Legacy
When Stiles woke up for the third time, his left leg was hanging off of the bed, his toes digging into the carpet. His right leg was propped up on the bed post in a way that should actually hurt but the teenager made it look somehow comfortable. His head was hidden under a pillow in the middle of the bed, one arm slung around it, the other pressed to his back like a ghost cop was trying to arrest him.
It wasn't that weird position that awoke him, though.
He woke up because something was tickling his sides, along with the warm rays of sunshine coming in through the windows.
Even though he didn't want to, his eyes opened and then closed immediately again, blinded by the light.
Blindly, he pawed at whatever was disturbing his sleep, grunting a jumble of words that probably didn't make any sense.
The tickler was persistent, though.
Admitting defeat, Stiles rolled onto his side and opened his eyes again, searching for the disturber.
Burly's glare was the first thing he registered. The animal used his moment of perplexion and jumped none too gently onto his chest, starting a groan out of his human.
"I'll get up, I'll get up, okay? Jeez," Stiles huffed, shoving the little fox off of himself. He sat up and ruffled through his sleep-mussed hair, suppressing a yawn.
He couldn't remember a time where he had last had such a peaceful sleep.
Even the thought of it awoke in him the yearning to cuddle back into the pillows and sleep for another ten years or so.
At Burly's warning gaze, he discarded that thought and got up to go to the bathroom and get ready.
Suddenly, he became aware that he wasn't in his own room and then he started to remember where he was.
He walked past the bookshelf that was double-functioning as a room divider and took a look at the large space behind it.
The room looked naked since there was only a comfy-looking and oddly spacious chair placed in front of the window front. The wall wasn't even painted entirely, only parts of it covered in a creamy yellow that would probably make the room even more inviting than the large windows already did.
"So this is where he hides," Stiles mumbled to himself. "No wonder he doesn't want to come down much."
Derek had never allowed anyone of the pack to enter his private quarters, the only exception being in a case of emergency so no one had ever seen where he was sleeping. Malia had probably been up here as well, but she didn't really count. Rules were only a vague guideline in her mind so she liked to bend and break them at her convenience.
And Derek could never get really mad at her, no matter how hard he tried.
Shaking his head with a small smile, Stiles opened the door which he assumed led to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and went through his usual routine. He took a quick shower. changed into new clothes which Derek must have brought up from his own closet one story below him (it was then that he registered that he was dressed in a shirt that was most definitely not his, seeing as it was too big for him) and tried to wrestle his wild hair into submission.
One of his newer habits was also not absent; He avoided looking into the mirror. But he tried to ignore that. It's not like he needed to acknowledge all of his habits, right? No justification needed. Some people need to dance during their morning routine. Some only need coffee. He needed to avoid looking into a mirror for too long.
But not even following through with his morning ritual could calm him down enough to be ready for the conversation with his dad that awaited him downstairs.
He was drawn into a fierce hug before he could even say a word. The sheriff's arms were holding on to him like he could disappear any minute now.
"God, kid. You had me worried," his father said, equally scolding him as he was expressing his relief.
"I left you a message dad," Stiles reminded him, trying to break free from the smothering hug. "On the fridge. How could you not see it?"
"You did?" The sheriff didn't look convinced, not considering it possible that he would miss such a vital clue to where his son was. "Can't be. I would've seen - it doesn't matter now, anyway. What interests me is why you felt the need to flee the house in the middle of the night."
"I got sick," Stiles explained and shrugged. "So I called Cora."
But he didn't only call Cora. He remembered it now.
The sheriff put on a strict expression, one he usually used when he was interrogating someone. "You called someone without a driving license so they would come get you?"
Stiles winced slightly. "Yeah, not my best decision. But to Cora's defense- she broke no laws! She didn't drive over the speed limit!"
Jon just sighed and shook his head, obviously deeming that topic as fruitless to further discuss.
"Where have you been anyway?" Stiles decided to turn the tables. "Weren't you supposed to have the night off?"
The sheriff froze, then his eyes narrowed. He turned around as if the traitor was standing right behind him, which of course he wasn't. Derek was somewhere in the house, doing whatever he did when all his betas were in school.
The only one witnessing their conversation was Peter who was idly sitting on the couch, pretending to read a book. He even flipped the pages from time to time for show, though he was obviously listening to them.
