Chapter Text
"Stiles, do you need me to hold your hand and take you to the entrance myself?" Noah sighed.
Now, having spent so many years at his father's side (all of them, to be exact), Stiles prided himself on being one of the few talented enough to decipher the seasoned Sheriff's minute facial expressions. Yet, as Stiles assessed his face carefully, he seriously couldn't tell for sure whether his Dad was joking or not.
The Jeep hummed silently where Stiles and the Sheriff were currently parked, just outside of Beacon Hills Elite Boarding School (Beacon for short). Despite the relatively long car ride from Stiles' childhood home to his new school — which usually meant he and his ADHD limbs would be jumping at the opportunity to escape any vehicular transport — Stiles remained planted firmly in his seat. Noah would almost be impressed, if his fatherly concern over Stiles' nervous silence didn't outweigh his awe.
"Son, I know you were really excited to win that scholarship to Beacon, but if you don't want to go, nobody is going to force you," Noah reassured Stiles. "Trust me, kiddo, I'll arrest anyone who tries. We can turn around right now."
In spite of all his nerves, Stiles managed a weak smile at his Dad's words. He really was the best.
"No, no, but thanks for the entertaining image, Dad," Stiles reassured, trying to eliminate the admittedly hilarious picture of his dad arresting the principal. "I'm really pumped to go, don't sweat it... except now that I mention it, I'm actually very much sweating right now — which, to be fair, I'm not sure is nerves or excitement. Actually, on the topic of sweat, there is no way I'm risking smelling bad on my first day. Dad, sniff me. Now. You know, maybe we should actually turn around..."
Noah watched the display calmly — now this was the Stiles he knew.
Noah also knew that if he didn't stop Stiles' muttering spiral, he would eventually talk himself out of something he hadn't stopped talking about . He had absolute certainty that Stiles was more than capable of taking this step in his life. Now Noah just had to push him towards taking that leap.
Ever since Claudia had died, it was as if Stiles had transformed into a responsible young man overnight, learning her old recipes one rather intense YouTube video at a time. From that moment onwards, Noah had wanted Stiles to have the opportunity to express his boundless intelligence somewhere new — somewhere he didn't feel like he was filling a hole left at home, but laying his own bricks.
Or something like that. Noah had vaguely remembered seeing an inspirational quote along those lines pinned to the wall of the station during a late shift.
"Stiles, if you don't leave now, I'll make sure Roscoe has no gas when you get back."
For the second time today, Stiles couldn't tell if his dad was joking, but because he also loved that car more than almost anything, he quickly and eloquently left the Jeep as a precaution, graceful as a swan.
That is, if the swan was drunk, had heavy shoes on, and was actually just an old man dressed in white.
That is to say that Stiles exited the car with a stumble.
But hey, at least the drop-off area was blessedly empty: no witnesses.
Stiles knew starting the school year a couple of days later than everyone else would be weird — hell, it had already felt weird entering Beacon a year after everyone had joined — yet he was briefly grateful that the gravel path was deserted, if only to save him the embarrassment of having his brief, dignified experiment with physics publicised.
"Okay, Stiles," Noah spoke. "You can head on up the path to reception and sign in. They said somewhere in the email that if I left the bags here, they'd be in your room by the time you got there."
Stiles nodded, adjusting the strap of his backpack on instinct despite the fact it was practically empty.
"Right. Cool. Reception. Sign in. Casual, normal things done by casual, normal people who definitely don't throw up from nerves."
"You'll be fine," Noah said gently.
Stiles huffed out a laugh. "I know. It's just—"
Big.
Different.
Terrifying.
Exciting.
"I know," Noah interrupted quietly, like he understood anyway.
For a second, neither of them moved.Then Noah nudged his shoulder. "Go on."
Stiles rolled his eyes dramatically, because emotional moments were illegal in the Stilinski household before noon.
"Fine. But if I hate it, I'm calling you."
"That's literally what phones are for."
"If I get haunted by rich boarding school ghosts, you're driving back."
