Chapter Text
"I have a tail," Stiles moans, turning this way and that and scanning his reflection despondently.
Ethan paces, strangely worried for someone who isn't all that fond of Stiles to begin with. "Maybe it's some kind of a curse?"
"Derek would know - he knows what magic smells like," Isaac offers from his seat in the corner.
"I have a tail," Stiles reiterates, because he doesn't feel anyone else is as upset about this as they should be.
Scott purses his lips, arms crossed defiantly. "We are not calling Derek."
Coughing, Isaac raises his hand. "Uh, Scott..."
"There is a tail. My tail. My tail is a thing that exists." Still, no one looks over.
"You called him? Isaac-"
"Stiles had been gone for six hours, Scott. There were no leads. What were you expecting me to do?"
"Well, it definitely wasn't for you to fucking call Derek!"
"Oh, my God. I have a fucking tail."
Scott throws his hands in the air with a growl and spins to scowl at Stiles somewhat ineffectively. Whether it's because Stiles has known Scott for eight years or because Scott is an honest-to-God puppy, complete with puppy eyes, he's not sure. "Yes, Stiles," he huffs. "You have a tail. We know. We can see it."
"We've felt it," Aiden adds with a glower, rubbing his forearm where Stiles had managed to whip him in his earlier panic. Aiden's expression is more effective than anything Scott can muster up, but Stiles is still to preoccupied with owning an extra limb to care.
"Even werewolves don't usually have tails," he whines. "Oh, God, I'm even weirder than you, now, Scott. That's just wrong."
"What's wrong," Lydia points out from where she's twirling in his computer chair, "is that you were ever under the impression that you were the normal one."
Initially, Stiles had been glad when Aiden had dragged Lydia in with him. She's the smartest person he knows, after all, and if anyone can help him figure out what's going on and how to fix it, it's Lydia Martin. Even the initial embarassment of her seeing him wearing nothing but a sheet that had seen better days hadn't been able to quell the surge of hope her confident presence had given him. Now, though, he really just wants her to not be there. He feels constantly five seconds from a full-blown panic attack, and he's pretty sure that if she tries kissing him out of it again, Aiden will go about fixing things by ripping Stiles' various new - and probably some old and beloved - bits clean off.
Whimpering again and taking comfort in the way the pitiful sound always makes the werewolves flinch, Stiles turns back to the mirror.
He's not exceptionally lizard-y. Not like Jackson had been, anyway. He's more human than dragon, even, in a way that his captor hadn't been, even when only partially shifted. He doesn't have whiskers, for one thing, and he was glad of it - he'd made a joke during his captivity about Snidely Whiplash moustaches that surely would have come back to haunt him.
What he does have was freaky enough, though, even without the long, thick, muscled whip of a tail currently curling around one ankle. That, he thinks with a shudder, is very reminiscent of the Kanima. It's not a pleasant thought. Worse, the tail had shredded through his favorite Iron Man boxers, leaving him with the torn remains of his sheet as the only protection of his dignity.
The scales gleam red with patches of gold as he twists, trying to get a decent look at his back. He can feel a strange sensation along his spine, a difference in the way the air feels against his skin, and he wonders if the scales travel all the way up his back. They do spill over his shoulders and down his upper arms, melting into normal, human skin just above his elbows before picking back up at his wrists, spreading out across the backs of his hands in the same patchy pattern.
That would be the freaky part of what was wrong with his arms, if it wasn't for the blood-red, leathery wings. They're attached to the tops of his upper arms, shoulder-to-elbow, and he can fold and flex them awkwardly, kind of similarly to how he moves the rest of his limbs. It gets easier and less ungainly the more he does it. The new appendages are vaguely bat-like, about as long from his arm to the tip as...well, another arm, and they would have been incredibly cool (especially because of the possibility of flight that they suggested) if they had been part of someone else's creepy lizard transformation.
His face is...well, it's his face, for which he's intensely grateful, although there's definitely something narrower about it. His eyes, though, are very much like Jackson's had been - speckled golden-green and snake-like. Venomous-snake-like, Stiles amends, with their slit pupils and everything. It's nine kinds of wrong, and brings back very unhappy memories of swimming pools and mechanic shops. He tears his gaze away from his own eyes to run his claws along the strange crown of twisted black spines jutting up from his skull just behind his hairline. They blend in with his hair, almost, unless you're looking for them, which officially makes them his least least-favorite thing about his situation. He's not sure yet what his most least-favorite thing is, but he suspects it's probably something he hasn't even discovered yet.