"You know," Jon stated, his mouth going dry.
"Wasn't I supposed to?" Stiles countered, feeling defensive already. He certainly wouldn't stand to be left out of important information, not even if his dad deemed it safer for him.
"Don't do that. Don't blame me for something I haven't even done yet." His dad was looking at him warningly. "I was planning to tell you. On my own terms but I was going to tell you."
"All of it?" Stiles challenged.
"Yes, Stiles" his dad stressed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "I'm your father, I wouldn't do that to you. I want you safe. So why shouldn't I tell you what you need to be aware of? You should've trusted me."
"Trusted you!" Stiles repeated incredulously. He couldn't believe his father had thrown the word trust in his face like he was the one who had betrayed him. "How can I? I don't even know who you are anymore! And who I am. Maybe everything I thought was true is actually a lie? I can't even trust my memories! So how do you expect me to trust you?!"
"Stiles," his dad said, sorrow written all over his face.
"No!" Stiles took one step back. "Don't try to calm me down! There is nothing to be calm about! Nothing! You know why I thought you wouldn't tell me? Because you never talk about these things with me. You never talk about her. Or what happened to her. And that was fine - because I didn't want to talk about it either. But not anymore. We never really talked." Stiles shook his head as his father opened his mouth to object. "No, we never really talked. When I was little I asked a lot of questions. About mom's language. About yours. About why you could speak it but our neighbors couldn't. I asked about my grandparents. And you always said, "We'll tell you when you're older, when you're able to understand it". But you never did. I learned about it almost by accident. I learned that you're Polish and wondered why you tried to erase that part of yourself. I wondered why you never spoke polish, only mom did. I wondered why you never told me what your childhood was like. All I know now is what I've learned by accident and what the book has told me. But I need more than that! I want to know who you are. So I can understand who I am."
Stiles was heaving at the end of his rant, long suppressed rage coming back to the surface. His father was eyeing him warily, stunned at the subject.
"Stiles, son..." the sheriff was obviously grasping for words. " I wasn't aware - Where did all of this come from? Of course you know me. The memories she has taken from you aside, I've always been honest with you. I promise you that."
"Yeah?" Stiles questioned, his voice cracking slightly over the word. "That's not enough. That's not nearly enough."
"What else do you need?" His dad honest to god had no clue. "Tell me. Please. You need to tell me so I can fix this."
"Dad, there's someone out there who is threatening me because of who I am. And that quote - it means that he knows my name but I don't know his which gives him power over me. He probably knows more about me than I do. I don't even know who my grandparents are! I don't know much about your family and only little about mom's. Like, is the spark genetic? Did everyone in her family have it? How does it manifest? When did you find out? What urged you both to take so many precautions? Was there a threat before I was even born? Did mom know what was happening to her? I have so many questions! I want to understand, don't you get it? I want to understand my background, my name, everything! Because, right now, I don't. But I feel like I should."
Ever since his mom died, it had been like his polish background had been erased with her. He was no longer "słoneczko", or "iskra". No one left to sing him polish lullabies, to tell him about the beauty of the land he had been born in. His heritage was buried with her. His polish part had been erased, leaving him feeling like a tree cut off of its roots.
His dad, though, seemed to recognize these feelings, because he was looking at his son like he was seeing a younger version of himself. Then he nodded slowly.
"C'mon. There's something I need to show you."
***
Back at home found them both sitting on the couch, the older Stilinski with a huge photo album lying open on his lap and his son looking down at the pictures in it with a mixture of awe and sadness.
"That man right there," Jon pointed at the young man depicted in the black and white, slightly wrinkled photograph. He couldn't be older than 15 but the expression he was wearing gave him an already jaded and phlegmatic look. Like he had seen more than anyone his age should have. "That's Lucjan Stilinski. My father."
And now he could see it. The had the same jawline, the same ears. The resemblance was startling, now that he knew what to look for.
"What happened to him?" Stiles asked, more subdued than usual.
The Sheriff sighed. "He was born in 1929 in Puławy, which had been militarily very important in the Soviet-Polish-War. Its people had been very proud, you see, of their part in the war, especially since it ended with a victory on their side. I didn't grow up there, of course, but I imagine that the victory had great influence on my father's family. The Stilinski's were military men through generations. They were proud to protect the country. My father grew up believing that making the decision to fight was already half the victory."
