Archive of Our Own ^beta

Claudia was a one of a kind woman.

The kind men dreamed about.

And theirs was a love like no other.

Because there was no other.

No Fae had ever left a court (Unseelie or Seelie) to go and be with a human. To live a mortal life. To die a mortal death.

But as Stiles kneels now, soaking wet and shaking, he's beginning to realize that her death was anything but mortal.

Dragged from his room in the dead of night, Stiles was stolen away by creatures of varying size and strength. The small ones played with his hair, while others counted the freckles on his face. The big one, the one no attack or defense spell worked on, had thrown Stiles over their shoulder. A shoulder covered in moss and vines.

Two antlers had protruded from either side of their head, reaching far out into the open expanse of the air. When Stiles had first woken up (to the foreign sensation of something with extremely tiny feet dancing on his belly) those are the first things he saw.

They make exiting his bedroom door difficult, but this creature has had practice. He moves both his head, and Stiles' body, easily through the frame, repeating the process out the front door. 

Stiles tries to fight back, but he wasn't prepared. He and Deaton have been working on enhancing the spark of magic he has within himself, but so far, it's proven useless against these creatures.

Creatures that Stiles realizes are Fairies.

Shit.

He's in nothing more than his boxers and a t-shirt, but he's got his hands free. It's not like they've been any help in trying to liberate himself from the fucking tree of a creature carrying him. He's dug so deep into the bark of their back that the tips of his fingers are bleeding.

Squeezing his fist, he lets a drop of blood hit the ground, hoping that will be enough for the pack.

But as his neighborhood starts to shift into the foliage of the preserve, Stiles has a feeling that any trace of his trail won't matter.

As he hears the faint chime of bells, and the laughter of the small fairies flying about his head, he fears they're taking him somewhere that the pack can't follow.

He fights harder then, legs kicking, hands scrambling.

One foot finds the solid back of a tree (one that's not currently trying to kidnap him) and he uses all of his strength to push, bringing the two of them to the ground.

The ground is soft from an earlier rain, one that's starting to pick back up when Stiles hurries to his feet.

He can hear the bells behind him as the fairies make chase. Their laughter grows, almost delighted by the sudden hunt they've been presented with.

His feet, for once, don't work against him. He bounds over a fallen log, weaving through the trees like he himself were a creature of these woods. And, with how often he's run through the preserve, he basically is.

The rain is coming down hard now, and it should be blinding, but Stiles can see just fine. If anything, he can see better now than he ever has before.

But he doesn't see the circle of mushrooms ahead. Not until he's stepped foot in the ring.

Immediately, he sinks through the forrest's floor. He hits his mouth on the way down, hands slapping at the ground, trying to stop his descent.

He's caught, holding himself between two worlds when the tree creature and the fairies finally catch up.

All it takes is one swift kick from the tree and Stiles loses his grip.

He felt like he fell forever. Yet, somehow, the tree and the fairies are there when he lands.

The wind, almost quite literally, is knocked out of him as he lands on his back. The ground here isn't as soft as it was back in Beacon Hills, but Stiles has a feeling nothing in this place will be like Beacon Hills.

He barely has the chance to sit himself up before the tree grabs hold of his throat then. A clawed hand reaching almost entirely round the circumference of his neck.

He hears the burning before he feels it.

The creature has secured some type of collar around him, cursed or something, and attached to a loop in the hollow of Stiles' throat is an illuminating line. A thin chain-like tether.

It looks to be made of sunshine, it shines so bright. It's so blinding that Stiles can't help but follow it when it extends out in front of him.

He walks without minding any of his senses, too focused on the chain before him.

And when the tether is removed, Stiles finds himself in a court. He's kneeling before a throne, shivering and wet, trying to remember everything that happened since his fall.

But it doesn't matter, not when the queen comes to sit upon her throne.

Stiles already knows the manner in which he must conduct himself in. He's in a fairy court. If he wants to survive, he must play by their rules.

He's so glad that Deaton drilled this into his head months ago.

When the queen enters the throne room, he bows his head. He cannot make eye contact with her unless she invites him to do so. He keeps his hands open, palms facing upwards, resting on his thighs. He means no threat to her or his people (despite them having kidnapped him). He can't afford to hold grudges against the Fae.

