Stiles hated being a demigod.

It was exhausting and dangerous and a constant problem in his life – it was like a job he couldn't quit and one where getting fired meant taking an eternal cruise on the River Styx.

So, not good. But Stiles dealt with it in the most Stiles way possible, all bumbling and uncoordinated and dramatic.

(Not that Stiles was in any way dramatic.)

He pushed himself off his locker, hands gripping the front of Scott's shirt. "I'm telling you, we need to do something."

"Do we?" Scott grinned down at Stiles hands, then back up at Stiles. "All he did was retire."

"People don't retire this far into a year. It's March."

Scott gave him a look – which was not the reaction Stiles was hoping for – and shrugged. Stiles opened his mouth to argue, to insist that they get involved, when a small shimmer caught the corner of his eye.

It rippled in the air behind Scott's ear, and before he could stop himself, he reached out and swatted it away. Scott glanced back in confusion, but there was nothing there, and he turned to Stiles. He gave him a questioning look and Stiles grinned in response, shrugging the most nonchalant shrug he could muster and said, "Thought I saw a bird."

Scott nodded, unbothered because this was usual for Stiles (and for Beacon Hills) and shoved a book into his locker. Stiles followed suit and they headed off to class, Stiles chalking the call up to nothing more than accident.

Just an accident.

#

Stiles was standing on the Lacrosse field, his arm draped around Liam's shoulders, giving said werewolf tips on how to make sure the ball went into the net and being ignored, when he got another call. The air shimmered to Stiles' right, faint colors of the rainbow sneaking into his peripheral. He ripped his arm off Liam's shoulder and swung his lacrosse stick across the air, a definite whoosh striking his ears as it swiped away the message. Liam, who hadn't been listening to him before, turned to look at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "What was that?"

Stiles, just like before, shrugged his shoulders. "What was what? I didn't – I didn't hear anything. Or see anything. Yeah, yeah, definitely didn't see anything." He paused, eyeing Liam up and down, and mustered up the most patronizing tone he could, "Why, did you?"

Liam opened and closed his mouth a few times, before deciding that Stiles was promptly losing it and not worth answering, then started to walk off. Stiles immediately roped him back in, slinging his arm back around his shoulder, content that he hadn't seen it. He nodded and tried to convince himself the second time didn't mean trouble. His friends…they just forgot? Forgot he was three hours behind them and in school? Yeah, that had to be it.

Stiles immediately went back to talking about lacrosse.

#

He was at lunch the third time it happened, sandwiched in-between Lydia and Mason.

He was talking up a storm, listing reasons they should investigate the abandoned warehouse downtown ("They built it six months ago! Why is it already abandoned?") and doing his best to get Scott to consent to his little adventure.

"They need us," he grinned, slapping the table to excite his friends pack. Lydia rolled her eyes at him, Malia scoffed, and both Liam and Mason ignored him. Scott did his little eyebrow raise, the one he did when he was amused but not particularly motivated, and shook his head, "They don't need us."

He glanced up at his best friend, ready to argue that, yes, yes, they do, when he saw it. The shimmering image was just starting to form, right behind Malia's right shoulder. He furrowed his eyebrows, a mixture of confusion and worry and determination flashing across his face and chunked a chocolate milk carton across the courtyard. It sailed passed Malia's ear at inhuman speed and went right through the message, landing a few feet behind them and busting open. All his friends looked toward him, confusion plastered on their faces.

Stiles glanced around the table, letting a natural grin spread across his face, like his stomach hadn't dropped a moment before. "What?"

"Is there a reason you threw a milk cartoon?" Mason asked from Stiles' left, his eyes wide and curious. Stiles turned toward his young friend, squinting in disbelief, and sputtered out, "There was a wasp."

Liam raised his brow at Stiles, "So you threw your milk?"

Stiles gave Liam an incredulously look, playing the situation out as dramatically as he possibly could. Like his father would have. (But Stiles was not dramatic.) He shrugged, turning his exotic expression into an innocent grin. "It was supposed to be a fry. Obviously, that didn't go as planned."

They all nodded at him, like it was a normal occurrence (It was, though. Sometimes, Stiles was just – weird.) and went back to talking over each other and picking at each other's food. Lydia's hand squeezed his bicep, drawing his attention toward her and away from his thoughts. He smiled at her and leaped back into the conversation like nothing had happened.

But he heart was racing – three times meant trouble, didn't it?

#

The fourth time, Stiles didn't hesitate. Instead of waiting for the shimmering image to form in the middle of his English class, in front of a bunch of mortals, in front of his pack, he did the only thing he could think of, and dived face first into the message, causing it to vanish.

He landed on the floor with an audible thump.

