Chapter Text
Redding, California
A sixteen-year-old boy paced around his room, dark hair a mess. His heart was pounding and his breath was coming in pants. A voice in his head told him he should get his breathing under control, but his dad was late getting home from patrol, which might have meant he stopped for coffee or…
The boy shook his head to clear his thoughts. He would dismiss this on any other time, but there was this feeling in his gut something terrible happened.
The doorbell rang. The boy’s heart sank. His dad never rang the doorbell. Not once. Ever. But perhaps he forgot his keys, maybe it was Melissa coming by to drop off a casserole…
It rang again. Bare feet padded over to the door. A police officer stood there, not the boy’s father, no, this one had a grim expression and his cap in his hands.
“Is this the Stilinski residence?”
“Yeah, you’ve been here for dinner. What do you want?” He spat out. He had no time for pleasantries, he needed to find out what happened to his father.
“Kid, I’m sorry, but there was an accident, your father… he didn’t make it. It started as a routine inspection…”
The boy had stopped listening. His chest hurt and he couldn’t breathe, oh god he couldn’t breathe and his father would never breathe again. Jesus, he thought he was having a heart attack, but the small logical part of his brain that was still working in this crisis knew better
Stiles was having a panic attack.
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Beacon Hills, California
As he drove, Stiles thought he saw people pointed out his car to each other. Not to say, “Wow I want a car like that!” But rather, “Oh my God, is that duct tape?”
He realized his car wasn’t in peak condition, but the day he gave up on this car was the day he died.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he reached his destination. It was what rich people called a “modest house.” It had two stories with a large front yard, three shiny cars parked in the driveway, and something that looked like a greenhouse in the back. They even had a gardener, who seemed to plant a new tree. Stiles could tell what kind of people lived here. They were rich, most likely white because most rich folk are. Stiles knew they had a son for sure, from what the social worker told him. The kid had disciplinary issues because they spoiled him. What did the social worker call him again? Jackson. Jackson Whittemore.
His social worker rapped on the door, startling Stiles out of his theorizing. The social worker motioned for Stiles to get out of the car. He was a short, thin man with a face like a ferret and a complexion like vanilla pudding. His mom taught him it was wrong to think things like that, but he couldn’t help it. The description was too accurate.
The social worker, ever impatient, opened the door for Stiles, who unbuckled his seatbelt.
“Come on, the Whittemore’s are waiting.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
The walk to front of the house seemed much shorter than Stiles would have liked. Before he knew it, the social had rung the doorbell- a sound that still made Stiles cringe- and he was meeting his brand new foster family. He was so excited.
Note the sarcasm there.
“Ah you must be, um, excuse me but I’m not sure how to pronounce your name,” A lady with makeup caked on her face said with a shrill of laughter that hurt Stiles’s ears.
“Just call me Stiles. It’s nice to meet you.” That was a lie. He hated this woman the moment he saw her and her fake smile.
“Well, Stiles, it will be pleasure fostering you. Please, make yourself comfortable inside. Jackson will show you your room while we discuss details with Mr. Carson.”
Oh, so that was his social worker’s name. In his head, Stiles’s just referred to him as The Pudding Man.
Forcing a smile, Stiles thanked them and went into the house, his eyes scanning everything. The first thing he noticed were the pictures. On every wall hung a picture of their son, Jackson. Sometimes the parents appeared as well, but not always. Most of the pictures were of Jackson in his lacrosse uniform, acting like his parents paying attention to him was a pain. Stiles had forgotten how popular lacrosse was in Beacon Hills. Even as a kid, he heard people discussing which high school team would win. In Redding, basketball was popular, but Stiles never cared.
“You that foster kid?” A voice called out once again shaking Stiles out of his thoughts. He seemed to get lost in his own head a lot.
“Um, yeah, I’m Stiles.”
“Don’t care. Your room is upstairs, last door on the left. The bathroom is the second to last on the right. Try not to bother me and we should get along fine.”
Stiles nodded, making a mental note that if he ever had a son, he would never name him Jackson.