He pretends the image of laying eggs doesn't come to mind and pokes at the spines some more.
"They're called cranial horns," Deaton explains as he enters the room, nodding amicably at Stiles' father, who is sitting on the bed with his fingers pressed against his mouth. He's been staring at Stiles for the last hour or so, silent, with his familiar 'I'm processing this and once I do I'm going to have someting to say about it' look.
"Cranial horns," Stiles echoes, looking back in the mirror. His tail weaves in a sinuous pattern as he pokes at them. "That sounds...creepy."
"It looks like a tiara," Scott offers unhelpfully. Stiles turns to stick his tongue out, and Scott looks horrified. "Oh, my God. Stiles."
"What?" Whirling back to the mirror, Stiles sticks his tongue out again and gapes.
His tongue is forked.
His tongue.
Is forked.
Forked.
He looks like Satan.
He drags the appendage back in, and startles as it pokes at the roof of his mouth, and woah.
"Woah," he breathes, for once too startled to be anything but curious.
Smiling, Deaton gestures for Stiles to turn towards him. "And that would be your Jacobson's organ. I'm sure your mind is a bit of a whirlwind right now, what with new instincts and senses to acclimate to, but you'll get used to using that particular new ability in time." Off of Stiles' incredulous expression, Deaton's smile widens. "If it helps, it'll probably only work while you're shifted."
"Wait, I can shift back?" Stiles trembles with relief. "Are you sure?"
"I can't say for sure, because this isn't a situation I've run into before, but normal dragons can shift to a human form," Deaton says mildly, pulling out his penlight to shine in Stiles' eyes, the bastard.
And wow, that is unpleasant. Wings flaring briefly, Stiles rears back and growls.
The wolves in the room automatically tense, eyes flashing as they watch him intently. There's no need, really, because the sheer shock of hearing that sound rumbling out of his own chest is enough to jar him out of his sudden hostility. It's like a weird mix between a werewolf and...and...
"A motorboat," Isaac finishes, even though Stiles is positive that he hadn't been speaking aloud this time.
Eyebrows lifting, Stiles blinks at him. "Uh...what?"
"Last night, at Deaton's. You said the dragon that kidnapped you sounded like a motorboat."
"It sounds like an alligator," Chris Argent puts in from the doorway. He's hovering, Allison peeking over his shoulder with wide, startled eyes, and makes no move to come closer. "Definitely not something I'd want to hear while swimming."
Stiles thinks about that and decides that, no, he wouldn't want to hear a sound like that while swimming, either. Partly because there is something instinctively frightening about it - the sort of fear that vibrates in your bones and turns your guts to icy jelly. It sounds primordial and savage, and Stiles is still having trouble believing he'd actually made that sound at all.
And it's partly because it does sort of put him in mind of a motorboat, even sober, and no one wants to be run over by a motorboat.
"Well," John speaks up finally, dropping his hands into his lap and sitting up straighter, "look at it this way - if you're stuck like this, you can go to work doing dinosaur sound effects in the next Jurassic Park movie."
Stiles isn't sure if he's pleased with the idea or terrified.
Then Deaton asks him to open wide, and he decides to stick with 'terrified'.
"Wow," Ethan offers after a brief, heavy silence. "Those're some nice fangs ya got there, Stilinski."
They were, objectively, very impressive - they had dropped down from where they'd been sheathed inside the roof of his mouth when he'd opened up as wide as he could. He hadn't even noticed them there until they'd dropped.
Subjectively, they're goddamn fangs and they're growing out of Stiles' gums, and if things hadn't felt wrong before, they sure as hell do now. His fangs are impossible to ignore. They're as long as his middle finger, and they gleam whitely as Deaton shines his little light at them. John whistles appreciatively, and Deaton just says, "Try not to bite anyone."
Yep.
Sticking with terrified.
"How do I make it go away," he asks some time later, when Deaton has swabbed and scraped and poked and accidentally elicited another growl by grasping at Stiles' wings too firmly.
"Like I said, I'm not sure that you can," Deaton replies, not unkindly. Stiles feels everything sort of droop, and his father moves to rub a hand across the scales of his shoulderblades. "I'm going to take a guess here," the vet continues, reaching into a pocket to hold of a vial holding a few drops of an oily substance, "that the anointing ritual the dragon that kidnapped you performed wasn't to make you his, per say. It was to make you one of him. One of them."
"He was trying to turn me into a dragon," Stiles says flatly, glancing again at the reflection of his unnatural eyes.
