiles hasn't spoken, leaving Stiles to wonder if the weird psychic thing has inverted, and now they can't hear Stiles at all, "that he has more stealth abilities than that. Given the werewolf population of this town, I'd say that's actually very probable."

"Can you hear me?" Stiles whimpers when Deaton's finished. Scott scrubs a hand through Stiles' hair, ruffling it in all directions, and Stiles breathes easily again.

"We can hear you, Stiles. He's not your dragon, gotcha. And you're not married."

Stiles squirms around, away from the warm washcloth, to gape at Scott hopefully. "We're not?"

"Did you say 'I do'?" Scott asks with a waggle of eyebrows that's more than distracting.

Stiles puts a forefinger on each eyebrow and presses them down until they stop moving. "Scott," he says slowly, because he needs to be sure he understands, "do you mean it, or are you just quote The Princess Bride at me to make me feel better."

"A little of both," Scott admits sheepishly. "Is it working?"

Thinking for a moment, Stiles nods. "Yup."

Once he's all sampled and cleaned up, it's decided that, for his own safety, Stiles will be guarded by no less than two wolves at a time, Scott and Isaac switching off with Ethan and Aiden until they can find the dragon. Stiles protests until Deaton tells them it should be safe enough for them to take him home, and that once the sheriff gets home, they can leave - the dragon won't try to take Stiles if his father is there.

"Dragons have a somewhat-medieval code of their own. He might resort to trickery and outright kidnapping to get what he wants, because he can always obtain John's blessing after the fact, but he's not going to chance going up against his chosen's father before they're fully bonded, lest he risk being forbidden from Stiles," the vet rambles as Stiles weaved out the door. "Just make sure that John knows what's going on, and not to leave Stiles alone in the house."

"A chivalrous stalker. I'm the luckiest princess in the kingdom," Stiles grumbles a couple of hours later as he struggles out of his jeans and flops facedown onto his comforter. "My life is a renaissance festival of horrors and I hate everything," he tells his pillow conspiratorily. His pillow has nothing clever to add, but that's not a new development or anything. Stiles punches it a little anyway.

It takes him a while to doze off, mostly because he keeps getting the urge to play Boggle. When sleep does come, it drags at him, and he can feel himself sinking deeper into a warm darkness.

He's flying suddenly. It's not terrifying, or exhilarating. It's calming, soothing - the slip of cool air through his hair, over his back and stomach. A thermal has his wings straining, and he sighs as he wheels higher and higher. He can see forests below, stretching to the horizon in all directions, wild and comforting. There's the scent of plentiful game and a rush of fresh water, and he dips one wing, gliding down until his belly is skimming the canopy.

Just ahead is a small range of mountains, gray and sparse even in the bloom of spring, spiking high and jagged against the deep blue of the sky. The deep blue shadows of crags and caves beckon him, and he stretches, warm air billowing about him as he puts on an impossible burst of speed.

"Naoise."

He stops midair, whirling, head snapping about as he searches for the source.

"Naoise. I'm here."

His mothers voice drifts softly on the breeze, wisps of memory, but Stiles knows it's real, knows it's her. She's calling him, like she had when he was small.

"Come here, Naoise. Come to Mother."

Keening, he makes for the mountains again, grasping at the strands of her voice as she leads him nearer and nearer to the cliffs. "Mama," he cries as he swoops down into a murky cave. "Mama!"

It's dim inside, and cool, and the air tastes of a perfect softness. Gold, his brains supplies as his pupils dilate, the corners of his nest coming into view. He flicks his tongue out to taste again, testing the air. Gold, his brain says again. Everything in him settles, some of the wildness and the sky-lust easing, replaced with the urge to curl up and sleep. It's so reassuring that he nearly forgets what he came in search of.

"Naoise," his mother's voice calls again, sounding from every inky nook of the cave. "Naoise."

"Mama," he breathes. He turns, around and around, reaching out for nothing. "Mama! Mama, where are you?"

He opens his mouth to shout again, and he feels the acid-hot sting of a wasp against the tip of his tongue. He cries out, flailing away, but there are more. They swarm him, buzzing shrill and furious, nothing like the round, soft hum of the bees in his yard, and they drown out his mother's voice. They sting everywhere, relentless, until all he can feel is hot pain, inside and out, swelling his throat until he can't even scream. It sears him down to the marrow, brighter and brighter until he's sure he'll die of it.

Then, when he can bear no more, he sinks again, away from the comforting scent of gold and home, away from the endless blue sky, away from his mother's call. Away even from the bitter-sharp agony of the wasp sting, until at last, there's nothing.

Stiles comes awake suddenly with a low groan, aching all over in an absent sort of a way. He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, blinking in the early morning light as wisps of his pillowcase flutter about, caught in his night-black claws.

Wait...

Stiles swallows harshly, leaning back to sit on his heels as his lifts his hands. The sunlight gleams off the red and gold scales that creep up just past his wrists, and Stiles think he might throw up. Groaning pitifully, Stiles scrambled out of the tangled, tattered sheets and lunges for his mirror.

What's reflected back at him is definitely not human, and as he stares and stares and stares, the panic rises until his tail - oh, God, his tail - is thrashing, taking out his lamp with a crash. As his shaking fingers rake up into his hair and over his jagged crown of horns, claws scraping jarringly, footsteps thunder down the hall. John bursts into the room in his pajamas and stares, as well.

"Well," he croaks as Stiles whimpers, reptilian eyes filling with tears, "it looks like Scott left a few things out of his explanation."

Stiles wants to laugh.

He sobs instead.

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A/N - 'Naoise' is pronounced 'NEE-shah'. TEASERTEASERTEASER EPISODE TWO: METAMORPHOSIS "Dude," Stiles interrupts, blinking at Deaton disbelievingly. "I was stalked and kidnapped by a crazy dragon who wants to make me his crazy dragon bro - or possibly mate, he was kinda handsy, I'm not ruling it out - by turning me into an actual dragon, and it hasn't gone all that well for either of us so far, and now I have a tail and wings and possibly-fatally-venomous fangs, and you want me to calm down more? Because right now, this is as far as my calm goes." He spreads his arms (and, unconsciously, his wings) and looks around. "Not even having a panic attack anymore. This is pretty fucking calm, I think, and if it's just not calm enough for you, I'm sorry, but this is what we have to work with."