Not when them earning his forgiveness could mean dancing with them for eternity (or until he dies).

Stiles waits with bated breath as the queen passes him by.

Her feet are bare, better to connect with the ground beneath them. It's covered in a pond of flowers and clovers. Stiles closes his eyes then. He doesn't want to make the mistake of finding a four-leafed clover here. On earth, it's fine, lucky even.

But here?

He'd be seen as a "chosen one" to the leprechauns, a sacrifice for them to feast upon.

It's already too dangerous down here and the queen hasn't even sat down yet.

No. She circles him, like a crow, or a vulture, waiting to pick at the remains of his dead carcass. But Stiles isn't a fool. He won't be intimidated by her posturing. He's waiting for her to speak to actually intimidate him. 

Because that's when the real challenge begins.

He must not accidently accept a spoken offer to stay. He must not insult anyone by interrupting or denying their offers or gifts.

Deaton said, specifically, that one had to be very careful in denying or declining an offer or gift from the Fae. Saying something like "No, thank you," wouldn't work, because you would be indentured into earning their thanks. Or worse, asking to be pardoned would mean a direct removal from the court in whichever fashion the queen so chooses.

For the fairies, it's not so hard. They have had thousands of years of speaking to find loopholes and omit the truth. They were born with the ability to speak the language of trickery and laughter. But Stiles wasn't.

At least, he thought he wasn't. But then the queen finally talks. And what she says, Stiles was not prepared for.

"So this is the offspring of Claudia, our child."

Stiles looks up, almost making the mistake of meeting the queen's eye, when he remembers at the last second to look beside her. Her wings stretch behind her, wide over her shoulder. A shoulder that Stiles is currently looking at to avoid her gaze.

The Fae can't lie. That's what Deaton and every other piece of information Stiles has read on fairies has said. So she can't be lying right now.

His mother was a fairy.

And considering the collar they wrapped around his neck in precaution, they must think he's fae too. But he's not.

Stiles opens his mouth to tell the queen as much when he stops.

Slowly, he raises his hand up to the collar.

It had burned when they put it on.

And as his trembling fingertips gently brush against it, he hisses in pain. Pulling his hand back down to his lap, he watches as the skin on his fingers burns.

A black scar forms over the three fingers that had the misfortune of touching the -what Stiles now realizes is an- iron collar.

Before he can start to panic, the queen finally takes a seat.

"So you know not of your descent?"

Stiles can't speak, still too shocked to form words, and just shakes his head.

He hears her sigh.

"So then you do not knowingly bring insult onto your court by failing to announce your maturity?"

Stiles blinks, trying to parse through her words, trying to decipher any other intention in the question. But he finds none.

"No, my lady, I offer my regret in the form of my lackluster appearance." He says.

He sees her wave her hand, the skin of it which is iridescent and pink, soft and bright in a way that should be contradicting, but isn't.

"Stand, you may look upon my face and know my title."

He stands, slowly, getting up to his feet. His eyes travel up the distance of her flowing skirts. They look as light and white as the very clouds within the skies. Her skin glows everywhere, even on her chin, a place Stiles looks no further.

She gave him permission to look at her face, but not her eyes.

He isn't a fool. He won't be tricked today. Even in the wake of his shock, he knows to stand guard.

He sees the corner of the queen's mouth quirk up before she talks.

"I am the Queen of this court, guardian of this forrest, and watcher of the remains."

Stiles, taking a chance, gets back down to his knees and bows before her, resting his head onto his outstretched arms.

He can hear murmurs around the court, faint twinkling in their quiet voices. He doesn't know if what they're saying is good, but he waits for the queen's permission to get back up once more.

And this time, she allows him to look upon her eyes, for he's earned a "dew's drop" of her respect.

And when the court is alive with the whispers of the other fairies, Stiles has a feeling he did something right.

When he meets the queen's eyes though, Stiles feels his heart stop.

For, in the queen's eyes, he sees his mother's.

That magical mix of brown, green, and grey that he never understood until now. He always thought that, in different lights and on different days, his mother's eyes were different colors. And now, as he looks upon the queen, he realizes that he was right.

They did change. Because she was magic.

Stiles' eyes fill with tears then.

"I- I don't understand."

The queen stands from her throne, approaching Stiles until they are toe-to-toe, nearly nose-to-nose.