From the resigned look in his dad's eyes, Stiles knew that something must have changed his grandfather's mind. And he was almost sure that he knew the reason why.
"But then, in 1939, the Germans invaded and brought destruction, loss, and cruelty with them. And the city that was once proud of their victory was brought to its knees.
As far as I know, there were three concentration camps in Puławy alone. The Jewish population was eradicated. It was horrible. My grandparents, uncles... They all died. The only survivor was my father. He was old enough to be of use and young enough to withstand the cruel treatment in the camps."
Jon pointed at a younger boy, maybe around the age of three, and a girl around the age of twelve. They had to be his grandfather's siblings. Stiles looked at the photograph, at their young and innocent faces and shuddered at the thought that they had died in a time when humanity was at one of its lower points. They would never know that it would get better. And worse. And better again.
"He was rescued by the Red Army - the Russians. Imagine his conflicted feelings. He was rescued by the enemy - by the ones he had been taught to hate. And thus he had lost his faith in the country he had grown up to love, to protect. He thought that his country had betrayed him - abandoned their people when they were in need. Which was not true, of course. Many were freed by the Home Army but he didn't know that. He got in contact with a family's friend in America, and eventually, they adopted him. He left his country behind and tried to blend in - become completely American."
Jon flipped a page in the album and revealed a photograph of a boy, holding the American flag proudly in his hand. A normal picture of a true American.
"He spent the rest of his childhood in Lousiana and never looked back. He never spoke Polish again, hated people that called him out on his accent with a passion and became deeply patriotic. Also racist. He was a hypocrite and probably felt that way too. So he joined the army, demonstrating that he was one of them - more because he needed to prove it to himself than to others, I assume."
The next photo showed a young man in military gear, looking completely serious and stiff. His lips were thin, his gaze sharp. He was the epitome of the perfect soldier, at least regarding his looks.
"I was never very close to my father. The war changed him like it changes every man. But I think what really broke him was the uncertainty about what he was even fighting for. He probably thought he would find out on the battlefield. I'm not sure if he ever did.
Like him, I joined the army. That's just how I was raised. And just like him, I wasn't sure what I was fighting for. Don't get me wrong. I love America. It's my home. And to die for it is an honor, a great deed.
But I felt incomplete without knowing my background. So when I was 18, I became really interested in Polish politics, even as a US soldier. And I felt this longing to see all of it with my own eyes. It was 1983, the Polish Crisis was over and the martial law formally ended. There was change and I wanted to see it with my own eyes. So in 1986, when a general amnesty was declared, I got the opportunity to be stationed in Poland and I took it. My father wasn't happy about it, but as long as I was serving our country he could hardly talk me out of it. The problem was that once I was there I didn't want to leave. So I stayed. I learned their language, the culture. And finally, I felt whole. Like I finally knew myself. I wrote a letter to my father, telling him how happy I was and that I finally understood my heritage. His lawyer sent me a document that stated formally that he had disowned me."
Stiles gulped. "Just because you went back to his home country?"
Jon looked heavily at an old family picture with him standing in front of his parents. His father had a protective hand lying on his shoulder that was meant to show his pride. In Jon's eyes, it looked like his father was guiding him in the direction he wanted his son to go, keeping him from straying away from the path he had already chosen for him.
"He never spoke to me again. He probably thought that the document would finally wake me up from my delusions. That I would come home and apologize to him for betraying him like that. And I probably would've. My father was an intimidating man, Stiles, and I had always strived to please him.
But then I met you mother and my goals changed. It was 1988, I was at a Student Protest to keep the peace, she was there to disturb it. She came from a poor family, was wearing clothes that were too big for her but she was strong-minded and fought like she was a force of nature. She believed in all the good things I thought were just illusions, even if she had been proven wrong so many times already. And she became home."
There was a fond smile on his father's lips and a melancholic longing in his eyes. An expression that was always brought forth by the mention of Claudia.