"Pretty sure ghosts aren't in my jurisdiction."
Stiles snorted, then pointed a finger at him. "Maybe I'm going to help you expand your resume."
Noah smiled — fond, tired and soft around the edges in the way he only got with Stiles.
"Love you, kid."
And yeah, okay, maybe Stiles' chest squeezed a little.
"Love you too."
Then, before he could psyche himself out, he turned and started up the path.
At first, Stiles focused mostly on not tripping. Again. But as he got further up the winding gravel path, his attention slowly lifted. Because holy shit, the school was huge. Like, offensively huge. Who needed this many windows?
The main building towered over him in sprawling stone and ivy, all impossibly tall archways and ancient-looking brick that screamed old money. There were multiple wings branching off from the centre, windows, stretching across levels that frankly felt unnecessary.
Who was Beacon trying to impress? Fucking Hogwarts?
Stiles slowed. No, seriously. This place looked less like a school and more like the setting of a murder mystery where rich teenagers definitely had dark secrets and somebody was probably hidden inside a grandfather clock.
He had gone to public school all his life.
Public school had vending machines that ate dollar bills and ceilings that occasionally leaked. They had Coach, who somehow taught economics, organised lacrosse and (although he couldn't prove it yet), Stiles was pretty sure cut the other teachers' hair.
This place probably had heated floors.
A guy passed him carrying three books and somehow looking annoyingly put together. Stiles immediately hated him just a little. The reception lobby somehow managed to be even more intimidating. The ceilings stretched absurdly high overhead, polished wood gleaming beneath soft lighting. Students crossed through the room with the kind of confidence that suggested they actually knew where they were going — deeply suspicious behaviour, honestly.
A woman behind the desk looked up when Stiles approached.
"Can I help you?"
"Uh— yes. Hopefully?" Stiles offered awkwardly. "I'm Stiles Stilinski. New student. Late arrival. Scholarship kid. Potential future cautionary tale."
Her expression didn't even twitch. Impressive.
"Ah, yes. Mr. Stilinski." She clicked something on her computer. "You'll just need to sign in here." She slid a clipboard over. Stiles blinked. Okay. Clipboard. He could do clipboard. That was normal, no quill and ink or something equally bizarre to deal with.
He signed his name quickly.
The woman nodded.
"Wonderful. Your student guide should be here shortly."
"My student guide?"
Right on cue—
"Dude!"
Stiles turned.
A boy around his age jogged over, dark curls slightly messy and a grin already in place.
"You're Stiles, right?" he asked. "I'm Scott. Scott McCall. I got assigned to show you around."
Stiles stared at him for exactly half a second before pointing.
"Okay, immediate question."
Scott blinked. "Uh... okay?"
"Are you, like, legally required to be this friendly here? Because if so, I need a handbook."
Scott laughed — an easy, genuine sound.
"No, I just figured being the new guy sucks."
"Oh thank God," Stiles sighed dramatically. "A normal person."
"Questionable," Scott said.
Stiles grinned instantly.
Yep.
He liked this one.
Scott picked up one of the welcome packets from reception. "Come on, I'll show you your room first. Then we can do the tour after you've unpacked."
"You're telling me I get a moment to emotionally process before social interaction?"
Scott nodded seriously.
"Exactly."
"I would die for you."
"That's a little intense."
"You'll get used to it."
And weirdly — alarmingly quickly — Scott did.
By the time they reached the staircase, conversation had shifted effortlessly into the comfortable rhythm of people who somehow clicked immediately.
"So you've joined a year later?" Scott asked.
"Yep. Scholarship transfer," Stiles said. "Spent first year at regular school. Which, by the way, had exactly zero fancy stone staircases."
"Yeah, I got a place because my mum is the school nurse here," Scott laughed, "Beacon takes itself pretty seriously."
"That is the politest way anyone has ever said rich people are weird."
Scott opened his mouth to reply, but paused as they walked past a huge set of windows overlooking sprawling fields below.
"Oh, yeah—" Scott gestured outside. "That's the lacrosse field. Really popular sport here."