"Essentially, and not exactly successfully. From what I can tell, it's either a spell so old it's unknown to all but the oldest of species, or it's something he cooked up himself in his spare time."
Lydia perks up, eyebrows soaring. "Spells can be invented?"
Raising his own eyebrows, Deaton regards her with the most apprehension Stiles has ever seen on the man's face. "All spells start somewhere, Lydia. Usually with blood and screaming and other horrible consequences. Spells are not synonymous with magic - they are a specific method of using magic, of weaving it into being, like potions or rituals are. Spellwork is an extremely volatile branch of magic usage, though - it is unnatural and toxic, especially when used with the wrong intentions." He pins Lydia with a narrow, warning glance. "Banshee, like other sidhe, are more attuned to magic than many other species, but that doesn't make them immune to its effects when it's twisted into spells."
Everyone in silent for a long moment, and Stiles knows that, like him, they're thinking of the darach and what her dark intentions had done to her.
"They don't mention that in Harry Potter," Isaac mumbles finally.
Chris, who had stepped aside enough to let Allison into the room once it became apparent that Stiles isn't planning on savaging anyone, leans against the far wall with his arms crossed. "Are dragons dangerous?"
Sighing, Deaton rolls the vial between his hands for a moment before answering. "Yes. Like any animal, humans included," he adds somewhat pointedly, "dragons can be dangerous. More or less so depending on the type of dragon you're dealing with. Take Stiles, who's still only partially a dragon."
Stiles sighs through his nose. "Still?"
"Judging by the situation of the wings, the thickness of the tail, the presence and form of his fangs, the lack of whiskers, the patterning on the scales, the cranial horns, and the warning call, I'd say he's most likely one of the water- or woodland-based species. That's not to say that he definitely is," Deaton continues, giving the vial in his hand a somewhat exaspirated look, "but he's probably not a fire-, lightning-, or weather-based species."
"And what does that mean?" John asks calmly, still rubbing circles between Stiles' shoulderblades, grounding him as best he can.
Deaton tilts his head. "Well, they're less aggressive, for one thing. More prone to flight than fight, if you will, unlike werewolves. More comfortable in damp climates, much less likely to go on violent rampages in medieval villages. They tend to react to situations defensively, but," he pauses, holding up a warning finger, "that doesn't mean that what they do to defend themselves won't be painful and possibly fatal. Snakes bite when they feel threatened, not for the thrill of it."
Stiles runs his tongue along one of the sheaths concealing his fangs and takes a moment to think. "Am I..." He clears his throat when his voice cracks. "I mean, my eyes. They're-"
"It's because of the light," Deaton replies, smiling as he gestures at the overhead light. "Dragons' eyes generally work like those of snakes or," he nods to Chris, "alligators. The brighter the light, the thinner the pupil. You're asking because you want to know if you're venomous, I'm guessing?" Off Stiles' nod, Deaton purses his lips. "Honestly, I don't know. Despite the rumors, the shape of the pupil of a snake's eye actually has nothing to do with whether or not that snake is venomous, and dragons tend to have prominent fangs regardless of whether or not they're venomous." He tilts his head, gazing at Stiles contemplatively. "Your fangs are hollowed, at least at the tip, but whether or not the hollowing runs all the way through to a venom sac, or whether or not you have any venom sacs at all, functioning or otherwise...well, I can't really say without more invasive testing. Would you be open to that?"
Stiles can feel his heart accelerate, and he presses his lips together with a frown, leaning back into his father's hand anxiously as he shakes his head. Not now, he thinks. Maybe later, if he can't figure out how the shift works, or if he can't shift back at all. Just not now.
"Okay," Deaton says easily. "Let me know if you change your mind, and in the meantime, it's best not to test it out on anyone, even the werewolves."
Stiles lets his father drape an arm over his shoulders and manages not to flinch when a rough thumb brushes along his wing. John continues the slight stroking motion, and slowly, gradually, Stiles begins to relax. Vague memories of his mother holding him against her like this, dragging her thumb along his arm, filter through his mind, and he slumps further against his father, suddenly wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep for a month. Maybe, he thinks, it'll all be back to normal when he wakes up.
