Chapter Text
After years of being in the Hale Pack, Stiles accepted his fate as being one of the only humans surrounded by a various assortment of supernatural creatures. While he could do a little bit of magic with mountain ash, along with a few other tricks he learned throughout the years, it wasn’t really the same as being an all-powerful werewolf. Although he bitched and whined and made jokes at his own expense, Stiles was perfectly fine with being a normal human, thank you very much.
Everything changed on the dawn of his eighteenth birthday in early April.
Blinking sleep from his eyes, Stiles groaned as the filtered red haze from the dawn filled the room, waking him from his slumber. He hated mornings.
The peaceful calm morning was soon rudely interrupted by the teenager’s phone beeping rapidly, signaling a mass of incoming texts. After fumbling for his phone through the multiple layers of blankets in his bed, Stiles finally found the offending object under his pillow.
Stiles smiled fondly at the multiple messages in the pack group chat wishing him a happy birthday before he froze, his eyes growing wide. The phone’s screen wasn’t blurry. He could read the screen without his contacts.
Sitting up quickly in shock, he made eye contact with his reflection across the room, in the mirror above his dresser. It looked like the sudden cure of his blindness wasn’t the only new change. His brown hair was somehow white, like snow. Now properly freaking out, Stiles sent out an SOS message to the one pack member he knew wouldn’t judge him: his alpha, Derek.
*
To say that Derek was surprised by Stiles’ new appearance was the understatement of the century—at least, as far as Stiles was concerned. The first thing his alpha did once he climbed through Stiles’ open bedroom window was to scent check him, without a word and from a very close distance. Then, with only a huff as a warning, the checking turned into marking.
The touches of Derek’s hands and cheeks were smooth despite the roughness of his callouses and his trim beard. As the werewolf continued marking, the skin-on-skin contact almost felt like static electricity to Stiles; however, that couldn’t have been the issue. His bedroom had wooden floors, not carpet.
Feeling as if his skin was about to shake off of his very being, Stiles splayed both of his hands on the firm chest in front of him and lightly pushed the werewolf back. “Alright, big guy. No need for—you know it’s me.”
Derek’s eyebrows furrowed as he took a half-step back from Stiles’ personal space. Looking him up and down, he said, “You smell different.”
“That’s the part you noticed first?” Stiles asked with his typical snark as he pointed to his now white hair, still fluffy from sleep.
The alpha rolled his eyes, far too used to his pack member’s antics, and started circling Stiles with his large arms crossed over his chest. One circle turned into three. Three turned into ten and Stiles started biting his bottom lip in worry at the silence between them.
“So, what’s wrong with me?” he blurted out, causing Derek to stop in front of him with a curious look on his face.
“Tell me what all has changed.”
“Uh…” Stiles tugged at his bangs as he thought. He was always terrible at thinking in the morning before his daily ADHD medication and at least two cups of hot coffee. “I can see perfectly without my contacts. I feel like I can hear and smell better too—still nowhere on the level of like you or the rest of the pack’s werewolves. My hair is the most obvious change, I guess.” He looked down at himself, still in his red and black plaid pajamas. “It could be the morning light but I think my skin is paler, somehow.”
Derek nodded, seeming lost in thought, as Stiles rambled down his list.
“Oh. And my upper back is killing me for some reason.”
“Take off your shirt, now.”
Stiles squeaked at the sudden command but knew better than to argue with his alpha. Looking away from Derek’s intense stare, Stiles quickly undid the buttons, despite his shaking hands, and threw the shirt at his already messy bed.
“Turn around.”
The lack of expression in Derek’s face and words caused Stiles’ internal panic to rise. Hearing his own blood pump faster, he tried swallowing nausea building up in his gut and slowly turned around, showing Derek his bare back.
Unable to take any more silence, Stiles opened his mouth to ask Derek to say something, anything, when thick, warm fingertips ran down his sore shoulder blades. He let out an involuntarily hiss at the contact and added sensitive skin to his odd list of overnight transformations. It was like electricity traveled between Derek’s spread fingertips.
“I think you’re a veela,” the gruff voice said behind him, way too close to his ear, almost in disbelief.
“I—Huh?”
*
That was how Stiles found himself being poked and prodded by Deaton in his vet clinic. Derek, and Scott who was called along the way, looked on with worried expressions. According to his best friend, the rest of the pack’s teenagers went on to school and were standing by with bated breath.
This wasn’t how Stiles wanted to spend his first day as a legal adult. Even dealing with Mr. Harris or the coach was better than whatever terrible thing that was bound to come out of the vet’s mouth.
Deaton placed his glasses in the pocket of his lab coat and stepped away from Stiles, appearing to be done with his examination. “I do believe that Derek’s guess is correct. Stiles, it appears that you’re a veela.”
While the two werewolves just looked at each other in shock at the news that their very human packmate was no longer very human, Stiles asked the first thing that popped up in his mind. “That’s great and all but what the hell is a veela? I haven’t seen it in any beasteries.”
As Deaton took off his examination gloves, he explained what he knew. “Veelas are supernatural creatures that are most common in Europe. They generally have bird-like features, including wings, hence the new marks on your back, and are often-times described as beautiful. Other than that, I’m afraid my knowledge about your kind is quite slim. I believe that Peter has a book about them in his personal library.”
“That’s all well and good, but, excuse my French, but how the fuck did I turn into one overnight?” Stiles asked as he clenched his hands together in frustration. His mind has been moving a million miles an hour since he woke up and all he wanted was for it to stop. The indents in his shoulder blades were causing his back muscles to spasm in pain, far from helping Stiles’ mood.
“I don’t know,” the druid admitted as he slightly shook his head with a small shrug. Then, he turned his back towards the pack, to fiddle with some test tubes, signaling an end to the conversation.
Scott took a hesitant step forward and nudged his best friend's shoulder. “Come on, lets head to Peter’s. Hopefully, we’ll get some more answers there.” The two of them turned to Derek for confirmation. Their alpha only grunted and led the way to the parking lot, face forever void of any emotion.