Nature and Nurture: Finding the Perfect Blend

Chapter 11: The Sycamore

When everything was still, Stiles sat up and pushed the blanket off himself. He left it up in the tree and shimmied down the tree trunk, finding the decent even easier than the smooth climb up. He cast a longing look in the direction of the forest then turned towards the house and steeled himself. Stepping up onto the porch, he picked up the smoothie, cradling it before taking a sip and acknowledging that his dad had to feel bad about things if he'd made breakfast. Stiles stood, drinking slowly and staring at the trees that bordered the fire break, for an unknown period of time. When the glass was empty, he used the hidden key to open the back door. Squashing uneasy feelings, he went inside.

It was immediately oppressing, the walls and ceiling closing around him. The glass dropped from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor. He stumbled back against the door, shutting it behind him by accident. The click as the lock fell into place made him start and he slid down to the floor, folding in on himself.

"It's okay, Stiles. Take it easy. You can do this." He repeated the words like a mantra until he was able to rest his head back against the door. His skin was crawling, goosebumps rising along his arms. Stiles rubbed at his skin and grit his teeth. "Come on, keep going," he muttered and stood up, going into the kitchen.

Being in the kitchen was worse. The appliances thrummed with contained electricity, prickling at his mind like fingers sifting through sand.

Stiles placed a hand to his forehead as he stumbled away, hitting the table with his hip. He made it into the living room on autopilot, forging ahead, unwilling to leave and fail at something as simple as being inside his own home. Spying his phone lying on the side table and Derek's note, he picked both of them up, sticking the note to his pillow and slipping the phone into his jeans pocket before he pressed his face to his pillow and took a deep breath, centring himself.

Clutching his pillow to his chest, he walked down the hallway.

As Stiles neared his bedroom he had an idea, a way to focus on something other than how he was feeling. He entered the bathroom and stared at the mirror. His face was human, but Derek had mentioned a different one. Perhaps now would be a good time to see what he looked like as a fae.

Anger was a very good trigger for werewolves, so Stiles lowered his eyes and thought about Deaton. Hate and anger surged in him, accompanied by the sensation of something flowing and dropping away. Eyes averted from his reflection, he looked around the bathroom. Everything was clearer, sharper to his sight. He remembered this; the sensation, the clarity. This had happened when Deaton had burned him. And with Lydia.

Flicking his gaze to the mirror, Stiles flinched sharply, shocked by the face that stared back. Slowly raising a finger, he pressed against his cheek. His bone structure was strange. Pointy was the best way to describe it. His mouth dropped open in surprise and then he opened it wider at seeing his teeth. Sharpened to points, he had little fangs reminiscent of his fae creator.

It was his eyes that held the biggest difference. They were glowing like all the supernatural creatures he'd ever seen, but his were reflective fathomless mercury. The look in them was disconcerting, making him seem removed, untouchable, unknowable.

Stiles supposed he should feel a disassociation to his new face but as dramatic a change as it was, once the shock wore off, he didn't mind it. Derek was right; it was still him. Different, yet the same.

The issue here was being able to control the change and knowing when he was doing it. Although he had fae instincts now and understood things instinctively which he hadn't before, this was something that posed a challenge. As Stiles looked into his gray eyes, it struck him that the change he went through was different to the physical morphing that werewolves had. The shift seemed to be more internally focussed for him.