When she smiles, Stiles can see that her teeth are sharp, like a predator's. But he isn't afraid of them.

Because, as she brushes the side of his face, wiping away one of his tears, he remembers.

He saw his mother in her true form once.

She had had blue skin and small antlers, and her wings had looked just like the queen's. Opalescent and light. So very thin, he could see the veins that ran through them, that flowed like that of the veins on a leaf. And her teeth had been just as sharp, but he remembers not being scared. Nothing about his mother was scary.

At least, not until her death.

"You are the offspring of my daughter, Claudia."

Stiles smiles, wide and uncontrollably then. This is his grandmother.

Holy crap, he's half-fae.

His smiles drops then, just as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes defer back to the queen's chin because he remembers then that he's still collared.

"My queen, I have an inquiry regarding my unannounced arrival here, in your court."

The queen pulls her hand away then, the light of her skin dimming. Like she, too, just remembered that he was currently being held prisoner.

"Yes, very well." Stepping back, she stands back in front of her throne, addressing both Stiles and the court around them.

"Offspring of the forrest and the fae, you have failed to present yourself to the inegrity of the queen and the examination of the court on the day of your maturation."

Stiles' face nearly betrays his calm, respective pose.

If he were wearing a watch, he'd check the time because his birthday wasn't until tomorrow.

But if the queen seriously expected him to present himself to the court (a court he didn't know he was held in account by) at the stroke of midnight, on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, she must be crazy.

He can't beg her pardon, even though he fucking wishes he could. He doesn't want to be begging for the rest of his life.

"My regret is not enough, my queen. I cannot claim a false ignorance, because, to say I knew nothing of my mother would be a lie. Which I am not capable of." He says, knowing full well that he can. But she doesn't know that. 

"I had a dream once of her, a dream I now realize was a memory, of her in her true fae form. It was my duty and responsibilty as her son to look further into this memory. And I failed to. For which I am remorseful."

The queen is quiet, but the court is not. He can hear their debate on whether or not he speaks the truth. The longer he's been here, the better he can hear them. They're not just twinkling bells anymore.

"He admits his faults."

"He admits his guilt."

"He is here now, let him announce himself."

"He should not announce anything, half-spirit." One voice spits. Stiles makes a note to himself to look that up because, honestly, he's not liking how it sounds.

"Silence." The queen commands, and everyone is silent.

"The boy will announce himself today, his namesake, like my daughter before him, and her mother before her."

Stiles' head is bowed, waiting for her to continue. And when she doesn't, he looks up.

Her face is expressing some form of regret, but Stiles doesn't care to find out which.

"For his punishment-

Stiles feels his stomach drop.

"He must be tested on the fullest extent of his spirit."

Stiles frowns, confused. That doesn't sound too bad.

"Bring the blade."

Nope. Nevermind.

Very bad.

Not good.

Stiles turns around as two of the tree creatures approach him. He wants to make a run for it, but he fears that if he does, his punishment might be all the more worse than what he's imagining.

A giggling sprite carries in its arms a blade nearly twice its size, in length. The handle is a jawbone from an animal long deceased. A long black blade stretches out from the jawbone, some type of stone, most likely obsidian.

The tree creatures grab hold of him, ripping his shirt from off his back.

They force him onto his knees, leaving his back exposed to the queen, to his grandmother.

Her lips are gentle as they press a soft kiss to his temple. She speaks quietly and quickly, so as not to draw the suspicion of the court.

"Breathe."

Stiles is panicking, his breath coming in sharp, quick, bursts. But he manages one long one, with a deep enough pull to gain some confidence from.

It's quickly expelled from him as soon as the knife cuts into his back. It's not a deep cut by any means, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting. She cuts him twice, on both of his shoulder blades.

When her hands touch his back, he can't help but gasp.

His eyes shift skyward, to the canopy of the forrest court. They cloud over white, blinding him temporarily. He doesn't know how to express what he's feeling, he might possibly be screaming, maybe even crying tears of relief. The only thing that he does know is that it both pains and frees him.

He's felt this underlying energy his entire life. Kept locked up behind ADHD medication and human societal expectations. He's been told to sit still and keep quiet for so long that now that he's being cut open, he can't help but express every feeling that he's ever been told to repress.