Stiles glanced over casually and then blinked, because wow.
Not the field. The guy on the field. Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders visible even beneath bulky practice gear. He wasn't even doing anything particularly impressive — just standing there, helmet tucked under one arm while talking to someone — yet somehow he stood out from everyone else.
Annoyingly so.
Like the universe had gone, you know what would be irritating? If this random stranger looked like he belonged in a cologne advert. Stiles narrowed his eyes.
"Who's that?"
Scott followed his gaze.
Down below, one of the players barked something sharp enough that half the team immediately shifted position.
"Oh," Scott said. "That's Derek Hale."
Stiles hummed.
Right. Okay. That tracked. He definitely looked like somebody named Derek. What? It was a weirdly intimidating name.
"Captain of the lacrosse team," Scott added.
Of course he was. Because apparently some people were handcrafted in expensive boarding school laboratories.
Stiles leaned a little closer to the glass.
"Does he always look that..." he paused.
Scott waited.
"...miserable?"
Scott laughed.
"Derek? Yeah, pretty much."
Below them, Derek suddenly went still.
Like—
Actually still.
Stiles frowned.
"Did he just—"
Derek looked up. Directly at them.
Or— No. Directly at him.
And wow. Okay.
Apparently the intimidating thing wasn't just aesthetic. Even from up here, Derek had one of those expressions that somehow managed to feel vaguely judgemental without moving a single muscle. Stiles instinctively straightened.
What? Why was he looking at him like that?
Derek's gaze flicked once — quick, assessing.
Then narrowed slightly.
Like Stiles had somehow personally offended him simply by existing near a window.
Rude.
Extremely rude, actually. Stiles frowned right back. Entirely maturely. He didn't stick out his tongue or anything.
Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blew and Derek broke eye contact first. Then — with what Stiles swore was deliberate timing — he turned away.
Not casually, but what appeared dismissively, making Stiles feel like had failed an exam he didn't know he was taking.
"Oh, absolutely not," Stiles muttered.
Scott blinked.
"What?"
"Nothing," Stiles said quickly. "I just think your lacrosse captain might secretly be a Victorian widower."
Scott laughed again.
Stiles didn't even know the guy and somehow already felt vaguely challenged by Derek.
Which was ridiculous.
He vowed to not think about Derek Hale again. Obviously.
The walk to the dorms continued, eventually leading them down a quieter wing of the school.
The corridor stretched long and neat, identical wooden doors lining either side with little brass number plates fixed beside them, with one at the very of the corridor labeled RA. A few were slightly open, voices drifting out here and there — laughter from one room, music playing faintly from another. So, at least he wasn't being shoved into complete isolation.
Scott stopped outside one of the doors and pushed it open.
"This is you."
Stiles blinked. Wow. Not giant, exactly, but nice. Actually.. really nice.
A single bed sat against the far wall beneath a wide window dressed with curtains that softened the otherwise pale room. Afternoon light spilled across polished wooden floors, catching on a neatly organised desk tucked beside a bookshelf. There was even a stupidly healthy-looking plant sitting in the corner. Stiles narrowed his eyes at it. That thing absolutely had expectations.
His bags had already been stacked neatly beside the wardrobe, and despite how unfamiliar everything was, the room somehow didn't feel cold.
Just...
Quiet.
Like maybe it could become his.
Scott leaned casually against the doorframe. "Dinner's around seven. I'll come get you?" He asked.
Stiles looked over, "You're voluntarily hanging out with me again?"
"You seem fun." Scott shrugged.
Stiles clapped dramatically.
"Correct answer."
Scott laughed.
"Okay, Seven then."
Then he disappeared down the hallway and the room feel quiet.
For the first time it felt all day, it was properly quiet.
Stiles sat carefully on the edge of the bed and the mattress dipped beneath him.
He looked around at the unfamiliar walls, the untouched bags and the suspiciously thriving plant in the corner he was already ninety percent sure he would accidentally kill, sitting and digesting the fact that he was somehow, impossibly, here. At Beacon.