As he walked up the stairs, Stiles noticed something else about the house. It was devoid of mess. There was no dust on the frames, there were no stray socks in the hallways, even the windows were spotless. Maid service, Stiles thought to himself. Mrs. Whittemore looked like a working woman who didn’t have time for that, so that was the most likely answer.
The last door on the left was bare and white, just like every other door in the house. When he opened it, Stiles saw exactly what he expected. An average-sized room with a twin-sized bed in the corner. A nightstand, a small bookshelf, and a dresser also decorated the room, but besides that, it was empty. Not only of furniture but of personality. It made Stiles a little sad, to see such a bare room. He would try to give it some life, but he wasn’t sure he’d be around long enough to do that. He could try though. Putting on his headphones, Stiles got to work on giving the room a soul.
Half an hour later, Stiles had unpacked everything he had taken with him. His pillow, his clothes, an old photo featuring him, his dad, and his mom, and a few knickknacks. His music drowned out the other sounds of the world, so when a hand tapped his shoulder, he jumped half a foot. As he pulled his headphones out, he realized Mrs. Whittemore was the one who tapped his shoulder. She hadn’t noticed that he couldn’t hear her because she was halfway through a sentence.
“-and I know you got here only a few moments ago, but we go to a family dinner on Sundays. You don’t mind, do you?” Her fake smile was still pasted on and she batted her clumpy eyelashes.
“No, I don’t mind,” He told her, though he minded. He would like to get rest since he had to start at Beacon Hills High tomorrow, but he guessed that if they attempted to reach out-
“Great! There’s stuff to make sandwiches in the fridge and we should be home in a couple hours!” Ouch. Stiles should have seen that coming.
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There wasn’t stuff to make sandwiches in the fridge. The Whittemore’s fridge was void of anything that could be edible by itself, except for a few carrots. Stiles sighed, closing the refrigerator door and grabbing his keys from his pocket. He’d need to find somewhere to drive through or something. He was halfway to the door when it opened. A girl with strawberry blonde hair wearing a floral print dress with one of those knitted open sweater things over it. Stiles wasn’t sure what they called it. He also wasn’t sure what this girl was doing here. The girl was too young to be the maid. She might have been Jackson’s girlfriend, but wouldn’t he have told her he was going out? The strawberry blonde wasn’t a burglar as she was holding a key to the house. Maybe a neglected second child? Oh, and she was screaming now, so Stiles should address that.
“Who are you?” He asked, not knowing what to say when an attractive woman screamed her head off at the sight of you.
“Who am I?! Who are you?! What are you doing in Jackson’s house?” She asked. She mentioned Jackson, so she must be a girlfriend or friend.
“His family is fostering me for a little while. Jackson didn’t tell you?”
The girl huffed. “He probably meant to, just forgot.”
“Um, right? Why do you have a key?”
“Because I’m Jackson’s best friend, that’s why,” She told him, looking bitter. He had a feeling she wanted to be more than friends.
“All right, well I’ll leave you to whatever you’re here to do,” Stiles said, walking past her to the front porch. She followed him, angry.
“You’re just going to leave a stranger in your house? What if I was a robber?!”
“Burglar. Or thief.”
“What?” She asked, not expecting this answer.
“Robbery requires force or coercion. A burglar is someone who enters a building intending to commit a crime. A thief is just someone who takes something that isn’t theirs,” Stiles explained, recalling what his dad had taught him.
“Well, how do you know I’m not one of those?” She crossed her arms over her chest while he tried to not roll his eyes.
“You have a key.”
“I could have made a copy.”
“If you made a copy, that means you’ve been planning this for a long time, staking out the area. You would’ve known I was here. Plus, a good thief wouldn’t wear such tall heels because they’d know they might have to run.”
The girl seemed to consider this for a moment. “Touche. All right so I’m not a thief, but I still want to know where Jackson is.”
“He’s at dinner with his parents,” He explained, “And speaking of dinner, I need to find a half decent place to eat, so if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, sorry to keep you here, then. There’s a good restaurant called Alfonsi’s. Best Italian food for miles. You should be able to find directions on your phone,” She suggested helpfully, a smile on her face. And not a fake one, like Mrs. Whittemore’s. This one was real.
“Thanks,” he said with a halfhearted grin. Maybe Beacon Hills wouldn’t be so bad.