On the next photograph was his mom, looking so incredibly young and beautiful that Stiles had to hold his breath for a moment. She couldn't be much older in the picture than himself. Standing next to her - so taken in with the girl beside him that he was looking more at her than at the camera - was his dad, looking like the complete opposite of himself in the picture of before.
"Your mother was the one who taught me that we don't belong to a place. We belong to people. We belong to beliefs. That is what home is. That is what we should fight for. So she urged me to reconcile with my father, even more so after her father - her only remaining family - had died. So we went back to America together, she acquired citizenship, changed her name and married me."
The smile grew heartbreakingly bigger. Then it faltered as he remembered how the story continued
"My father refused to come to our wedding. Claudia was the representation of everything he had left behind and chosen to forget and me marrying her was probably the greatest betrayal I could commit in his eyes. He didn't even respond when Claudia reached out to him to tell him that he was becoming a grandfather. He died when you were three without ever meeting you, robbing you of a grandfather just because he couldn't forgive. And I swore never to be like him, I swore to be a better father to you."
"And you are," Stiles said, full of conviction. "You are, dad."
The Sheriff closed the heavy album on his lap and shook his head slowly. "We can't escape who we are. I am my father's son, after all. And that's why I made the same mistakes."
"So when mom died, you locked up the polish part of you. Just like your father had done," Stiles realized.
"I always thought I would never become like my father. That I knew better. But now, look at me. Look at us. I should've never denied you learning about your roots. I was the one who needed to learn about them in order to grow, after all," Jon said in a low voice, clearly ashamed of himself.
Stiles threw his arms over his dad's shoulders and hugged him tightly. "We'll just have to work on that. Just like you promised me in the hospital. We have to learn how to talk. Really talk."
Stunned at the reaction, it took Jon a little while to reciprocate the hug. When he did, his hand was cupping his son's neck protectively. "We'll work on it," he agreed wholeheartedly.
***
After Stiles had fallen asleep - and appeared to sleep peacefully this time - Derek had tucked him back into bed and put the book away. He himself had slept in the chair that night.
He had woken up before Stiles. Snorting at the weird position the boy had chosen to sleep in, Derek had left the room and walked downstairs to get his first and very much needed dose of coffee.
When the sheriff arrived, he quickly greeted him and told him that Stiles was still sleeping. The man was disgruntled at first - since he had told him the same thing when the man had been over the day before - but he soon seemed to realize that his son needed to catch up on a lot of sleep.
Derek had left him in Peter's care, thinking that it was probably alright to leave those two alone. He wasn't completely sure of that, though, because Peter always seemed to know which buttons to press in order to raise the Sheriff's blood pressure. One of these days, Peter might end up with a wolfsbane bullet embedded in his ass.
But listening to his uncle's weird attempts at flirting weirded him out, so he was willing to take that risk.
He had work to do, anyway.
Immediately after Laura had told him about them he had dug up the alpha memoirs of his family, which had to be passed down to every generation. Every alpha had to write about his or her experiences and his or her life in the pack so that it could serve as a guideline to the next in line. Derek now knew that his mom had collected all of them in the library. From Laura's tellings there had to have been about 100 books.
Not all of them had survived the fire, though.
And out of the 40 or so which did, not all of them were readable. Or were written in a way so that he could hardly comprehend it.
One alpha in particular in his long family tree had been horribly illiterate. His sentences were confusing, most words were spelled incorrectly and his grammar was atrocious. And of course, that was one of the books that had survived. That was just Derek's luck.
He had been looking through the books for the past few days, ever since he had found out about the arrival of The Order.
He had learned many things from the memoirs.
Like the fact that Alpha Erek Albert Hale had been a narcissistic, ignorant bastard who couldn't write a sentence without pronouns referring to his own magnificent self and without insulting someone else if his life depended on it. He also never came to a point, going on and on and on and on about silly details just to report how one of his packmates had dared to wash his clothing in a way that completely ruined it.
Considering the amount of useless information he had come across in his search, his respect for Stiles doing all the research for them had grown immensely. He had begun wondering if he should ask Stiles for tips on how to filter important information from utter rubbish.
Eventually, his hard work paid off and he found some recounts of the pack coming in contact with The Order, as short and unspecific as they were.
