It's the ache in his ribs that wakes him up.
Or, maybe it's the bird pecking at his collarbone.
Scratch that, it's probably both.
Stiles gasps, sucking in breath so abruptly that he ends up choking on his own spit. He opens his eyes, coming face-to-beak with a giant black raven. The bird's feathers rustle as it twitches atop his chest. It caws once, a loud contrast to the forest's stillness, and proceeds to fix its—judgy? it looks very judgy—stare on Stiles. He flails his arms wildly, trying to scare the raven off of his prone body.
Now, Stiles isn't an ornithologist—thank you third grade presentation on the yellow-rumped warbler—but in his opinion, this bird doesn't look very impressed. It sits there for a few beats more, and then pecks him in the nose, as if to assert its dominance.
Stiles yells—disoriented and nauseous—and flinches away from the bird, rolling onto his side in the process. The movement finally dislodges his unwelcome guest, but it also causes his head to crack against the nemeton. Bright white spots filter over his vision. Well, that definitely didn't help with the nausea. Yeah, definitely—
And Stiles—yeah, Stiles is puking his guts out next to an ancient, mystical tree.
Coughing roughly, holy fuck that tastes awful, Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He flops back over, sprawling out on top of the stump. Then he does a full body scan with his hands: legs, stomach, ribs—ouch!, yep still broken—shoulders, arms, neck—score!, not gashed open—head, face—shit!, still bruised to all hell—and finally, dick.
Thank god that's still intact.
His mind blanks for a second, just taking in the fact that somehow, he's still alive. The only question now is, is anybody else?
A rather obnoxious, "Caw, caw!" breaks through his maudlin thoughts.
That fucking bird.
Stiles sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the nemeton. He reaches up and touches his throat again. There isn't even a scar. A thought hits him, and he moans in agony. Fuck, it hurts almost as much as his face to know that his life is now comparable to Romeo and Juliet.
Stiles loathed those melodramatic assholes, and now he's one of them.
Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.
Another thought hits him. He scrambles up and off the tree, taking a few steps back to really get a look at the thing. He kicks it hard.
Twice.
"You could heal my goddamn death wound—make my throat all nice like there was never any arterial spray—but you couldn't heal my fucking broken ribs? Or my face? Are you freaking kidding me right now? What was the matter? Reversing death was easy, but a few bruises is where you draw the line?!"
Yeah, Stiles—Stiles is yelling at an ancient, mystical tree.
He kicks it again, only to flinch backwards as the bird from literal hell flies right over his head, feathers and talons catching in his hair. It lands in the center of the nemeton, "CAW, CAW!"
He flips the raven his middle finger in response. Heh. Giving a bird, the bird.
Then he spins around and begins to walk away, only to trip and fall on his face. Stiles splutters and cranes his head, looking back at the ground he tripped over. He sees a root, one slightly lighter in color than the death ropes that killed his friends, wiggle at him as if waving hello, and then slither back underground.
He picks himself up off the ground, "Holy shit, you're really awake. Like, really awake!" He doesn't quite know what else to say, because it's one thing to read about something, and quite another to be confronted with an actual ancient, mystical, and sentient tree.
One that is, apparently, a snarky asshole.
Well, that's something he can definitely get behind.
The bird is still looking at him like he's an idiot, like he's missing something completely obvious.
"Caw, CAW!"
He flaps his arms, mimicking—or rather, mocking—the bird. He caws back at it, "Caw, caw, motherfucker! What do you want from me?!" He stops his flapping, deciding that, yes, making fun of the bird is fun, but that, no, broken ribs are not. Then it hits him. He remembers the book, Earth Magic: How Humans and Nature Connect. He remembers the chapter on, what were they called? Stiles snaps his fingers. Familiars!
"Are you my familiar?" Stiles asks excitedly.
The bird's stare doesn't change.
"I'll take that as a 'no,' then."
Stiles looks inside himself, poking at the magic in his diaphragm. He senses his own power, a warm comfort in light of everything that's happened. But, he also feels another presence, something stronger. It's dark and active, but not bad. It feels nothing like the malice that he felt before.
