Chapter Text
The lanky teenager stood at the corner of Abraham and Lawrence Streets, a dark blue, hooded sweater pulled up over his head, shielding his face from direct view. It did wonders to conceal the black eye he was sporting too, at least until it was too late for anyone to notice it. A frustrating 36 hours after being released from the McLean Juvenile Detention Centre three hours away, Stiles was back on the street again to do the very thing he’d been thrown in for.
Thirty-six hours ago, he had sat in an uncomfortable orange chair directly in front of a window with the bright sunlight streaming in on him. His right eye was bruised a truly impressive myriad of black and purple– a remnant from the night before– fucking Jackson– and it ached behind his eyeball like brain freeze the longer he was forced to sit in the sun.
“Alright…uh…um…” the CPS worker was looking down at her copy of the paperwork, frowning.
“Stiles,” the teenager supplied, exasperated and absolutely fed up with the day. “Everyone just calls me Stiles.”
“Oh, okay,” she replied, looking incredibly relieved not to have to translate the jumble of letters on the paper into actual syllables. Stiles watched as the brunette service worker shuffled the papers in her hands. She gave off the jumbled professor vibe– kind of cute, not very organized. She looked up, plastered on a smile. Her name tag read ‘Jennifer Blake’.
“Okay Stiles, we’re ready to go,” she announced. “You’ll probably be happy to hear that we’ve found a group home with room for you near Beacon Hills– only an hour and a half away.”
“Yay,” the teen deadpanned, twirling one long finger in the air in mock enthusiasm. The CPS worker didn’t seem to notice it was his middle finger. He had already been given his lecture about the conditions of his release, that he was on probation, and that meant he would be living in a group home, that he would have to enroll in high school again, follow a curfew, quit getting on his knees for strangers. And already Stiles was planning the various ways to violate each and every one of the conditions of his release. He had a three hour car-ride to plan and perfect all the details of his various methods of escape– he’d think of something concrete by the day’s end.
The group home was an unassuming grey-brick house on a quiet court in a middle class suburb. From the outside, it looked like nothing special, like a normal family could have lived there.
“Well, I’m just going to come in with you, make sure you get settled,” Jennifer stated as Stiles undid his seatbelt and got out of the car. She stumbled a bit on her heel as they walked to the door and his hand shot out to grab her elbow, the last thing he needed was someone to accuse him of pushing her. His stores were getting low, he needed to get back out there again, his dad was counting on him.
Stiles played the part of the apathetic teenager well as one of the group home’s social workers showed him around the house, pointing out the bathrooms, kitchen, laundry room, explaining the responsibilities for all of the housemates in keeping the place functional and ‘productive for everyone’.
“And for fun, we even have an X-box,” he said enthusiastically. Stiles couldn’t help but notice that it was enclosed in a plastic box that was bolted to the chipped table it sat on. “We keep the controllers locked in the cabinet just to make sure that everyone gets a chance to play. We’ve had a few incidents were residents have accidentally mistaken them for their own belongings and sold or traded them.” Stiles couldn’t hold back the snort of derision. Maybe getting out would be easier than he thought if all the home’s employees were such gullible schmucks.
Stiles followed the group home employee and the CPS worker up the stairs. He was starting to get antsy. He needed to call Lydia– had promised her the last time he called that as soon as he could, he’d let her know where he was, what his plans were to get back. She may have been keeping an eye on his affairs for him, but it was clear he’d asked her a big favor and at one point, he’d have to do one for her in return.
“… and I guess that brings us to your room,” the group home employee finally announced, opening a door to reveal a room with a bunk bed on the left and a single bed on the right which was occupied by a hulking black teenager, reading a book.
“Boyd, this is your new roommate uh…”
“Stiles,” the teen in the doorway supplied. The dark teen sitting on the bed– Boyd– made no indication that he had heard any of the exchange, save for the briefest glance up and one sentence.
“Top bunk’s taken, you get the bottom.”
“Where is Isaac?” the social worker asked, “I haven’t seen him today.”
Boyd shrugged.