The first entry mentioning them chronically he found in Alpha Cecily Rue Hale's memoir and it read:
The intruders - The Order, as they call themselves - turned out to have no intention of harming the pack but if they are trustworthy is still unsure. Their interest in us seems to be almost non-existent but it's hard to believe that their only goal is to keep balance. They aim to keep the supernatural world a secret from humans but it is hard to believe that they are able to do so without killing those who don't agree with their methods and rules. I'm trying to reach out to other packs in order to gain more information about them. It is my duty as the Alpha to make sure they don't pose a threat to my pack.
Alpha Cecily Rue Hale's memoir had to be one of the oldest that still existed. It was dated somewhere around the 18th century.
There was another entry, written by Alpha Rowan Jasper Hale, from 1864, which stated the following:
...but nothing could be as vicious as The Order once they felt the need to act. Many tales about them I never believed because of the bloodthirsty depiction of them people but now I don't doubt their credibility anymore. I've seen with my own eyes how they eradicated a whole pack because of stupid old Jeremiah Landry's belief that werewolves are meant to be socially above the human race. Some I've talked to say that Landry had stricken a deal with an evil witch. I'll never know. But I sure won't ever forget the punishment his whole pack had to face...
The last one he had found yet was by his mother. Laura had thankfully taken the memoir with her after the fire so it hadn't been harmed.
No matter how many times I've read about them, meeting The Order in person was nothing like I had ever imagined. The first thing that surprised me was their leader: A kitsune, a woman. Apparently, The Order was a matriarchy. She introduced herself as Momoko Yukimura to me and she seemed very well-spoken and polite. But there was a hardness in her eyes that warned me not to be deceived by her slight appearance. And her powers demonstrated that it was better not to underestimate her.
She was old, though, so I believe she was already training her successor; a young woman - most likely her daughter - who was trailing behind her like a bodyguard, never leaving her side.
They asked me if I was aware that there was a magical source on my territory - they called it the nemeton. I said that I wasn't aware.
I'm almost certain that she didn't believe me. Kitsunes don't have as good a hearing as werewolves. They rely too heavily on their sight and their sense of touch. So she probably couldn't listen to my heartbeat to find out whether I was lying or not. If there are other ways she used in order to detect a lie, I don't know. She should have found nothing for I was telling the truth.
If I had known about something as powerful as the nemeton being part of my territory, I would've taken better care of it. It's the duty of every Hale Alpha to protect whatever and whoever belongs in their territory, after all. But I refrained from telling her so since it would have implied that I have a claim to the nemeton. Since she seemed so interested in it, I didn't want to appear like I was as well. It would have only led to war.
Derek made a copy of every entry he considered useful and sent them all to Jackson.
***
Eavesdropping was one of Peter Hale's favorite past times. Sometimes, it brought him more trouble than fun, though.
Listening in on Stiles' conversation with his father had awakened an unpleasant feeling in Peter; guilt.
Because he saw himself having a similar conversation in the future with his own daughter.
When would she realize that in order for her to exist at all, she had to have been born? When would she start to ask questions about her mother?
Peter wasn't ready to answer them yet.
But now that he had been made aware of the potential source of conflict, he was feeling restless.
It was time to prepare for the occasion this question should arise sooner than he had expected.
So by the time Malia came running into the kitchen for lunch, he had already come up with a compensation for all the unasked questions he wasn't yet able to answer.
"Sit down while you're eating," he said as she grabbed the sandwich from the plate. She looked caught off guard, her expression clearly saying 'how did you know?'. She grumbled in annoyance, but put the sandwich back on the plate, took it and sat down with it at the kitchen island.
"That's a stupid rule."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "You're supposed to chew your food and not gobble it down. You have time. No one here will steal your food."
She rolled her eyes at him but nevertheless made a huge show of chewing very slowly.
"Derek told me that your training is going well. I also haven't forgotten about your excellent control on the night of the Blood Moon. And so I've decided that a reward is in order," Peter announced.
Malia almost spat out the bite she had been chewing on in excitement. "Really? What is it? Can I go to school now?"
Peter was leaning casually against the kitchen counter as he was watching her reaction, looking vaguely amused. "First of all, you were always able to go to school - I have never questioned your ability to use your legs. What is uncertain as of now is whether you're ready to go to school yet."