It's the tree.
He digs deeper, tracing the threads of power running alongside his own. Huh, it's running parallel, but doesn't intersect. He opens his eyes and looks down at the tree. He moves closer, crouching down to run his had along the rough bark. Yeah, it looks brighter than it did before.
"So we're connected, huh? Like you were with Gerard?" Stiles ruminates.
The raven hops closer and bobs its head once.
That little movement shocks Stiles, and his mind fritzes. "You can understand me!"
The bird nods again.
Stiles' mouth opens and closes like a fish, shocked and intrigued by the implications of what he's witnessing.
"So I was talking to the tree," he starts cautiously.
The raven's sharp beak tips once again.
Stiles' synapses start firing. "But…you answered in response."
Yet another nod.
Stiles remembers another chapter in that book.
Holy shit.
"Oh my god, are you the spirit of the nemeton?! Some sort of manifestation of the power within?"
"Caw."
Stiles gapes.
There's silence.
"That's so fucking neat."
And that's how Stiles was formally introduced to an ancient, mystical tree.
He's already said it once, but Stiles feels the need to say it again.
Or, at least, the need to mutter it, angrily and under his breath: "Fucking walking through the woods bullshit."
The raven—tree spirit?, who Stiles has taken to calling Otis because when he first said it the little fucker squawked in outrage—seems to mock Stiles by flying calmly over his head, as if to say, hey, I know you have trouble traipsing and tripping through the woods, but I'm doing alright.
The little shit.
Stiles huffs. At least it isn't midnight; in fact, if he had to guess, Stiles would say it's probably midday.
Reversing time, inverting the time of day—it's fascinating how magic works. Fascinating, but also alarming. Stiles didn't know if the spell would actually work—whoops—but now that it seems to have happened, Stiles can't help but worry about the consequences.
Look, he's seen Dr. Who, The Terminator, The Butterfly Effect, and hey, sue him, he's also seen 13 Going on 30—so he knows that time travel is one of those "hey, asshole, don't do that" moves. But hey, he is an asshole. So, the voice in his head shouting things like "paradox" and "alternate timeline" and "unknown consequences"—which sounds suspiciously like Dr. Deaton, subconscious do with that what you will—is pushed aside pretty easily when Stiles considers the alternative.
Y'know, the alternative where Stiles has to live in a world where everyone he loved was just brutally murdered.
Yeah, that one.
So it's probably safe to say that Stiles is okay living with the consequences, after all, everyone else will be living with them, too. It doesn't really matter to Stiles if it messes with the space-time continuum or if the leaves he's walking on right now somehow accidentally orphan a child a world away—at least his family is fine. Or will be, by the time he's through.
What can he say, he's an asshole.
But he can live with that.
So here Stiles is, walking through the woods with Otis flying at his left and the sun peeking through the thick canopy of leaves overhead. It's not a bad place to be.
But he must continue on, marching and stomping his way to the next part of Plan Z—Plan Z pt. 2? or should he just jump to A again? oh well, he'll figure out the minutiae later—which involves him figuring out just when the hell he is.
If he spoke the Latin correctly—which, apparently was pretty spot on if he does say so himself—then he should have ended up in Beacon Hills before the Hale fire, so sometime around early 2005.
Stiles finally makes it to the edge of the preserve. He looks around the area, noting that everything looks pretty normal. The breeze at his back even feels pretty normal.
Overhead, Otis is doing loop-de-loops.
He holds up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. As he blinks away spots, Stiles maps out his first destination.
Otis swoops down, landing on top of Stiles' left shoulder. The talons dig into his red hoodie, but he can't find it in him to care.
He bets he looks pretty awesome with a raven on his shoulder. Scotty the animal lover would be super jealous.
Stiles turns his face to Otis, "Where do you go for free information?"
Otis cocks—his? her? its?—head.
Stiles smiles, "I'll give you a hint: it's the tallest building in any city."
Otis blinks.
Stiles' smile turns evil, "The library," he pauses.
Otis turns sharply, a warning. "Caw."