And when he feels his muscles spasming, and his chest arching, his clouded over eyes finally see.

From his back, he feels his wings freeing themself of their human vestige.

It's so strange of a thought to think. But he knows that this sensation is just another extension of himself. Those new muscles that are currently twitching and shivering, having been brought from the depths after eighteen years of captivity, those are his wings.

And he's always had them.

They reach beyond the creatures holding onto his arms. Covered in his own blood, feathers wet and tangled in some patches, but wings nonetheless.

Wings that he realizes, look nothing like his mother's or his grandmother's.

Or anyone in this court's, for that matter.

Stiles is panting, body strained in a manner in which he's never felt before. He's exhausted, both physically and mentally.

He doesn't know what this means, but the silence around the court doesn't sound good.

The tree creatures let him go, without an order from the queen.

Stiles drops onto his hands and knees, wings weakly brushing the ground beside him. His shaking, which had slowly begun to fade, is back now, even stronger. His wings tremble at every faint wind that brushes against them. They quake beneath the eyes of the court.

Before Stiles can figure out what this all means, a smoke bomb bounces into the center of the throne room.

Stiles closes his eyes as the smoke quickly plumes out. He can hear the pack rushing in to save him, can hear the court exploding into a forray of madness. Two sets of hands find him then, one he now knows are his grandmother's and the other's, Derek.

He looks up into the red eyes of his alpha.

Derek's teeth are bared at the queen, ready to tear her apart. The smoke has saved him, thus far, but as it begins to clear, Derek almost looks into her eyes.

Stiles quickly grabs the alpha's face, drawing his attention down to him.

"Don't say anything, do not speak my name, do not offer one of yours," he speaks, knowing everyone will hear him. "There has been a change of plans, I no longer need rescuing and you are to return the way you came. Safely."

He says that last part as he looks pointedly back at his grandmother.

"But Sti-

Stiles shakes his head, quick and quiet.

"Keep your eyes down," He tells the pack then, slowly getting to his feet.

The smoke has disapated by now, revealing the pack in its entirity. Boyd, Erica, Jackson, and Isaac are standing, facing the court, while Lydia and Allison stand at the mouth of the throne room. Scott is close, standing within a few feet behind Derek, growling at the tree creatures that once held him down.

They can all undoubtedly smell the blood on him. They can probably hear the burning of the collar around his neck, now that his shirt is gone. He can certainly feel it, but he ignores it, for the sake of getting the pack to safety.

Derek's hands are still on him, holding onto his arms, holding him steady. His eyes move quickly over his body, scanning him for his injuries, brows cinching tighter at every one he finds.

He doesn't even seem fazed by the black, bloody wings sticking out of his back. He just looks so...concerned. Stiles doesn't know what to think about that. About Derek worrying about him.

But then he remembers that time works differently in the fae realm. He wonders how long he's been gone back home. His poor dad must be worried sick.

He turns to address the queen then.

As he opens his mouth, ready to beg the queen for the immediate release of his friends, he finds her bowing her head to him instead.

Stiles looks around at the rest of the throne room, and sees the rest of the court kneeling on the ground.

"My queen?"

The queen looks up. Her eyes are now back to brown, a color that holds so much pride that Stiles is suddenly craving chocolate or bread, and a nice warm cup of cocoa. She makes to approach when Derek growls, deep and protective over his shoulder.

He might not be able to make eye contact, but Derek's warning her with what he can. Stiles squeezes one of Derek's hands, still wrapped possessively around his arm. Only then does Derek allow her any closer.

"My sweet little prince," She says. "You are the sacred protector of the nemeton."

Stiles' mouth drops. "I-I thought you were the watcher-

"Yes, we were. We watched over the remains. But only after man came and destroyed it. We could not protect it, and therefore had to watch it fall. But you, oh, little bird, you are it's protector. You will bring it's rebirth."

"Oh."

She smiles, and again, it is bright and non-threatening, but he can feel Derek tense behind him at the sight of her sharp, bared teeth.

He wants to swat at the alpha to get him to stop, but his hands are holding onto Derek's arm around his waist (something Stiles doesn't remember happening). It's almost an afterthought to nudge him with a wing. 

Both him and Stiles look surprised at that. He feels a blush stain his cheeks as he sheepishly looks up at the alpha.