“Well, make yourself at home,” he said to Stiles, “Dinner is at six o’clock– you’re off the hook for duties for the next couple of days, but we’ll fit you in the schedule come Monday or Tuesday.”
“Sure,” Stiles replied, “Sounds good.” He took a few steps into the small room, dumped his backpack on the lower bunk of the bed before following it down. The CPS worker– Jennifer– said some sort of final goodbye, which Stiles barely acknowledged and then the door closed. Boyd said nothing, and Stiles preferred it that way. He had to come up with a game plan.
That game plan ended up involving waking up in the dead of night, sneaking out to window, and immediately finding the seedy area of town, a guy who didn’t care about his black eye, or his general underagedness, and a nice, semi-private place to do business– the public bathrooms at a nearby beach. When Stiles climbed back into the window two hours later, the elusive roommate Isaac still wasn’t there, and Boyd was awake, sitting up in bed in the darkness when Stiles turned around, one leg still hanging out the window. For one, heart-stopping moment, he thought for sure he was going to fall out of the open window behind him, but the sudden smack to the head from the half closed window brought him back to equilibrium and his senses.
“Christ on a cracker, you scared the shit outta me,” he cursed in a whisper.
“No, I covered for you,” Boyd corrected, voice low. “When they did their check, I told them you were in the bathroom, having a moment to yourself– bad night.”
“Thanks man,” Stiles breathed in relief, righting himself and pulling the window shut.
“We’ve all got our secrets,” Boyd replied with a shrug, turned over and went back to sleep. Stiles stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt before going to brush his teeth. Having dick breath was not a good way to keep a secret.
Part B of the plan couldn’t happen until the next day at dinner, but it happened easily enough. Stiles excused himself from the table with a simple mumbled “bathroom” leaving his plate still half full of food– the one good thing about the foster home. He went upstairs and he did go to the bathroom– where he had already stashed his backpack in the linen closet, making his exit out the bathroom window simple, and practically undetectable.
It wasn’t until he settled into a seat near the back of the bus that for the first time in over a day, Stiles let himself start to relax. In Beacon Hills, he knew what was waiting for him, what to expect. Even if it had been a few months since he’d been there. Stiles had kept in touch with his friend Lydia Martin– a housekeeper at the Comfort Plus Motel on the edge of town, who had been there at least as long as Stiles had been turning tricks. She had gone to the same high school as he did, but like him, had dropped out. She never talked about why. No matter what her back story was, it didn’t matter. He trusted her, she’d been the one to keep an eye on his affairs when he’d been in stuck in juvie. She was his one phone call, the emergency number he put on forms simply because he had nobody else that was capable of helping him, and therefore, she would have to be the first stop he made when he got back into Beacon Hills. He’d left her a voicemail telling her he was on a bus and could only hope she’d got it.
The bus ride was smooth and relatively uninterrupted, stopping only once along the way before pulling into Beacon Hills’ bus terminal. Stiles woke from the light doze he’d fallen into, the rough upholstery of the back of the seat, rubbing warmly across his cheek as the bus pulled to a jerky stop.
“Last stop. Beacon Hills bus terminal. Please exit the vehicle. Do not forget any luggage stored in the overhead compartment. This bus will not return to the departure point,” the fuzzy voice of the driver sounded over the static of the PA. Stiles stretched, groaning softly at the relief in his muscles as his legs and arms spread out into the space around him. He stooped to grab his backpack up from the floor between his feet before pulling the hood of his sweater back over his head. Sticking to the plan.
The driver was watching the passengers as they left the bus and as Stiles approached, he noticed the aging man wince as he noticed the teen’s bruised face. The steep steps down to the ground jarred Stiles’ stiff limbs until he hit the pavement. His eyes scanned the platform for the beat up telephone booth that he knew was there. When he shoved his way past the graffiti-mangled doors, he discovered that the telephone book was a completely mangled mess that would better serve as toilet paper. Good thing he knew the number by heart.
The five stuck when Stiles’ finger pressed down on it but the call seemed to go through anyway.