Don't do it. Don't you dare.
He says it anyway, "Get it? Because it has the most stories."
Otis pecks him in the nose.
It takes Stiles hours, hours, to make it into town.
He walks over to the back of the Gas'N'Go at the edge of town. Stiles rustles through his pockets, taking stock of what he's got.
A wallet: three pictures—one of him and his dad, one of him and Scott, and one of his mom; cards—license, school ID, debit, and library (hint: all pretty useless); $86.38 in cash and change (not as useless); and, two diner mints. Mmm, lunch.
His phone. Yeah, he could probably charge it (with magic, because technology in the past is always shittier and iffy), but what good is his smartphone without wifi? Stiles sighs. Wifi.
A USB flash drive, filled with his notes, his plans, and a copy of the Argent bestiary. What, like he spent all that time looking up the kanima and wasn't going to make a copy? Get real.
And his trusty pocket knife. Stiles takes another look at the blade. Yep, that's his dried blood all over it. Might want to invest in another knife; walking around with your own ceremonial death dagger probably isn't the best idea.
It really, really isn't.
Stiles, now both heebied and jeebied, shudders, rolling out his shoulders in an effort to get rid of all the ick that just settled over him.
He starts putting everything back in his pockets, only to look down and realize he really needs to change his first destination from the library to a Gap or a Sears.
Well, geez.
He looks at Otis, who has been patiently waiting on the ground and says, "Wait here."
Then he zips up his hoodie, thank god that's in working condition, and hurries into the Gas'N'Go. He yanks an "I Heart CA" t-shirt off of a rack near the door—seriously? do tourists even come to Beacon Hills?—and hustles over to the bathroom before the clerk can say anything about it.
Stiles slams the door, locks it, takes off the hoodie, and faces the mirror.
Yeah, that was a good call on the shirt.
After all, nothing says inconspicuous like walking around town in the middle of the day with a blood-spattered t-shirt.
He quickly shimmies out of his shirt and tosses it into the trash. Stiles takes fistfuls of paper towels, sorry environment, and begins wetting them. He soaps and he wipes until his entire body no longer looks like an extra for a Quentin Tarantino film. A few more fistfuls, again, sorry trees, has him dry and ready to go. He yanks on the horrible shirt (no, not the bloody one, but equally as horrible) and exits the restroom. He slaps $10 onto the counter in front of the clerk, who has yet to look even remotely interested, and waits for his change. He leaves the cashier with a jaunty salute and a, "Have a good day!"
Then he gets the fuck out of there.
Stiles is walking across Main St. when he realizes that if he wants to remain inconspicuous—thank you, bloodless shirt—then he should probably do something about the five-pound raven perched on his shoulder. Now that he thinks about it, it's really weird. So weird, that people should've already started pointing and whispering. Downtown Beacon Hills is actually pretty busy during the day, and he's passed about two dozen people already, so the fact that no one has looked twice in his direction is making his spidey sense tingle. He ducks into the alley beside Tony's Diner.
He lifts his arm for the bird to hop on. When it does, he levels Otis with his best "no-nonsense" glare. "Okay, dude, what's the deal."
"Caw, caw."
"Okay, I know you're trying to tell me something, but the whole cawing isn't really getting us anywhere."
"Caw, caw."
"Oh, wow, how mature! What are you, five? No! No, you're not five! You're, like, a zillion-year old tree, now act like it and give me some answers!" Stiles, much to his chagrin, is getting worked up over a bird.
"Caw, CAW."
"That's how you want to play it? Okay, I'll show you—,"
A voice to his left interrupts his diatribe, "Hey, kid!"
The owner of the voice, a mustachioed man with a black apron tied around his waist, rounds the corner of Tony's with two bags of garbage in his hand. "Kid," the guy continues, "who're you talking to?"
Stiles looks pointedly down at his arm, gesturing with his right hand, as if to say, "This giant black bird, you dumbass." When the guy keeps staring, waiting for an answer, Stiles huffs.
