Chapter Text
His babcia Hieronim smiled at him as he came down the stairs today...well, actually, he tripped rather than tumbled so he assumed that was progress. She clapped and smiled at him warmly. Not that she didn’t smile at him every morning or every time she saw him, but today was a little special. He'd been here in Poland with her for three years... well most of three years--well, some of three years if he was honest... more like about 10% of the three years and that was being kind about it. She and his Uncle Ivan did deport his ass to a were-dragon tribe and a few other clans, tribes, packs, etc. to learn about their special brand of magic after the first month of being there. He'd done a lot of learning, a lot of ducking, and a whole lot of flying. He'd liked the flying the best and learning things that had probably been outlawed in Magic Academies for centuries had been more than worth skipping the barrage of applications he would have had to fill out. Not to mention the uniforms, the sneering, the popularity contests, the magical stupidity and the complete lack of peace and quiet that would have come with an Academy... No, he would never regret not even attempting to enroll the way his mother had, especially since it had been a kick in the counsel's teeth and apparently being pissed off with the Counsel was a family tradition. It had probably paid more homage to his late mother's memory than going to her alma mater. The day he sent off his rejection letter, he was sure he'd heard her laughing with glee at the look he imagined the Council members gave his letter.
They had been priceless and they still were. He wasn’t sure what had made him happier, sending the letter or all the follow-up letters he still receives and keeps as a very nice collection of in-case-of-emergency toilet paper.
Bastards should have seen it coming after what they'd done to him... after what they hadn't done for him. They should have been glad he even gave them a response of any kind that wasn't of the magical “fuck you” sort.
After that which-would-be-thrown-under-a-rug-and-never-spoken-of-again-along-with-Stiles, he'd been angry and hurt and so full of residual chaos magic that he would have gladly strode through all the barriers around the Beacon Hills Nemeton, flimsy as they were, crucified himself on it roots and bled out to the sound of the end of existence as they knew it. He was sure there were plenty of things trapped besides the demon that had ruined his life and plenty more that would be drawn towards the beacon in the future. Needless to say, it was probably better for everyone involved that he'd wrote to his Babcia for an escape. Topped with food and an extensive visit with his mother's family, it was enough to do his soul good and to aid in his mental recovery.
When he’d come to Poland, he hadn’t even recognized himself in the mirror, let alone when he woke up. Everything had felt so surreal that there were days he’d walked outside in hardly any clothing just to be sure that he was somewhere on the physical plane and not some formless spirit of chaos or chance. His babcia had not been happy with him about it and had always come out to wrap him up in something that was warm, smelled like a fireplace and shoved a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. They never talked about it though. Hieronims weren't terribly receptive to therapy in the traditional sense making the natural Wiccan resistance even stronger. They were one of the oldest bloodlines, the strongest and one of the five that had survived the centuries of persecution and poaching since Merlin died....They also happened to be direct descendants, so most of the supernatural community knew, at the very least, that no one knew more about Wiccan suffering than a Hieronim.
Despite all that, and maybe because his father never considered Stiles to be a Hieronim, he'd spent most of his junior year in a psych ward for supernaturals, the Eichen House to be specific, until the explosions, until the kidnapping. Until the sword and fire, the chaos reign and the woods that screamed his mother's lullabies along with her dying words. How they'd known them was beyond him as it had taken months to even find out where she died in all the chaos after the raising of the barrier. Beacon Hills had immortalized her likeness along with Talia Hale's in the territory museum and she'd become little more than a myth. But people remembered Claudia Stilinski's death like old newspaper obituaries: vague, sweeping details and a stale, inked sense of loss and pity for the Sheriff who was now the sole parent to a stupid kid with a magical disorder...Strange as it was...no one ever thought they were the same person.
It had been one of the first things he'd thought about when he'd woken up in the ICU of the hospital in May. It had been the day before graduation. Scott and his father looked at him the same way he'd gone to sleep months before: in 5 point magical restraints and the vaguest recollection that he'd been made to do something terrible. He had only asked if it was all over then.
“Yeah,” Scott gasped. “It’s over…”
Scott hadn’t gone to walk across the stage, neither had Kira. His father sat at his bedside, silent and gripping his hand. They weren’t crying, but the tears hung in the air, salty and invisible. It had made him sick.
The only redeeming factor of the whole ordeal was that his babcia loved having him around, being able to see him and worry about him directly. Having him to help around the house, to go on missions with her... it had been like having Claudia back for a little while. He wasn't sure the sentiment warmed or burned him more. He would never be as great as Claudia Hieronim had been, but he always thanked her for the comparison. Being in his mother's childhood home had let him see all the ghosts of his mother's life before America. It had felt like he was learning about her in all the ways that no one, no matter how many trips to the museum they took, would know her...He spent a lot of time following his mother's five year old self wandering the area around the Hieronim estate. Her older selves were always in town getting into trouble, casting spells, helping people in need.
It was time now, though. He'd done all he could on this side of the world, learned and healed all he could. Not to mention that three years was a long time for his father to survive on the little cooking guidance Stiles had been able to impart to him before leaving. It was even longer for his Pixie best friend to be left alone in Beacon Hills without Stiles' strong but spastic--borderline psychotic-- guidance to get him through the hard times and to help him pull his latest prank.