“Hello?” Lydia’s voice was clear as a bell on the other end.
“Hey Lyds, I’m back in Beacon Hills,” the teenager greeted. There was a snort on the other end.
“Took ya long enough.”
“I got out…” the teen glanced down at his wristwatch, “30 hours ago and they sent me straight to a group home. No, escorted me straight to a group home. I had to escape adult supervision once to go out and get money for the bus and again to actually get on said bus. I think you can give me a break.”
“So where are you then?” Stiles could practically picture the red head’s lips– soft and plush, probably painted that coral-pinky colour she preferred, close to the receiver, snapping into the phone.
“The bus station, you want me to meet you at the motel?”
“No, I can come get you, I need to get the Jeep back to you anyway,” Lydia replied with a sigh. “I’m sure my boss will be happy to see that monstrosity disappear from the lot.”
“Why’d you have it there?”
“Pfft, a couple of months ago I got a ticket for leaving it parked at the preserve like you told me to do. Guess if there is nobody sleeping in it they don’t allow overnight parking,” she jabbed.
Stiles groaned, pinching the space at the bridge of his nose.
“How much is the ticket for?” He mentally tabulated what was in his account. It was getting dangerously low thanks to the extra time he’d had tacked onto his sentence for fighting. He had to get back to work again. His dad was counting on him and he didn’t even have enough for this month’s bills. He could feel the choking knot rise in his throat– an oncoming panic attack.
“I paid it, don’t worry about it,” Lydia replied tersely, “It was my fault anyway.”
“Lydia…” Stiles began to protest.
“Zip it,” she snapped. The usual sass. “I’m just going to put something a bit more appropriate on. Be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Or you could just come now. I’m sure nobody will mind what you’re wearing, least of all me,” Stiles flirted shamelessly. He knew it would never happen anyway. But he’d spent the last 6 months pretty much celibate, he at least deserved the right to dream big once in awhile.
“See you in thirty minutes,” Lydia replied brightly before hanging up.
“Shit,” Stiles cursed but the word was broken up with a laugh. He cradled the receiver before stepping out of the booth. There was absolutely no way of knowing if Lydia was serious or not. He was just going to have to wait it out.
Stiles glanced up and down the platform. It was late and the bus depot was closed until morning. He’d taken the last bus in apparently. The handful of people who had been on the bus had scattered to the far reaches of the parking lot and beyond. Under the light of one of the parking lot lamps, Stiles watched a couple embrace. The guy looked tired, judging by his sloped shoulders. The couple got into the car together, the distance sounds of their chatter indistinguishable from where Stiles stood against the brick wall of the station. A cab pulled up and picked up the last remaining bus passenger from the end of the platform, then, all was silent.
Stiles needlessly glanced down at his watch again. Going to the hospital was going to have to wait, at least until tomorrow, as unbearable as that was. The only thing that had kept Stiles in line the last few months was the knowledge that his dad needed him. He didn’t have a choice but to keep his head down and do what needed to be done. It was a fine balance. He was never going back there. To do so would be the end of him, the end of his dad.
He had been on the verge of getting out of all of this. He’d had enough saved to be able to take enough time to figure something out, get a real job, do something. Then he’d gotten picked up by a cop and his life had gone to utter shit for months. If it hadn’t been for Lydia… he didn’t want to think about what would have happened. And now, now he was right back at the start. He was right back where his scared, fifteen-year-old self had been almost two years ago. Now though, he knew the way of the world; that just as you thought you could see down the other side of the mountain, someone was waiting to kick you back down again and you had to be ready to kick them back.
A sleek, black sedan pulled into the parking lot, just shy of being in full illumination of one of the lot’s lights. It idled there for a few minutes and Stiles stared. He vaguely recognized the car, and it didn’t set off any warning bells, so he didn’t bother moving from his place on the bench. That is, until the window of the driver’s door rolled down a few inches, and a hand emerged, beckoning him over. Stiles was well-versed in that signal. He glanced down at his watch– 25 minutes at most until Lydia got there. He sighed and stood up, stuffing his hands into his pockets. There was probably time.