"My pet bird. It's been acting a bit jumpy. I think it might be sick." Hopefully that explanation will downgrade Stiles from a "yelling in an alley" weirdo to a "talks to pets forcefully" weirdo.
The guy throws the bags of garbage into the dumpster and gives Stiles a strange look.
"What bird?"
Stiles looks at the guy. Then he looks down at Otis.
The light bulb in Stiles' head goes off.
Of fucking course.
"Shit! He flew away! I just had him in my hands! I better go look for him," and then Stiles scoots past the guy and out of the alley. He walks quickly and puts at least four blocks between him and that poor and definitely confused garbage man. He crosses the street at a slow jog, and winds down to a stroll when he can't see the diner anymore.
Phew.
That was embarrassing.
Also, rather difficult.
Apparently, it's pretty hard to run with a giant bird attached to your arm.
Make that a giant, invisible bird. Because of course the magical tree spirit is invisible to everyone except the person it's connected to.
Just file that under "W" for "What the hell, it's a magic tree it does what it wants."
Stiles rounds the sidewalk, spotting the town's library.
Finally.
He gives Otis the stink eye.
"You could've been a little more helpful back there. Answers to important questions are y'know, important."
Otis stares back, ever unimpressed.
"Caw, caw."
Stiles whistles all of the way to the front doors of the library, and as soon as he walks through the doors, he stops.
It only takes one serious talking to from the head librarian, Ms. Nesbit, for anybody to realize that the library is a serious institution, the likes of which don't tolerate any tomfoolery or shenanigans.
Stiles was eight. There may have been an incident with some books, the shelves, and his tiny, sneakered feet that landed him that particular lecture. He only had it the once, but it stuck.
It also helped that every time he entered the library after that eventful afternoon, Ms. Nesbit made it a habit of staring him down from over the checkout desk.
He shudders at the memory.
Then he steps into the library, immediately hit with a pang of nostalgia so great that even Otis notices from his perch on Stiles' shoulder.
The bird nuzzles softly against his cheek for just a quick moment.
It's enough, though, to get Stiles' feet in gear. He thanks the bird with a stroke over Otis' feathers.
Luckily for Stiles, he knows the ins and outs of the public library. He also knows the passwords to gain access to the computers they have in the back for members and employees. He knows his own code won't work, but that's okay. He knows all the codes. He just hopes that Ms. Nesbit is lazy enough to use the same password over and over.
He walks into the small room and notices one person already set up at a cubicle. It looks like he's surfing hentai—Jesus Christ, what is that?—and Stiles can't help but appreciate someone else skirting the rules. Even if it is for you know, that.
Holy shit, these computers look ancient. Objectively, Stiles can tell by the looks of the towers that he can't have traveled back more than a decade, but he also can't help but whimper at the memory of his gaming laptop and wifi.
Stiles sighs. Wifi.
He sits himself down in one of the swivel chairs and starts up the computer. He clicks on the "employee user" icon and types in the password he's known since he was eleven.
Hemingway1961
And then he's in.
Thank god for lazy librarians. But never for Hemingway, never him.
Stiles immediately looks at the date stamp and time.
3/23/2004 2:27 pm
Holy shit.
Stiles is in the past.
Like actually in the fucking past.
He throws himself out of the chair, startling hentai guy, and runs to the bathroom. He locks himself in the stall and quietly has a panic attack.
He hasn't had—will have? measurements of time no longer make any sense—one of those in two years.
When he's done, Stiles gets up and splashes water in his face.
Get yourself together, Stilinski.
He goes back into the computer room, hentai guy giving him a weird look.
Like Stiles is the weird one.
At least Stiles doesn't look up his weird porn in public.
He sits back down in his cubicle, pulls out the USB from his pocket, and plugs it into the tower. Stiles cracks his knuckles, knowing that he has a few things to take care of.
A few illegal things.
It disturbs him that the "illegal" bit no longer disturbs him. He guesses everything seems pretty moral after rebooting the whole fucking universe.
Get yourself together, Stilinski.
And then Stiles gets to work.