"Whoops."

The alpha rolls his eyes, but the arm around him tightens.

"Um," Stiles starts, turning back to his grandmother. "Is that the reason my wings are different than yours and mom's?"

She nods then, still smiling proud. She reaches out a finger, gently petting the nearest feather.

"Yours are the wings of the raven, the bringer of rebirth."

Stiles releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

So this is a good thing.

He's not going to die.

"Cool." He says, and he knows he's not imagining Jackson's scoff in the background.

"So...what happens now?" He asks. His grandmother motions for all of the court to rise.

"Now, we celebrate."

Celebration consists of a group of water sprites meticulously washing his wings free of the blood, preening his feathers and coating them in a natural oil his body is somehow now producing.

Derek doesn't leave, staying within a few steps, never letting Stiles out of his sight. It's much easier now that his grandmother gave the wolves permission to look into her eyes and speak freely in the court.

Stiles, of course, tells them to do no such thing. To remain nameless and practically voiceless for the remainder of their time here.

Which doesn't seem to be a problem for Derek.

Right until the water sprites insist on washing Stiles' entire body. Requiring him to remove his boxers.

"Uh, I'll just, um, look over here-

His grandmother, who has come in and out of the bathroom as she pleases, waves a dismissive hand in Derek's direction.

"No reason, you're mates." She says, and Derek practically chokes on his own tongue while Stiles nearly slips in the large pond acting as his tub.

Before he can say anything awkward or downright stupid, the sprites dump a bucket of water over his head.

"Were you not aware?" His grandmother asks when he's no longer drowning.

His eyes flit over to Derek quickly, he pushes back his hair, spitting out a mouthful of water. He's sure he makes a sight. Half wet and wings out, trying not to get re-soaked. At least the water is dark, offering him some semblance of modesty.

"No, I was not."

Derek sheepishly rubs a hand on his neck. "I might have been trying to figure out how to tell you."

His grandmother is watching Derek, her head tilted, assessing him. Derek looks at her, but only briefly, but it's enough. She sighs, soft and kind.

"He was waiting for your namesake."

The alpha coughs, "Right, uh, that."

Stiles doesn't know what to say. But it probably shouldn't be what he eventually winds up word vomitting.

"Thank god." Derek looks surprised, relieved, even. And then Stiles keeps talking, like an idiot.

"I was seriously starting to doubt the wall thing, and the staring. I thought for sure that there was nothing straight about the way we stare at each other. I didn't realize that we did it so much until Melissa asked me if we were dating. But I told her that we weren't, that you were basically this greek god that was a good alpha and a sweet man that I wanted to kiss so-

Stiles stops talking then, realizing too late that his mouth has been running without thought. Again.

His grandmother looks amused.

She claps her hands together, delighted.

"Then it's settled. We'll celebrate your pronouncement and bind your hands!"

This time, Stiles really does slip in the pond.

He gets both wings soaked, ruining about an hours worth of work, and nearly drowns himself in the process. But Derek fishes him out, hands gently wrapped around his upper arms.

They are staring. Faces so close, Stiles can feel each and every one of Derek's breaths on his lips.

He almost leans in when he realizes that his grandmother is still there.

Clearing his throat, he thanks Derek silently, while standing back up.

"I appreciate your kindness grandmother. However, Derek and I will bind our hands in our own time, on earth. Where my father might stand present. And I were much older. And graduated."

Derek's gaze is burning into the side of his face. He just admitted that he and Derek will get married one day.

His grandmother sighs, sad but not entirely put out.

"Fine, but I should like to be in attendance as well."

Stiles laughs, bright, and Derek thinks he hears something chiming. Like bells ringing softly in the distance.

"I will visit when the time comes."

When not if, Derek thinks with a smile.

"You'd be welcome to join us on that day." He says and Stiles whips his head around, surprised by Derek's easy acceptance.

After his bath the water sprites bow out of respect, and let the fairies take over to dress him. Which, "dress" is a loose term. They wrap him in a white linen, similar to his grandmother's, covering only what Stiles asks (demands).

When they're done with that, they paint his skin with this gold algae-like paint. The fairies dance around his face and arms, even going so far as to paint all the way down his legs to the tops of his feet.

He's covered in symbols, all in the language of the fairies. Derek was ushered out of the room, under the pretense of checking on the pack, while they re-oiled his wings.