The shuffle across the parking lot made his stomach churn just slightly. For some reason it felt like his first time all over again. The weight in his stomach got heavier and heavier as he approached the car. A luxury model, though subtle, not a showy sign of affluence. The window rolled down a bit further as the teen approached. Inside, the car was shadowy but for the bright white glow of the instrument panel.
“Open for business?” the voice inside the car asked. Stiles felt the tension leave his muscles. He nodded, the window rolled down the rest of the way, revealing the familiar face of Alan, one of his previously semi-regular clients.
“Yeah,” Stiles replied softly. Alan’s head bobbed slightly to the side– a gesture to the passenger side door. He frowned.
“What happened to your face?”
“Lover’s quarrel,” Stiles snarked, before ducking around the back of the car.
“My friend is picking me up in 20 minutes– if you think that’s enough time, than I’m more than happy to be of service,” Stiles said conversationally as he slid into the passenger seat, the smooth leather making his movements appear smoother than they actually were. “Otherwise, we can meet up later if you want.”
Crisp bills, placed by smooth, dark fingers on the dashboard, in the exact amount as many times before, gave him the only answer he needed.
“You can not be serious.”
Stiles stepped out of the car, reached down and pulled his backpack out after him. Alan mouthed a goodbye and Stiles gave him a quick, three finger salute before turning around to face Lydia. Her diminutive form stood dwarfed even more extremely next to his faded Jeep, partially obscured by the black sedan between them. Stiles glanced down at his watch as the black car slowly pulled away. Figures she was five minutes early.
As usual, Lydia looked impeccable. She would have looked impeccable in a bathrobe and worn out bunny slippers with curlers in her hair, but that wasn’t her style. Instead she stood in blue jeans, a vivid green top and gold flip-flops, her full lips painted the signature coral she always wore. Stiles trudged the paces between them, reaching into his pocket and pulled out two of the bills from his pocket. When he reached Lydia’s hand he reached down and stuffed the paper into her lose fist.
“For the parking ticket,” he muttered. “Now where are my keys?”
Lydia stared down at the bills in her hand for a moment before huffing out a breath.
“In the ignition,” she replied. Stiles reached forward and opened the passenger door.
“Thank you,” he replied with a finality that said ‘we’re not going to talk about what just happened’. The Jeep roared to life when he twisted the keys.
“We’re going to Ruby’s before you go off to live in the woods like a crazy hobo again,” the red-head announced as she reached across herself and buckled in. Stiles felt the violent urge to bash his head against the steering wheel, but he held back, figuring one black eye was going to be enough to deter enough potential clientele until it healed.
“Fine, but you’re buying me curly fries,” he replied before taking off towards the exit.
Lydia put her feet up on the dash as they drove.
“Nice shoes,” Stiles quipped. He was used to seeing her tiny feet in no less than three inch heels.
“You try driving this beast in heels and tell me how that goes,” Lydia snapped back. Stiles smirked at the image of his hairy legs stuffed into Jimmy Choos.
“Thanks Lyd,” he replied somberly, “For everything.” She gave a quick nod of acknowledgement.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened to your face any time soon?” she asked. Straight to the point. Typical Lydia.
“Your lovely ex.”
Lydia pursed her lips.
Jackson was a shithead rich kid who had landed himself in juvie for his third drinking and driving charge in less than a year. Finally his parents hadn’t been able to buy him out of serving time and he’d ended up in the same multi- security facility as Stiles. Just his fucking luck, considering Stiles had been the one to give him the mirror image of the same shiner a year ago when Jackson had grabbed Lydia a little too harshly after they had broken up and made some pretty despicable comments about being done ‘slumming it’ for the time being. Yeah, Stiles had snapped.
