The Tethers We Create → Stiles Stilinski & Steve Rogers

chapter two: what am i?

The rising suns rays first hit the eastern woods that surrounded Beacon Hills. The glimmering light devouring the remaining nightfall, hungry and impatient. A heavy fog covered the forest floor, whismy steam billowed around the tree trunks and up into the canopy, dispersing when hitting the heated atmosphere that lay above the tree tops.

Next the sun turned it's eyes on the resting citizens of Beacon Hills, leaving the scattering treeline and heading for the houses that laid closest to the woods. Dew crept over the grounds damp surface, appearing like a rapid rash, spreading, manifesting. It scurried up the walls and all over the windows of the Stilinski household. Stopping only on the roof where the sun's rays were beginning to bear down heavily upon the worn tiles.

The vexing chirping of birds crept through the open window of Stiles' bedroom, carried in by the temperate summer breeze. The resplendent sunshine seeped in through the cracks of the closed curtains and danced across the chestnut door. The glittering rays sent various hues of shiny illuminace strobing across the worn frame, Mother Nature the tune in which they moved.

Honey brown eyes watched in tranquil bewilderment, truly transfixed by the beauty of the early morning sun. Stiles blinked. His eyes feeling heavy once again as he glanced at his alarm clock. He sighed and relaxed back into his pillow, feeling content with just watching the way the golden suns rays filtered in through his window. His body tingled in a way that was less than desirable. A throbbing pain emitted throughout his tired physique. The prickling feeling quickly worsened as sleep released its tender grasp on his subconscious, allowing him to fully step into a state of undesired alertness. A nagging feeling probed wildly in the back of his mind. The emotional turmoil of his ptsd gnawing at the deepest parts of his mind. Sadness, anger and guilt bubbling up in the pit of his soul, sending the hairs on his neck on edge and a shiver up his spine.

Stiles sat up in his bed, almost painstakingly slowly. His bruised arms lifted his broken body up and heaved forward, his legs crossed over each other and his hands moved to rest on his knees. Black dots swirled around at the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes, centering himself as he pushed his anxieties to the back of his mind. His eyelids fluttered open and he gazed at his hands, still battered and bruised, still hurting. It felt as if he was constantly getting sucker punched by the universe itself.

Somewhere during his midlife crisis - first he debated if it could actually be called a 'midlife crisis' because those don't normally occur until a person's 40's. But then ultimately decided that it could be because with all the dangerous supernatural occurrences, that, at this point in time, it could in fact be the mid point of his life. Case and point, the near death experience that happened no less than a week ago. - he thought of his Father. The only constant in his life. He thought of how he almost lost his Dad, or rather how his Father almost lost him. His heart felt heavier in his chest, his eyes wet with tears at the thought of leaving his Dad behind, of not getting to say goodbye. He remembered the look in his Dad's eyes when he awoke in the hospital, the relief, the love. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he cast his mind back to the conversation they shared within those bleached walls.

"The doctor's weren't sure if you were going to make it. They're still not sure how you managed to pull through. It's a miracle that you did."

Stiles thought for a moment, ignoring the ever growing pain in his muscles, deciding to instead indulge his brain in the new-found, possible conspiracy theory of his miraculous survival and recovery. How had he survived? By all accounts he should have died there. He should have died.

"They're still not sure how you managed to pull through. It's a miracle that you did." He repeated his Dad's words in a hushed whisper. His eyebrows furrowed.

"A miracle?" He questioned. Stiles didn't believe in miracles, at least he didn't think he did. "No broken bones. No internal bleeding. Full use of my limbs." He drummed his finger quickly against his knee. "I should have died." He repeated. Stiles bit his lip in frustration. He had pondered this for many days. However, his brain always felt too tired, too sluggish to entertain the absurd ideas the boy came up with. Today was different.

"Anyone else would have died." He stated, his eyes clouded over in thought. Stiles then remembered Scott, more specifically what Scott was and he silently cursed under his breath because how could he forget that his best friend was a freaking werewolf?

"Any other human would have died." He corrected, there was a silent apology hidden in his tone.

It took a moment for Stiles to backpedal, his fingers no longer beated rapidly against his bruised skin. He tiled his head in question. The phrase milling over in his mind again. "Human." He said, the word suddenly sounded foreign on his tongue. He reached for dresser, his hand grasping his phone and pulling it free from its chord. Stiles thumbed through the contacts before he stopped and dialled the number of the one person who could help. The one person who would know for sure.

"Stiles." The voice said, it was crisp and clear in his ear. "I had a feeling that you would be calling."

"I should have died, Doc." Stiles settled on, his tone was determined.

Deaton sighed. Stiles imagined the man rubbing at his temples. "Stiles." The man tried, his voice softer this time.

"What am I?" He questioned, panic bleeding through his words.

"I don't think I understand-"

"Please." Stiles tried to keep his voice level, he really did, but he was so tired and in so much pain that it came out more like a whisper. "I'm not human. No human could have survived. I just- I just have to know. Please."

Silence fell over the line and for a second Stiles thought that the veterinarian had hung up on him. "Deaton?" He tried again.

"I cannot tell you what you are over the phone. Come to my clinic and I'll explain. But Stiles," The man paused, a clanging sound of a gate closing echoing over the phone. "Tell no one. Not even Scott."

"Okay." Was all Stiles muttered in confirmation before he hung up, uneasiness a heavy burden weighing on his heart.