Stiles can't see more than bits and pieces of himself in the pond's reflection, but he's stopped caring awhile ago. What they're doing feels nice and he feels so deeply rooted to the earth, he can practically hear his mother's voice while the sprites and fairies take turns placing flowers in his hair.

They've rid him of his collar, thankfully, and have painted even more symbols on his throat.

He has a feeling that this is going to be a bitch to get off, but it's worth it to see the look on Derek's face when he's done.

Everyone in the pack quiets down when he finally joins them in a celebration hall.

It's similar to the throne room, mostly out in the open of the forrest, but columns stand sentinel around the hall. Mismatched stones decorate the floor, making a mosaic far more beautiful to look at than most marble.

He sees that a few of the sprites have taken the liberty of dressing up the pack by flowering their hair, except Jackson. Apparently, Jackson didn't need to know the careful dialect in which to speak to fairies because he just growled at them.

Boyd had stoically held onto the flowers and tucked them into a pocket on his flannel. Lydia and Erica are absolutely shrouded with flowers. Allison, however, politely declined their offer to make up her hair.

Stiles has a feeling that she's heard her own warnings about the fae. She's probably still wondering to which court Stiles' grandmother belongs to. But Stiles already knows. He knew it as soon as they brought him to their queen.

The Unseelie court would never do such a thing to worry about their king's approval. Their king was a benevolent king that enjoyed the torture and chaos they created. They hardly needed permission to create mischief.

He nods to her in understanding as he passes her by.

Scott is currently holding a rabbit, one of many creatures that have come to join the celebration. He's wearing his own fair share of flowers, and Stiles is not surprised. Pleased, but not surprised.

Derek isn't covered like the pack, but he is holding a flower. It's blue and iridescent, something he probably couldn't have found on his own. When they get back home, he'll have to look it up.

When Stiles approaches him, Derek offers it out quietly. There's a shy smile on his face and Stiles wants to chase it with his lips, but he takes the offered flower instead.

When his grandmother enters celebration hall, that's when the celebration truly can begin. Which they start by doing what all fae do, and dance.

The fire sprites light the sky, joined by fireflies and the great big moon. The wolves are hesitant to join, but Stiles knows that this dance won't last forever.

All it takes is watching him join the fray before the whole pack starts moving. Stiles doesn't really know what he's doing, but he has a feeling, and he's following it. His wings stay close to his back, still sore and tender from their new arrival on this plane, but the rest of his body moves freely.

He isn't worried about how he looks. For the first time in his entire life, Stiles doesn't feel like a spazz. He's dancing in the ways of his people. Laughing and celebrating with his family and his friends.

And the pack seems just as carefree and happy in their own dancing. Howling at the moon when they're compelled, dancing with each other and the fae.

They dance for what feels like forever, and, at the same time, not long enough when the night eventually ends. The early morning light is reaching, teasing the horizon by the time they've finally decided to call it a night.

His grandmother leads them back to the ring of mushrooms that originally brought him here, where the pack undoubtedly followed. Wishing the pack each a farewell, giving them her solemn promise of protection should they find themselves in the fae realm again.

By the time Derek bids the queen farewell, he's surprised when she pulls him into an embrace and boldly kisses him on the nose. She whispers something to Derek then, something that Stiles doesn't hear, but the wolf nods, eyes flitting over to Stiles quickly. She brushes his shoulder gently, and the alpha bows his head to her before stepping up to the ring of mushrooms.

"So..." Stiles starts.

He doesn't really know what to say, only that he wants to see her again. She's the last connection to his mother. The only other being that really knew her, other than his father.

He doesn't want to wait until his wedding day (whenever that might be) to see her again.

He's crying before he really notices. But the sky takes notice, shedding tears of its own in sympathy.

"You're going to have to be careful of that, little bird." She says as she brushes away one of his tears.

Stiles is hugging her then, tighter than he would normally dare with a human.

He doesn't want to let go. But eventually, he must.

When they do pull apart, she holds onto the sides of his face, trying to take him in with her eyes, memorize everything about him that she can.

"You'll be coming into some new gifts. Be careful how you use them. They must not overwhelm you or the space around you, do you understand?" Stiles nods, knowing he'll have to sit Deaton down and talk about this.