“Why?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
Of course, Stiles knew exactly why Jackson had done it. He didn’t want to be the bottom of the food chain. Stiles had been the one rung in the ladder between him and some of the correctional facility’s more seasoned offenders and Jackson knew it. Hell, Jackson had exploited that for all it was worth for the past seven months, using Stiles as the ultimate bargaining chip. So when, in desperation, he’d suckered Stiles in the shower three days before his release to provoke him, Stiles hadn’t hit back. He’d simply taken the punch and staggered from the room with a bloody nose and aching eye socket.
The gravel crunched under the Jeep’s tires as Stiles pulled into the all night diner’s parking lot. He killed the ignition and opened his door, lanky form pouring clumsily from the vehicle into the yellow light of the diner’s sign. He hadn’t hard curly fries for months. Lydia cleared her throat from the passenger seat and Stiles was reminded that, now that he was back in town, Lydia’s days of going it alone were over. She was a lady and as long as she had someone around to treat her as such, she was going to use that to her advantage. He couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling she had once been well-off. He didn’t ask questions, but little things tipped him off; the way she ate, small little debutante sized bites, her perfect posture… and her propensity of waiting for him to open doors wherever they went. Stiles scrambled around the back of the Jeep, yanked open the passenger door.
“M’lady,” he smirked, bowing slightly. Lydia slid from the passenger seat, using Stiles shoulder to help ease her path down to the ground.
“Thanks,” she replied, when she smoothly landed on her feet, her smirk pulling in on her cheek to create the adorable dimples that had first caught Stiles’ attention. He couldn’t help himself, he swept down and kissed the tiny dent on her smooth skin.
“I do believe you owe me some curly fries.”
“Oh my gawd,” Stiles groaned, rubbing his stomach appreciatively.
“Are ya’ done?” Lydia replied from across the table, sounding completely bored. She toyed with the straw in her half-finished milkshake.
“Okay, okay, I’ll shut up,” he replied. “Down to business.”
“Good,” the redhead replied. She reached down to the plush bench of the booth and rifled through her purse, emerging with two envelopes, which she set on the table, careful to avoid the wreckage of napkins and damp drink rings littering the Formica’s surface. The tapped the first envelope.
“Your bank statements by month. I only put money in when it had to be there.” One perfectly polished fingernail pushed the envelope aside to better reveal the second. Lydia’s voice softened. “And receipts, from the hospital, proving that the account is up-to-date.”
“You’re a good friend,” Stiles replied, eyes tearing up despite himself. He mashed the back of one hand into his eyes.
“I know,” Lydia retorted, her voice fond. Both teenagers picked at their food for a few moments in silence.
“So what now?” Lydia asked. Stiles sniffed.
“You couldn’t guess?” he replied. “Back to the regularly scheduled program, until I can figure out something else.”
Abraham and Lawrence streets met at their respective corners with an abandoned grocery store at one corner and a semi-functioning gas station at the other. The area of town was a product of development gone wrong. When a factory that was supposed to employ hundreds of people failed to get off the ground three towns over, the west end of Beacon Hills just kind of… stopped happening. The grocery store was boarded up and left there, the only sign of what it was ever meant to be, the cart corals in the parking lot. The sign hadn’t even been put up yet though the colours gave away what chain it was supposed to have been. Across from the lot to the south end of Lawrence was a bus shelter. Originally there had been a route planned to connect the outlying areas to the city’s centre, and just like everything else, that project had hit the bricks too. Now it was the area of town where the men could pay for some play with their choice of plaything.
Stiles sat inside the bus shelter. Danny had just taken off in a sedate looking Buick and probably wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours. It had been a quick reunion, and Stiles’ friend had quickly welcomed him back by moving over a seat in the bus shelter– giving back first dibs. Stiles had been in this spot the longest, Danny second and with Stiles back he willingly handed back the crown of the King of Rent Boys. Now Stiles sat alone, fiddling with the wearing sleeve on his hoodie, waiting. His Jeep was parked several blocks away towards the back of a movie theatre parking lot for safe keeping. Leaving it in the supermarket parking lot would be begging for it to be towed at the least– a giant advertisement for cops to come pick him up at worst.
