Chapter Text
Stiles stepped off the bus into Beacon Hills, breathed in the wet summer valley air and tried not to feel nervous.
Stiles had been born in Night Vale. He'd barely set foot outside of it his whole life. He'd never been to California, he'd never even met his dad before, and now he was moving here to live with him. Permanently.
It wasn't like this had been supposed to happen. This wasn't some agreement made long ago where his mom had promised to raise him until age 17 and then foist him off on his dad. His mom had made no secret of the fact that Stiles had a father - who still lived in her hometown, where the two of them had originally met - but they had separated before Stiles was even born. In fact, his father didn't even have any idea that Stiles existed.
Before recent events, anyway.
Having an estranged father had never really bothered Stiles growing up because some kids didn't even have fathers. Hell, some kids didn't even have parents. They were harvested from fossils in Radon Canyon or found hovering above previously-empty cribs in the hospital nursery, emitting eerie sounds.
His mother had raised him, moving to Night Vale shortly after discovering her pregnancy and finding work first as a public librarian and later changing careers after Telly the barber mysteriously went missing and a new cosmetologist was needed in town. She never brought home huge paychecks, but Stiles never really wanted for anything in his childhood. They had a nice one-story home near the elementary school, they went to Red Mesa for vacation every summer, she took him to play at the scrublands near the sand wastes and at Mission Grove Park. He was even a boy scout for a few years, before he got into basketball. His mother came to all his games and bought him pizza from Big Rico's afterwards. She even got on the PTA.
And that, Stiles thought, trying not to feel like his heart had been scooped out, had been what killed her. More specifically, the creatures that had come out of the portal through space-time that had ripped open during the meeting.
Night Vale had some strange laws, but he was still too young to legally live on his own. No one in town was deemed fit enough to take him in, so before he knew it he was packing up all of his stuff and getting shoved on a plane. And now, here he was: hundreds of miles away in Beacon Hills, California. Population: plus one Stiles.
Stiles pulled his duffel bags out of the bottom storage level of the bus, and tugged them over to the tiny bus shelter set back from the road. So. This was supposed to be Beacon Hills? It did have hills - certainly more than Night Vale, being so flat - but he didn't see any beacons. No helicopters overhead with search lights, no glow cloud, no nothing. Not even the moon was out to watch the citizens.
Suddenly, as if sensing his thoughts, two headlights pierced the darkness further up the road, a vehicle cresting over a hill. It came straight for him, slowing to a stop next to the bus shelter. Stiles squinted at it, making out a sleek white car with green stripes, a red-and-blue siren on the roof, and 'Beacon County Sheriff' printed along the side. Stiles sucked in a breath, trying to stay calm.
A man in a tan uniform came out of the cruiser, briefly rubbing his temple before he came over to Stiles. "Hey there," he said, smiling a bit stiffly. "I hope you weren't waiting long?"
Stiles shook his head 'no'. Silence fell over them, as he searched for something to say. Honestly, he just felt lost. He had been up for nearly 24 hours, taking buses and planes to make it from Night Vale to here, overwhelmed and overstimulated and somehow tired and wired at the same time. "Are you my dad?" he finally blurted out.
After a pause, the man - his father - nodded. "John Stilinski," he said, holding out his hand for Stiles to shake. "It's... it's nice to finally meet you, son."
Stiles didn't take his hand. Instead, he threw his arms around the man in a quick, but tight, hug. Sure, maybe he'd never met his father before, but he had seen a couple of old pictures, and his mother had always talked about him with a sad little smile on her face, and if his mom had loved him then Stiles was sure he would too. He pulled back, eyes catching on the shiny gold badge on his dad's chest.
"You're the Sheriff?" he asked, voice breaking with awe and surprise. The last his mom had known, his dad had only been applying for law enforcement training.
That drew a stronger smile from his dad, and a chuckle. "Yes, I'm the Sheriff."
"No way."
The Sheriff chuckled again. "Way." He looked over Stiles' shoulder. "Let me help you with your bags."
