The Tethers We Create → Stiles Stilinski & Steve Rogers

chapter one: the beginning

A warm flannel shirt loosely draped over pale, ivory skin, the scarlet checkered pattern becoming a darker shade when mixed with the wine colour of Stiles' blood. Freckles peaked out from under the freying cuffs of the sleeves and splattered up across flushed, defined cheek bones. Messy, unruly hair fell over Stiles' eyes, sticking to the thick sheen of sweat that dripped down from his hairline. His honey coloured eyes peered through the stringy chocolate waves of damp hair and out at the piercing darkness that surrounded him.

Stiles clamped his eyes shut, his teeth gritting tightly and he willed his brain to concentrate just enough, so he could imagine something better than where he was right now. Pushing away the pain and the faint scratchiness in his throat from crying, he instead cast his mind to a different place in time. A time when the faint pitter patter of rain fell down softly on the roof of the Stilinksi household, the gentle tapping calming the forlorn night and lulling the restless residents of Beacon Hills into smooth contemptment. A time when he was calm, collected. The era of the so called halcyon days of his illustrious adolescence. When his biggest worries was his homework, his dad's horrendous carb-filled diet and the beautiful wonders that were Lydia Martin.

Behind closed eyelids, like slides of an old picture show, he was able to imagine the view of his ceiling, the yellow glow of his almost burnt out bedside lamp and feel the weight of his blanket on his legs. If he concentrated just a bit more on the sound of the whistling wind and the rampant rain, he was sure he could imagine the feel of the refreshing water droplets on his face. How the cool liquid fell slowly down his pale cheek like a tear, but without the accompanying feeling of sadness. How it soothed him, stilled him, steadied his racing heart and slowed his breathing.

But when Stiles opened his eyes again,  he remembered where he was. The picture of tranquility fast escaping his mind, like a rainbow fading into the nothingness of the atmosphere, leaving only the sharp aginy in his leg that was not so easily forgotten. Grunts of pain and whispers of snarky protests fell upon deaf ears as Stiles lay helpless under the crushing weight of the rubble from the newly demolished building. He was trapped, alone, and fastly approaching the realm of unconsciousness due to the massive blood loss he was experiencing.

But even though his mind was clouded in doubt that his friends would ever find him and he was stuck, pain slowly intensifying as the adrenaline in his body rapidly decreased and drifting in and out of consciousness constantly, he was okay. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself.

Stiles awoke groggily to the faint smell of antiseptic and a warm heat radiating from his hand. The blinding white light burning his eyes from behind closed lids. He coughed, daring to open one eye to gaze at his surroundings. Hazy, ivory fluorescence filled his vision and for a second, Stiles contemplated the possibility of him actually being dead.

The crisp blue fabric of a shirt he'd never seen before constricted slightly against his neck as he attempted to lift his head up. The movement causing a rush of icy air to bite harshly against the pale, bruised and tender skin of his back. His head fell hard against the dense pillow again, a splitting headache already beginning to form behind his eyes. He groaned lightly.

"Hey, Kiddo. You're awake." Sighed a soft voice, sleep tugging at its spoken syllables. Stiles turned his head to the direction of the voice and peered out through one eye. His foggy vision coming into focus to be greeted to a tired Sheriff, who sat in an uncomfortable looking green chair. Stiles smiled slightly, nerves settling - even if only minisculely, at the sight of his father. He opened both eyes fully and began chuckling shortly out of his nose before coughing at the dryness of his lungs.

"I could've gone for five more minutes." Stiles groaned sorely, his voice cracking more than he would have liked. "How long was I out?"

"A couple of days." Mumbled his Dad through a tight throat. His free hand wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Stiles peered at the man tentatively, taking in all the small details of his features that he always seemed to miss. He looked older - in a sense, than from when he last laid eyes upon him. More rundown and tired, sadder even. He noticed how his father's eyes had long lost their glow, replaced by the dark, heavy bags underneath them. They were sharp, yet gentle and calculating. And glazed over with an emotion that Stiles couldn't quite put his finger on. An emotion that he was sure he would understand in time, of course.

"I was worried about you, Stiles." Finished the Sheriff, his eyebrows knitting together with concern.

"I'm sorry, Dad." Stiles muttered in return, his eyes turning towards his pale figeting fingers.

"The doctor's weren't sure if you were going to make it. They're still not sure how you managed to pulled through. It's a miracle that you did. I'm-I'm not sure what I would do without you, kid."

"Hey." Stiles croaked out coarsely, his hand gripping his father's tighter and ignoring his muscle's shouts of protest. He directed his gaze back to his father, a look of understanding pulling the corners of his mouth down into a slight frown. "You're never going to get rid of me. You're stuck. Forever. No matter what happens."

The Sheriff stared at his son through teary eyes. His lips curled up in a sad smile. He chuckled lightly, squeezing Stiles' hand for just a moment. "Your mother used to say the same thing to me, you know that?"

Stiles' eyes twinkled with the light of an old memory. His mother's melodious voice echoing around his head as he pictured her fragile silhouette, shrouded in a crisp blue dressing gown, similar to his own, with the same tragically beautiful smile that she always wore on her pale, sickly face.

"Yeah." Stiles said finally, eyes still cloudy with the memories of his decesed mother. "I remember that."

"I wish she was here right now."

Stiles sighed, his fingers losing their strength as they slipped from his Dad's hand. He maneuvered his head against the cool cover of the soft pillow that crept below his neck and sighed. The prickling temptation of sleep weighing down his limbs and washing over his brain, like waves crashing on a shore.

"So do I." Was all Stiles said before he slipped into a dreamless slumber, knowing that he was safe and cared for, as long as his dad stayed by his side.