But Deaton's gesturing for him to turn back to the mirror. "Shifting for dragons isn't exactly like a werewolf shift, but it's similar enough. Rise in heart rate shouldn't trigger it the way it does for a werewolf, but a need to defend yourself might. Simply calming down might help you shift back-"
"Dude," Stiles interrupts, blinking at Deaton disbelievingly. "I was stalked and kidnapped by a crazy dragon who wants to make me his crazy dragon bro - or possibly mate, he was kinda handsy, I'm not ruling it out - by turning me into an actual dragon, and it hasn't gone all that well for either of us so far, and now I have a tail and wings and possibly-fatally-venomous fangs, and you want me to calm down more? Because right now, this is as far as my calm goes." He spreads his arms (and, unconsciously, his wings) and looks around. "Not even having a panic attack anymore. This is pretty fucking calm, I think, and if it's just not calm enough for you, I'm sorry, but this is what we have to work with."
Deaton nods. "Okay, Stiles. Now, look at yourself, and try to remember what you felt like before this. Imagine yourself as human."
I am human, Stiles wants to scream. He doesn't, though, because Deaton is trying to help, and because freaking out (more? again?) isn't going to help anyone.
"Just impose that image over this one, and try to fit yourself into it."
Stiles tries. He really, really tries, until his head is spinning and his eyes are crossing and his tail is lashing fitfully, but it's just not happening. He groans, rubbing his palms against his face.
Scott steps forward, and Stiles doesn't growl this time, he hisses. It's dry and low and just as ancient-sounding as the growl, and reminds him far too much of Jackson for his peace of mind. It breaks off into a sob, and Scott steps forward again, bolder, and puts both hands on Stiles' shoulders.
"Think of Animorphs," he says softly.
Stiles looks up at Scott's reflection, brow furrowed. "What?"
"Animorphs. Remember? We used to read those at the library all the time. Try it that way. Think about what human skin feels like, what not having a tail feels like. About what things smell like to humans, and...and running your hand through your hair without feeling horns. Don't try to push yourself into your human shape - try to push it out from the inside. Focus on that, okay?"
Nodding, Stiles glances back at his image in the mirror once more before closing his eyes.
Human skin, he thinks. It's easy, because he still has some, and he thinks about how Scott's hands on his shoulders should feel, how his eyesight should be, what the roof of his mouth should feel like. He thinks of his blunt fingernails scratching along his scalp, and his spine ending where it used to. Human, he thinks, gathering up all those feelings and pushing.
Slowly, disgustingly, it works - he can feel his skin itching along his spine and shoulders and the backs of his hands, can feel his fingernails softening. His vertebrae crack and grind in an oddly painless way as his tail shortens and recedes, and he can feel the wings melting into his arms. Dizzyingly, his skull seems to shift without moving. When he opens his eyes, it's to the sight of them bleeding back to their normal color, his pupils round and human again.
"Oh, my God," he breathes, legs going to jelly. Scott and John both reach out to catch him, leading him over to the computer chair as Lydia vacates it. She's watching him with an analytical sort of expression, like she's dissecting him with her mind, and he'd cringe, but he's just too tired.
"Dude," Scott laughs, his smile so wide that Stiles can't help but smile back, "that was just like Animorphs!"
"Totally cool," Allison agrees, because she's sweet like that.
Deaton leans forward, shining his light into Stiles' eyes again and full-on grinning when they (Stiles assumes) react normally. "Well, that's one question answered. I'd like to point out, though, that just because you don't look like you're part dragon now, it doesn't mean that you're not still part dragon."
"Gee, thanks," Stiles mutters, eyes fluttering as he fights off the waves of fatigue that follow on the tail of his relief and the strain of the shift. "Way to let me bask in my accomplishment before you kick me in the face."
"I'm sorry, Stiles," the druid says softly, "but I'd rather tell you now than let you assume something that isn't true, only to be disappointed or endangered later."
"Well, when you put it like that," Stiles trails off. His brain is sending him emergency shutdown notifications, and he's tempted to give in to them. In fact, that sounds really...really...
When he wakes up, he's alone, though he can hear muffled sounds of people moving around in the kitchen downstairs, and multiple voices. It's homey and comforting, but he's too achey and exhausted to even think about joining them. He groans quietly, bundling fresh sheets and warm blankets around himself, and tries to go back to sleep. He feels exposed, though, bare, and a chill is setting in that has nothing to do with temperature. Something feels wrong.
Eyes half-open and working on sleep-fuzzed automatic, he kicks of the bedding off and slides off the bed, dragging everything down to the fitted sheet onto the floor and stuffing it underneath the bedframe. Carefully, shoving and tugging and rolling and weaving, he wriggles himself under the bed and forms his nest around him. Then, when everything is soft and cozy and muffled, he curls up on his side and lets his eyes flutter shut again. It's not perfect - it doesn't smell like Dad and Scott and the rest of his flight, but it's close enough to right, and it soothes him to sleep again in no time.