The duffels went into the trunk. His dad opened the passenger door of the cruiser for him, which Stiles was glad for, because he was afraid opening it himself might trip some sort of wire, or maybe blow darts. He buckled himself in, and the next thing they knew, they were already pulling into the driveway in front of a house. "Whoa, sorry," Stiles mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I didn't mean to doze off."
His father just chuckled. "No, you must be exhausted. Let me show you to your room."
He led Stiles inside, gave him a newly-cut copy of the house key, and Stiles took a deep breath.
Stiles Stilinski, he thought to himself, This is the first night of the rest of your life.
*
Bit by bit, day by day, Stiles began learning to cope. He had somewhat adjusted to his new house, his dad (although it had been a shock finding out that his dad didn't have a secret police force for some reason, and the lack of helicopters flying overhead that first night hadn't just been a fluke), and he had even started learning where some of the buildings in the town were. The post office, the grocery store, the station where his father worked, the public library, city hall, and the local high school.
In Night Vale he used to fall asleep - or pretend to sleep - to the sound of Latinate chanting from the park, mournful flutes from the desert, or to the local radio station. Now he fell asleep with an iPod, some downloaded recordings from a numbers station lulling him into unconsciousness through his earbuds. He got a packet of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets from the 24-hour superstore in town and stuck them up on the ceiling. It wasn't a replacement for the glow cloud or the mysterious lights which absolutely never used to flash through his window blinds at night, but it was a start.
He did feel lonely, despite his dad's best efforts to build a father-son relationship, and his own attempts not to think of his mom too much. He missed his mom. He missed his old friends. He missed his old town. When he was holed up in his room he could almost pretend he was still there, just relaxing and waiting for his mom to come home from work.
His dad seemed to be hoping that starting a new routine and meeting people his age would make him come around. Stiles wasn't so sure. The promise of 'making new friends' in no way made him feel any less anxious about actually starting school. The first day of the new year came waaaay too fast for his liking.
"Nobody likes transfer students," Stiles complained at breakfast that morning, picking at his toast.
In Night Vale the new kids who moved in always complained about how 'weird' it was, how 'strange' and 'creepy.' According to them no real schools taught Modified Sumerian along with French and Spanish, or had an astral projection for an English teacher.
"You'll be just fine," his dad said, looking over a manila folder of paperwork. "You're a great kid, Stiles. I saw your transcripts, you're plenty smart, and you'll be charming everyone at school before you know it." He paused, clearing his throat. "You know, I've been meaning to ask, about those transcripts... "
Stiles' watch beeped, and he cut off a swear. "Sorry Dad, gotta go. I'm supposed to be there by seven-thirty." He jumped up from the table, nearly tripping over one of the rungs on his chair, and grabbed the keys for the beat-up jeep his dad had helped him buy.
He found a really great parking spot next to a Porsche, but even though he was starting to learn that Beacon Hills did things a little differently, he took one further away, near the back of the lot. In Night Vale, you never parked next to shiny black vehicles.
Never.
He had to turn up early to get his course materials, but plenty of other people were already in the building even though it was still thirty minutes before the official day started. Stiles boggled at how good-looking everyone was. How... pristine. There wasn't even a single missing limb. Or extra limb. There were no sores, no pestilence, not even one hollow-eyed stare.
He was getting plenty of stares, but they weren't so much hollow-eyed as they were dismissive. God, he knew it. Nobody liked transfer students, even if you kept your mouth shut about how boring Beacon Hills was.
He found the office, got his timetable and a stack of textbooks from the disturbingly plain secretary, and went to go find his locker. It was tall and narrow with a gray door. It just had a regular twist-lock, no alchemical cipher, and there wasn't even a secret compartment in the back.
His first class of the day was Chemistry, with a Mr. Harris, and he barely found the right classroom before the bell rang. The room was full of two-person tables, and there were still a few open seats. Stiles froze as a whole new room of stares landed on him. Making a snap judgment, he went for an empty spot in the middle of the room. His neighbor at the table had shiny dark-brown hair, tan skin and a winning smile. Stiles smiled back, feeling a bit more confident. If they were going to be lab partners or something, he definitely wanted to work with the young Carlos look-alike.