The young were-coyote let the sandwich fall back on the plate, her eyes narrowed in disgruntlement. "I thought I was doing good?!" she complained.
"Well, not good. You're not helping the needy or solving world hunger, are you? You're not describing yourself but your action, hence the adverb. The distinction is important."
He got a growl in response.
"The annoying action of correcting people's grammar. Now I described the action and used an adjective. Take that!" She grinned triumphantly.
"The action is a noun in that sentence and describing it requires the use of an adjective. The action in the sentence as in the verb is 'correcting' in this case. So to use an adverb correctly the sentence would become, 'The annoying action of smoothly correcting people's grammar.'. And yes, that's what I do. You're welcome."
Malia growled again, threw her father a glare and then shoved another bite of the sandwich into her mouth in a way that could only be described as defiant. It was so very amusing to watch.
"I don't understand for the life of me why you're so keen on going to school if you hate being told you're wrong so much," Peter mused.
"My teachers at least won't get some kind of sick amusement out of it," she grumbled in answer.
Peter couldn't help but laugh at that. "Oh, baby, you've truly never been to Middle School before. And it only gets worse once you're in High School!"
Malia just shoved the rest of the sandwich in her mouth and was about to hop off her chair when Peter stopped laughing and rested a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to mock you." Oh, he wasn't sorry, Malia knew that much. "Now, don't you want to hear what your reward is?"
His daughter continued to chew on the overlarge rest of the sandwich, looking like a hamster. She was looking expectantly at him.
"What do you think of enrolling into a ballet class for a start? Or a swim class, if ballet doesn't appeal to you? Maybe even joining a Baseball team. Or anything, really" Peter said slowly, gauging her reaction.
Malia never stopped chewing and this time, she was chewing maddingly slowly. She could be such a brat, sometimes.
She obviously took after her father.
After she had finally swallowed, she looked at him and said decisively, "I'd like to try ballet."
Peter had a hard time concealing his surprise. He only allowed himself to grin smugly while he was pressing a kiss on his daughter's wild mane.
***
Later that day, Stiles rushed to be punctual for his first physical therapy session with Jordan.
Who was also the person he had texted after he had just woken up from his nightmare.
To his relief, he hadn't texted something completely ridiculous or embarrassing.
His exact words were, I need to know where you got the special ingredient for the ointment from and how it exactly works.
He hadn't signed with his name so he probably would have just discarded the message because of his anonymity if it weren't for the fact that Jordan had actually answered him.
I'll see you on Friday. :)
And yes, the man had used an emoji.
So now here he was, standing in front of the house where his dad had dropped him off, not sure if he should knock on the door or just turn around and go home.
But a voice in the back of his head reminded him that he needed to attend this session in order to get the keys to his baby back. So really, what choice did he have?
His knock was immediately answered by the sound of footsteps coming towards the door. When the door opened, he had to look down to actually smile at the person waiting on the other side.
The little Asian girl - probably around the age of ten, though it was hard to say - smiled shyly at him. "Please come in, sir."
"Thanks," Stiles said, following her inside the house. It wasn't more than a bungalow, really, though it was more spacious than it had appeared to be from outside.
"Are you Stiles?" the girl asked him, her arms crossed behind her back. Her long, silky black hair fell like a veil over her face and hid most of it from view. She was adorable.
"Yeah, that's me. And who are you?"
"Kira," she mumbled, her eyes cast to the floor.
"Kira!" Jordan came jogging towards them. He immediately scooped the skinny girl into his arms and shook his head at her. "How many times have I told you that you shouldn't answer the door? You never know who's standing outside!"
She hid her face in his shoulder, though she was probably too old already to get carried around like that. "But I did know who was outside," she argued quietly.
Jordan let her down again and looked at Stiles apologetically. "I'm sorry. She's the daughter of a family friend so I get to babysit her sometimes. I take it that Kira already introduced herself to you?"
Stiles' mouth had fallen open slightly while Jordan had scolded Kira. Of course, the man had to be good with children too, additional to his already overly friendly and likable character! What was he, a saint?!
"Uh, yeah, she did. She was very polite," Stiles replied after remembering that you were supposed to answer when someone asked you a question.
"I see you've already come to terms with the cane. Has someone told you already that you look really classy with it?" Jordan joked, a handsome smile on his face.