He'll probably have to figure out what to do with his wings too. It's not like he can just walk into school with these things sticking out of his back.

But his grandmother must know what he's thinking because she pets one of his wings, gently combing her fingers through his freshly cleaned feathers. He'll have to remember to tend to them regularly, especially if he wants to try flying with them.

"They'll listen to you, just as all others in nature will. Be gentle with yourself and them. Even the smallest of bees plays an important role in the forrest."

"How will I know when to bring back the nemeton?" He asks, but, just as he suspected, his grandmother doesn't say.

"Be well, little bird, I'll see you soon."

*      *      *

The transition from the fae realm back to Beacon Hills is fast. Faster than when Stiles originally fell through the ring of mushrooms. He's standing, barefoot, in the grass. He's still dressed in the same garb that the fairies and sprites put him in, but the paint has vanished.

It absorbed into his skin as he passed through the barrier. He watches as his skin dims, leaving no evidence behind of their adventure in the fae realm.

Well, except for his wings, of course.

"So, what're we gonna do about those?" Scott asks, poking one without really expecting Stiles to react. But react he does.

He gently pushes his best friend a step back, using the new muscles in his wings.

"New rule, no touching Stiles' wings without permission." Stiles says, bringing his wing close and brushing over the spot that Scott touched. "And my grandmother said that they'd go away on their own. That I can control them, like 'other things in nature,' or something like that."

"Dude, really? That's so cool, what can you control?" Scott asked.

"Man, leave Stiles alone, he just got back." Boyd interrupts.

"Yeah, and he's still in his underpants. He probably wants to go home and change." Isaac adds.

"Helpful. Thanks."

"They suit you." Lydia adds, and Stiles has to look back at her to see if she's telling the truth.

"Thanks...so how long was I gone?"

"Two days." Derek says from behind most of the pack. They've crowded around him, obviously relieved to have brought him back whole and hale. But Stiles' eyes are only on Derek.

The way the alpha said it, like two days was closer to two decades, heart broken and full of mourning. Stiles weaves his way through the pack then. Stepping before the alpha, who has found the ground suddenly so very interesting to look at.

Stiles gently lifts his chin, ignoring everyone else around them, and brushes their lips together softly.

It's gentle, at first, but as Derek's arms wrap around him, wings and all, the kiss turns more passionate. Feral, even. Stiles is clinging onto Derek's shoulders, their chests molding together perfectly-

"GUYS!" Scott shouts.

They pull apart, but no more than a hair's breadth, panting.

"Maybe we should..." Jackson's voice slowly dies off when Stiles shakes his head.

"No, we're good. Just needed to," Stiles swallows, "needed to do that."

They don't pull any further apart.

He can hear footsteps behind him, slowly fading the further they go. Allison and Scott seem to have excused themselves, and the rest of the pack is soon to follow.

"I'm right here, big guy, not going anywhere. You found me." He says, thumb caressing the alpha's jawline.

Derek nods, eyes flashing red, possessively. And before he pulls Stiles into another kiss, he says, "Always will."

If Stiles' brain was working beyond kiss, Derek, mate, he'd probably remember that his grandmother bestowed Derek with a parting gift. Something they'd later learn was a blessing of the senses, to always be able to find his mate. No matter the realm.

But Stiles isn't thinking right now.

Right now, Derek's got him backed up against a tree, with his legs wrapped around the trunk of the alpha's waist.

His eyes are closed so he doesn't notice the blossoming flowers and rapidly growing vines around them, not until one of the vines wraps around Derek's ankle.

The alpha pulls back, just enough to look down. And the amused smile he makes has Stiles looking down as well.

This opening hadn't been much more than grass and mushrooms, a few stones, and tree's roots. Now, it was practically a meadow, brimming with flowers and green. 

"Oh," Stiles breathes. "Was that me?"

Derek nods, nipping gently at Stiles' bottom lip. He says against Stiles' mouth, "Wanna see what else you can do?"

And, Stiles, being a man of science, loves testing a good theory. His grandmother did say that nature would listen to him.

When they finally emerge from the preserve, half an hour later, the trees look a little taller. And if he's leaving a trail of flowers sprouting in his wake, Derek doesn't say anything. He's too busy pulling the half-fae in the direction of his loft.