"Hi," the young Carlos doppelganger said. "I'm Scott."
"Hey. My name's Stiles."
"Are you new?"
He nodded, licking his lips. "Yeah, uh, I just moved here."
"Cool, where from?"
Stiles had just opened his mouth to answer when there was a slamming sound from the front of the room, and everyone went quiet. A thin man, who must have been Mr. Harris, was looking down on them all, leaning threateningly over his desk. "Welcome to Chemistry. You all know my rules. And as for anyone who doesn't - " He curled his lip, looking dead on at Stiles. " - I'm sure you'll learn soon enough. Open your books to page four."
Scott gave him a sympathetic look, and mouthed 'after class' at him before turning away to tug his textbook out of his bag.
Scott pulled him out into the hallway as soon as the bell rang. A few of the other kids in class slapped Scott on the shoulder or thumped him on the back on their way out, including a curly-haired blond guy who glanced at Stiles and then shot Scott a meaningful look as he walked by.
"Sorry about Harris," Scott said. "He can be a real nightmare of a teacher."
"Yeah," Stiles said. He rubbed the back of his neck, then shrugged. "It's fine, I guess. I had a literal nightmare for a teacher at my old school, so."
Scott gave him a commiserating look, then leaned over to look at the stack of books Stiles was carrying, the timetable pinned to the top with his thumb. "Hey, what's your next class?"
"Um. Economics, apparently."
Scott smiled again, his whole face scrunching up. "Hey, me too! Oh man, you've gotta meet Finstock. Come on, I'll show you where it is."
Stiles followed him over to the stairs, glad he had met one cool person in the whole school. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
*
By the time his first week of school was over, Stiles had plans to go over to Scott's house on Saturday night for dinner and video games, and he had pretty much learned all the most important rules for survival at Beacon Hills High:
- 1. Never look directly at Lydia Martin for longer than three seconds.
- 2. Greenberg, like Steve Carlsberg, is to be ignored at all times.
- 3. Avoid Jackson Whittemore and Erica Reyes as much as possible.
- 4. Don't talk about Allison Argent in front of Scott McCall, or vice-versa.
- 5. Definitely do not park next to any shiny black vehicles. In fact, don't even mention them. Especially not the sleek Camaro he saw Isaac Lahey getting into after school on Thursday.
On Saturday night, after Scott thoroughly beat him at Call of Duty, Melissa McCall ordered them all some pizza. She asked Stiles how he liked Beacon Hills, and how was his dad, and how was his dad's police work going. It was a good time, and Scott's mom was really nice, but Stiles inadvertently blundered into discovering a new rule:
- 6. Do not acknowledge the statistically anomalous and brutally violent murders of several Beacon Hills residents over the last two years - the victims of which apparently included half of Allison's family and several former students and school staff members.
...Nobody told him any of this in so many words, of course. But Stiles wasn't stupid. He had perfectly functioning eyes (even if he only had two, not three) and an internet connection, and most importantly, he knew where to look.
It was a little bit awkward trying to follow some of the rules, because Lydia Martin was one of the most perfect of all the perfect students, and while Jackson Whittemore and Erica Reyes were both arrogant and mean and insulted Scott and Stiles on a now regular basis, they still hung around far more than he would have expected from two people who claimed to hate him. Still, there was nothing better than an upbringing in Night Vale to teach you how to accomplish the impossible. Or what the consequences were if you couldn't.
Another disappointment to Stiles was the Beacon Hills basketball team. Specifically, that it didn't exist. They did have a lacrosse team, and Scott talked him to signing up for the try-outs even though he'd never played lacrosse before in his life, but he didn't really expect to make the cut. When he told this to Scott, Scott just gave him a smug smile and told him that he was the team co-captain, so maybe Stiles would end up with a shot in the dark after all.
It couldn't hold a candle to the equally small town of Night Vale, but at least Beacon Hills was slowly becoming less lonely.