By the time Stiles is done on the internet, sending out feelers and e-mails, catching up on current events both in town and out in the world, it's 7:30 and he's fucking starving. A guy can only chug along on diner mints and the library's water fountain for so long.
Sadly, the only place within his price range is the diner. Which means he might run into garbage guy.
His stomach growls.
Tony's it is.
He walks out of the library with Otis flying above him, and sees the sun starting to set. Stiles takes a moment and just breaths in the night air and basks in the dying light. His deep breaths come out a bit choppy, but all in all, he feels better.
Stiles strolls back over to the diner, forgoing the alley for the front door. A familiar bell chimes as he enters, and his mouth starts to salivate at the smell of curly fries and apple pie.
He launches himself into one of the sticky booths—hint: no good diner's booths aren't sticky—and waits for someone to serve him.
Holy crap, that's Kathy.
Stiles watches as an older waitress finishes topping off another customer's coffee and makes her way over to his booth in the back.
"What can I get for you, sugar?" Kathy says, so achingly cheerful.
Stiles recites from memory: "The biggest burger you've got—no onions, extra pickles—curly fries, and a water. Please."
She gives him a grin and a wink, "That'll be right up." And then she walks away from the table, hips swaying saucily.
He leans his head back on the booth, running his hands over his tired face. He scratches the back of his fuzzy head, and lets out a quiet chuckle.
Otis squawks from its spot on the table, curiosity emanating from the tilt of its beak.
Stiles just chuckles louder, then sighs.
No one else is really around him, so he isn't so self-conscious when he says to the bird, "It's nothing, really. Just weird how everything is so familiar and completely different at the same time. Seeing Kathy just reinforced how bizarre this is." Stiles jumps when a voice sounds to his right.
"Talking to your bird again, I take it?" It's the confused garbage man.
Ugh.
Stiles looks over to see the guy carrying a tub full of dishes and a wet rag.
"No, no, just talking to myself. Making a grocery list, you see." Stiles smiles at the man winningly.
"Uh-huh," he replies. "You new around here? I haven't seen you in here before?"
Of course, it's the one question Stiles didn't want him to ask. Nothing good ever comes from people wanting to know your intentions when you have no valid form of ID.
"Yep, just moved here, hence, the grocery list."
"Well, my name's Jim. What's yours?" The man asks, pleasantly enough. Stiles wants to throttle him.
"You can call me Miguel." Technically, it isn't a lie, Stiles supposes. The man could call him Miguel. He would be wrong, but Stiles wouldn't give a shit.
Jim looks Stiles over, from his pale skin to his utter lack of Latino features, and snorts. "Okay, Miguel, what are—" and then Kathy marches back over to his table. She sets a glass of water down and throws a straw at Stiles' hands.
When she turns to Jim her mouth presses into a tight line. "Don't you have dishes to wash, Jimmy?"
He winces, "Yes, ma'am."
"Then I suggest you go do them instead of bothering this poor guy," and with that, Jim gives Stiles one last, lingering look and walks back into the kitchen.
"Sorry about him," Kathy continues. "He's new. I'll bring you a milkshake, on the house for having to deal with him." Then, she too, disappears into the kitchen.
That was really weird.
And that was how Jimmy, the I mustache you a shitload of questions garbage man made it onto Stiles' radar.
Five minutes later Kathy gives him his meal and a strawberry shake—he doesn't know how she knew his favorite, having no explanation other than that she's a food slinging goddess.
He unwraps the paper from around his burger and sets it aside.
"Caw, caw," Otis shrieks from across the booth. Stiles looks down at his plate, and then looks back up at the raven.
"Seriously, you're going to eat my food? You're not even flesh and blood—you're made out of magic and tree bark!"
"Caw, CAW!"
Stiles tosses a few fries, hoping it will shut up. Otis starts pecking happily at them.
Content with his solution, Stiles picks up his burger and takes a big bite.
He groans in delight.
The bell above the diner door chimes.
Stiles swallows. He takes a sip from his shake, and then a sip from his water.
Which he promptly spits back out.
And that's when Stiles sees a Beacon Hills deputy sheriff walk through the door.