The room erupted with laughter and Stiles groaned, his body aching and his mind racing. This was the fourth call, the fourth. There had to be something wrong. He glanced up, first at his teacher, at her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, and then up at Lydia, who was leaning over the front of her desk, a grin spread across her face.

They hadn't seen the message. Mission accomplished.

He smiled sheepishly at her, the action unnoticeably forced, and stood in one swift motion. He marched over to his seat beside her and sat confidently (except he was freaking out inside, totally freaking out), nodding apologetically to his teacher. Instead of yelling at him and demanding he finish his presentation, which she could have done, she just huffed in annoyance and called up the next person.

Thank the gods for that.

Stiles didn't know what he would have said or if he could have said anything at all. His heart was beating against his chest rapidly and breathing was painful. He shut his eyes and inhaled slowly.

The girl in front of the class started to speak, and her voice took Stiles away from his thoughts. As Sydney's voice echoed through the room, Lydia leaned over and whispered, "That was terrible, Stiles."

He let out the breath he was holding.

"I thought it was witty and original." He whispered in return, his voice a bit uneven. His heart was still pounding.

She studied him for a moment, emerald green eyes digging into his skin, and he forced himself to smile. She grinned, not noticing he was about to unravel in-front of her eyes, about to fall apart, and said, "Nothing about you is witty or original."

"Touché, my lady," Stiles let the remark slide off his tongue. Breath, Stiles. He turned around toward Scott, who was staring at the two of them, amusement playing in his eyes. Breathe. "What about you? Was that speech not the best thing your beastly ears have ever heard?"

Scott huffed out a silent laugh, "The very best."

"See Lyds? It was innovative." Stiles stressed out every word, doing his best to make it sound normal, dramatic and casual all in one.

The teacher shot him a look. He grimaced and took a deep breath, another attempt to calm himself down. Just breathe. His heart thumped against his chest, so fast Scott could hear it if he tried.

Luke had taught him to steady his heartbeat once. Why couldn't he do it now? Breathe, dammit.

Malia leaned forward from behind Lydia, her dark and curious eyes drilling into him, "And what was with the jumping?"

Stiles turned from them, willing himself to swallow the sick feeling welling up in his stomach. He needed a moment. Breathe. Except he didn't have a moment, and there was nothing he could do to calm himself down, to force himself to relax.

Something was wrong.

This was his family, calling him for the fourth time. Something had to be wrong, they would never call him four times in a day unless something was wrong. The last time they'd called this many times, Percy had gone missing. Four times warranted something more than just a quick hello, more than a hey, we miss you, just wanted to let you know your dad lost his immortality this morning. Cheers, Stilinski. He turned back to look at Malia, only for a moment, and shrugged. "Dramatic flair?"

(So, Stiles was a bit dramatic. Who knew?)

He didn't have to look at them to know that they were starting to suspect something was up. He could feel them staring, could feel their eyes piercing into him, drilling into the back of his head, just begging for him to say something. He glanced toward the clock, wishing time would move faster. Breathe, Stiles. He glanced toward the door. He could leave. He should leave. He needed to find out what was happening. He needed to find out why they keep calling? He glanced back at the clock. Forty minutes left.

He should just leave.

But what if he left and it was nothing? What if he was just paranoid and overreacting and it was nothing? Gods, his dad would kill him – and Stiles wasn't in a hurry to die.

He could risk it though. His dad would understand. Sure, his dad didn't necessarily like the other part of his life, but he coped with it, he dealt. He'd understand.

"Stiles?" Lydia's voice snapped Stiles out of his trance. He still didn't look up at them. "Are you okay?"

Stiles nodded, forcing himself to turn and smile, to give them his best 'I'm fine' grin. It looked more like a grimace. Scott reached out, resting his hand on Stiles' shoulder and squeezing, trying to give him some comfort. "Stiles, what's wrong?"

Stiles didn't answer. He glanced back at the door and immediately stiffened, his eyes going wide is shock. There was a man standing in the hallway, young and muscular and familiar. Stiles knew him on sight. Apollo. Dad?

No, no, that can't be right. Apollo wasn't a god. Not anymore.

Breathe. Stiles throat constricted, and his eyes burned, and he needed to leave. He could feel himself start to panic. He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, thought back to Lydia and the locker room. Breathe.

"Stiles?"

Lydia was talking to him, Scott was talking to him, Malia was talking to him. People around them were starting to notice. Sydney's voice was trailing off as she looked at him. Gods, he couldn't handle it. Breathe.

He couldn't focus.

He threw his stuff into his backpack and stood up, rushing out of the room. He had to get out of there. He stuttered out, "I'm sorry, I need to go."