Ugh, why do some people have to be so charming?
Stiles self-consciously looked at the cane, too, and stomped it on his foot by accident. He grimaced and looked away.
After that awkward moment had finally passed, Stiles accepted Jordan's invitation for tea and so they both ended up sitting in the kitchen. Not really what Stiles had expected from his first physical therapy session but he now knew that it had never supposed to be a regular therapy in the first place.
"So, are you even a physical therapist?" Stiles asked conversationally.
Jordan smirked as he was about to take a sip from his own mug. "Not officially. But I'd say that I'm medically educated enough."
"I'm your only patient, then?"
"Consider yourself special."
It probably wasn't wise to share a companionable conversation by a mug of tea with a fraud but Stiles honestly couldn't bring himself to leave. He wanted some answers first.
"Why me?" he asked because it was the most important question.
"I knew what to look for," Jordan answered cryptically. When he noticed that Stiles' lips had become a thin line, displaying his frustration, he smiled. "I know what you are because I've spent my whole life looking for you. Not you, specifically. Not that I was aware of, anyway. It's weird how fate works sometimes. But now I've found you and I can finally fulfill my purpose."
Alarm bells were going off in Stiles' head by then.
"Wait," Jordan said, putting down the mug. "I'm not some stalker. And I'm not a collector or whatever you're assuming right now. Please let me explain." Frustrated, Jordan ran a hand through his short hair. "I didn't mean to come across as creepy. I'm sorry. It's hard for me to keep my excitement in, is all."
Stiles' expression became even more bewildered. He looked like he was seconds away from fleeing the house while screaming loudly for help.
Jordan sighed. "Hell, I'm not making it better, am I? How about I tell you about me first? About what I am. I'm sure I should've lead with that. Yeah, I definitely should have. Uh, how about I answer your question about the ointment first? I'm sure that's why you're even here."
"What are you and what do you want?" Stiles asked warily. He knew better than to trust a supernatural creature he didn't know. Under the table, he was holding his phone in a firm grip, already typing the first few lines for a 'rescue me'- message.
"Essentially, I'm human. There's just one thing that makes me... well, a little different from the rest," Jordan shrugged his shoulders with a slight grimace. "You probably won't believe me but anyway. I'm what most call a "phoenix". Which just means that I can die, but I will be reborn again and look exactly the same, with my memories completely intact as if I was never gone at all."
Not the craziest thing Stiles had ever heard but he still had trouble believing him. What would Jordan gain by lying to him? On the other hand, why would he even tell him the truth?
Stiles hadn't figured the man out, yet. He needed to collect more data.
"Okay," Stiles drawled, trying to take what Jordan had told him at face value. "Do you spontaneously burst into flames? Can you turn into a bird?"
Jordan laughed, his sagging shoulders indicating that he was relieved that Stiles hadn't run away yet. "No. It's not like that. You probably picture me like Fawkes right now. But I'm not literally a phoenix. As you see, I appear to be human. And that's because I am, basically. I just have one feature that makes me different and earned me the name. It's the same with you, isn't it?" At Stiles' confused look, Jordan elaborated. "You're not literally a spark either but you carry them, you create them. And that's why you're called a spark, right? I don't know why no one ever thought of a new name for the likes of us. That would certainly clear all misconceptions."
All his instincts were screaming at Stiles to run now. That man knew who he was and that had never ended well for him or for his mother.
Hastily, Stiles jumped to his feet and took a few steps away from Jordan.
"Wait!" Jordan stood up as well, holding up his hands like he was dealing with a frightened animal. "Please hear me out. I mean no harm. I swear. I don't even have a weapon in reach."
Stiles directed the end of his cane towards Jordan, acting like he had a sword in his hand instead of something made out of wood. Jordan got the hint and stayed where he was.
"How did you know about me?" Stiles' eyes had narrowed in suspicion. Behind his back, he was still holding on to his phone, seconds away from sending the message.
"The scars on your palms - it's the mark of Perun. I would've recognized it anywhere," Jordan explained calmly. "It's called Gromoviti znaci - thunder marks. They are the symbol of Perun. I told you, once you know what to look for, it's obvious."
Stiles gulped. He had come across that name - Perun - before in his research. He also knew about the thunder marks. But he had never found the connection. What did all of it mean?