Stiles could practically feel the presence of the five or so other young men who loitered in the parking lot behind the bus shelter. They watched him. Some of them knew him, some didn’t. The ones who didn’t had dared to try and enter the shelter while Danny was there, only to be given a pointed look by the Hawaiian looker before scurrying back to their posts in other, less desirable areas of the block. Stiles didn’t know what was making them stay back now, he only hoped it would stay that way. He needed the business.
A dark brown Taurus pulled up alongside the curb on the other side of the street. Stiles bristled. A cop. A cop in an “unmarked” car. The teen glanced over his shoulder. Surely to god one of these kids knew enough to either stay right the hell where he was, or take off. Stiles sagged against the bus shelter in relief when nobody seemed to approach the car. He knew he could handle a cop. He was good at using the whole ‘meeting a friend’ excuse to great effect and, when he needed to, he would make a big fuss about calling Lydia and get a hold of her on her cellphone and use the code phrase they had so that inevitably, when the officer asked to speak with her, she knew exactly what to say.
A streak of electric blue caught Stiles’ attention just over his right shoulder and before he could say or do something, some stupid teenaged twit in electric blue hot pants had already crossed the street. Never mind that he was violating the unspoken rule that seniority ruled. Stiles felt the urge both to snort in derision, but also flinch with knowledge of what was about to happen. He watched the teen lean over the car– lean, tanned, unbruised legs – he had to be either a recent run away or a middle class kid with a mommy and daddy who would inevitably be there to bail him out.
“Amateur,” Stiles chose to mutter under his breath before getting up off the bench in the bus shelter and beginning to walk away, the cop successfully distracted. Though it was disgusting, he was going to have to hit up the bar and club district downtown and spend the night on his knees in an alleyway instead of in the relative comfort of a car or motel room. As he walked, he could just hear the kid in the blue shorts begging whatever officer had picked him up to have mercy on him.
Not bloody likely.
Stiles’ dad had been the Sheriff at the time of his accident– no incident was a better word. “The incident”, as in the incident where just about every person in the police station, holding cells included, was massacred and left like a trail of bloody breadcrumbs throughout the police station. There had been three survivors that night– two policemen out responding to a missing persons call, and the Sheriff. He’d been found back in the holding cell area, apparently trying to free the trapped drunks when he’d been attacked. But it wasn’t a normal attack, because where everyone else had been torn to a bloody mess, the Sheriff had been left with a single scratch on the back of his neck.
In one night, Stiles had lost everything. The same night of the massacre at the police station, Stiles’ best friend Scott, had gone missing. In fact, Scott being gone, was the one thing that had saved the other two officers’ lives. It had been Melissa McCall’s frantic phone call about her missing son that had sent the two officers out of the station that night.
From there, everything was a complete blur for several months. Stiles really couldn’t blame Ms. McCall when she went off the rails a bit, selling her house so that she could spend her days trying to find her son, which of course, left Stiles utterly alone. The Sheriff was put in hospital and the doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. He was on and off of life support so many times Stiles lost count. Then came the bureaucratic bullshit; what the insurance would cover, what it wouldn’t. Talks of pulling the plug on life support. Talk of moving the Sheriff to a special home so that he could live out the rest of his days in comfort. And no talk, ever, of him getting better. Then came the question of what to do with Stiles. But as usual, everyone was already several paces behind the teenager, he’d already thought ahead, emancipating himself before he could be put into the foster system. So that he could make the legal decisions regarding his dad. In the end, he found out that money talked, and as long as someone was paying the hospital bills, nobody really cared.
Now the Sheriff’s department was full of strangers Stiles didn’t know, hadn’t grown up with, and therefore they couldn’t care less what he did or who he was, which meant doing what he was doing was dangerous in ways it would never have been before. He was both grateful and terrified of that fact.
When Stiles reached the alley between Jungle and the misplaced bowling alley next door, he shook out his hands before taking a few steps into the darkness.
“Welcome home,” he muttered as his senses were immediately assailed with the smell of damp pavement and sex, the muffled vocals of men in the throes of passion and the dark, and suffocating dark closeness of the alley.