"So every spark has those marks?" he asked, still not giving up his defensive stance.
"Not usually on their hands. And I've never seen it split, like yours. But yes, they mark you as a son of Perun," Jordan answered evenly.
He definitely had to do more research about this. Later, though, when he wasn't in immediate danger anymore.
"And what has that got to do with you?"
"Have you ever heard the myth about Perun? It says that the world is represented by a sacred tree, with its branches and trunk symbolizing the living world and the roots the underworld or the realm of the dead. Perun - the god of thunder and lightning - was the ruler of the living world and Veles - his enemy - the god of the underworld. But even though Perun had managed to win the war against Veles, they unknowingly shared the same lover - the sun. Because each night the sun was thought to be diving behind the horizon and into the underworld where Veles ruled. There are many versions of this myth, of course. But the one version that I believe in states that the children born from the coupling of Perun and the sun were sent to live in the human world to punish his lover's adultery and were called sparks or Sons and Daughters of Perun. But they were in danger because of their value and worth, so Perun - who himself had a Phoenix for a companion - because he couldn't deny that he still loved his children, gave a few chosen mortals the ability to die and live again and again. They should serve as the ideal protectors for his children because they have more than one life to train for the task."
"That's just a silly story," Stiles hissed. "Don't tell me you think you have to act as my bodyguard now just because of this? Do you even realize how crazy that sounds?"
"I know, I know," Jordan acknowledged. "I sound like a lunatic, don't I? But, Stiles, I was born for the first time in 1969 and died in 1986. But then I was born again and at the age of four the memories of my former life came back to me. I could write, do maths. I knew how to swear. I could tell so many dirty jokes. My parents thought I was a witch or the spawn of satan. And now, I'm in my third life and someone finally explained to me why I am the way I am."
"They could've lied to you," Stiles challenged.
"That's true," Jordan admitted. "I was as sceptic as you when I first heard about it. I thought, 'what the hell, that can't be true!'. But they showed me records of other people like me and other people like you. There are not many examples, but those that exist appeared to be genuinely authentic. But what really made me give this whole thing a shot was the realization that it had perfectly worked for all of them. They had seemed genuinely happy. They were good for each other. I thought I'd give it a try because, hey, sparks are rare and who knew if I'd ever meet one. I wasn't even convinced that they still exist at all."
Unbeknownst to Stiles, his own hand had started to sink, his rigid posture gradually loosening up.
"And now you are?" He still sounded incredulous, though.
Jordan's hands had gone down as well. He shrugged. "I'm willing to take a leap of faith."
Stiles wasn't sure what to make of all this. On the one hand, he found it hard to believe Jordan, let alone go along with this whole idea. On the other hand, he saw no reason why the man would go through all this trouble just to tell him a lie.
"The ointment - where did you get it from? It had unicorn saliva in it which I've heard is extremely rare. But even so, you gave it to me," the teenager said, not without suspicion.
There had to be a reason why Jordan had handed something of that value over to him. Maybe he was expected to pay for it in other ways than with money.
"Its effect is astounding, isn't it? I only wish you could've had the chance to apply it sooner. If you had had access to it right after your injury, you wouldn't be able to tell now that you've ever been injured at all," Jordan shook his head in displeasure, "What's done is done, though."
"So you're saying you gave it to me, just because it would help me?" Stiles summarized, still not convinced of Jordan's credibility.
The phoenix nodded, "I know you don't trust me yet. You'd be crazy if you did." Then he cocked his head slightly to the side. "You should go now. Your dad is already outside, waiting for you."
Right after he had said that Stiles felt his phone vibrate in his hand and a notification popped up on his screen, telling him that he had got a message from his dad.
"How- how did you know? I thought you were human?!" Stiles gripped the cane a little tighter again.
Jordan's lips twisted into a small smile. "I'm not a noob, Stiles. I've spent years preparing. This is my legacy."
Preparing. Since he believed himself to be destined to act as Stiles protector, it wasn't hard to guess how he had prepared himself for the task.
And his training seemed to have been successful, seeing as he had been aware of the exact moment the Sheriff had pulled into the driveway of his little bungalow.
Without saying goodbye, Stiles left the house.