Today was his last day in Poland. He was going home.
"Tell your father that he'd better take good care of you or he'll have me to contend with," she'd said. "And if that Council doesn't get its head out of its ass, they'll have to deal with all of us."
He snorted, "No one puts Baby in a corner?"
She nodded, "Especially not Claudia's baby... you look more and more like her every day."
He only smiled. She’d said that nearly every day he was there with that same proud misty expression. It always made his eyes burn. At least when she said it, she meant it in the most loving way possible… When his uncles mentioned their baby sister, it was always to make fun of him. They’d learned quickly that her physical features were only the tip of what else he’d inherited from her: her temper, her wit, and of course her penchant for revenge. At every hex, they laughed that misty-eyed laugh and did their best not to look hurt.
He looked just like her, acted like her, sometimes he even sounded like her... but Stiles was Stiles and Claudia was never coming back...There was no resurrection spell that could give solid form to a spirit of the air.
Thanks, he thought at his babcia and about his uncle's remarks. Red-blooded, still a virgin, teenage boy Stiles always wanted to look like the dark eyed angel that had been Claudia Hieronim. He knew it would have been world's easier if he was just a girl, but they hadn't made a spell for that and he rather liked the easily accessible fuck toy between his legs. Stiles' dexterity was only applicable to two things after all: spell casting and video games. He was pretty sure that tampons or rummaging around inside himself for a hard to reach, are you sure it exists? spot, for just a bit of mental clarity from the storm of magic and hormones in his system would have ended his life long before anything else could. He sighed, he'd accepted it. His high school years of wearing the buzz cut and trying to harden his baby face had been wasted... a lot of things had been wasted really. It had taken him at least a year in Poland, freezing his ass off, to figure that out.
For one, his mother had worn a buzz cut for a very long time and her hair, as long as he remembered it, was always shorter than shoulder length. His short hair cuts hadn't helped his manly look at all, but of course there were other things... Like he hadn't eaten nearly enough curly fries in high school because he was sure that they would be a staple in his life--obviously nearly a year in the Eichen house cleared that misconception up and if not three years without them had definitely done the trick.
For three, Lydia would have never talked to him even if he went right up to her and kissed her, it wouldn't have happened. As brilliant as she was, she hadn't realized how stupid she was... or how wrapped up in her appearance to realize how brilliant she could be. He secretly bet that was part of the reason that he'd believed he'd liked her so much: they were peas in a pod.
And fourth, but definitely not last, it had been his own desperate need to be wanted, his inferiority complex, and fear of rejection that kept him at the back of the class though at the top. That made the counsel throw him away without even looking into his records and have to back pedal so fast that their heads spun--because yes Stiles Stilinski wasn't his real name. Those things had also kept Scott as his only friend and made him a perfect target for possession of a Nogitsune. A perfect nest of chaos and despair...
He blew out and breath at that realization. That one had been the first to punch him in the gut honestly and it had made him run all the way to Poland to try and escape it. But again, three years is a long time. And three years of bouncing around Europe in between tribes, gangs, mobs, packs and clans to learn and commune with the magical world had given him a fuck ton of time to reflect and a whole lot more to grow up.
He wondered if Scott had done the same, if Lydia had finally married that dickhead Jackson, if maybe even Jackson had pulled the stick out of his ass... If maybe everyone had forgotten. He hadn't checked the news and promised himself that he wouldn't. It was better to just breathe and bid his family goodbye before catching the 6 am magic rail into town and heading towards the portal.
He smiled at the man manning the booth, who looked somewhere in between a Pixie and a were-rabbit. He wasn't sure how, but it was something about his hair and the twitching of his nose that did it. Nikolai was always the first person anyone saw leaving or coming into Warsaw Magic Station. He spoke most languages known to man and if he didn't he learned it within minutes of talking to someone. It was a nifty trick that Stiles had gotten him to teach him his first trip out of Warsaw. Apparently, Stiles was one of the few people that had ever stopped to talk to the old man in the centuries he'd held that position. They became fast friends especially after his Babcia had introduced him as her grandson.
"And where are you headed to now, Stiles?"
"Well Nikolai... I'm headed home."
He nodded and checked his paperwork before stamping the seal of the Poland West Territory and handed it back to him with a proud and misty smile.
"We hope to see you again soon."
Stiles wasn't sure if he could agree with that but smiled and nodded. Coming back to Poland would mean something else disastrous happened while he was in Beacon Hills and he wasn't sure if he could handle another run in with disaster to that degree. He stepped on the magic circle, breathed deep, took a look at the Warsaw station and bidding it farewell.
Until the next time his life was in chaos...
Until the next time.
He closed his eyes and let magic seep down to activate the circle transport. They had just fixed it after realizing that there was a glyph missing. He'd told his babcia to mention it in the town meeting. The elements of magic and the universe stirred and gathered around him and for just a moment his mind was at ease, his heart asoar, and his spirit was one with the universe of the physical and spiritual planes. His senses were alive with it all and as he floated back down into corporeal reality, he staved off the customary panic when the lower plains watched him sail by. Three years wasn't enough to forget him, if anything they had become more aware of him the more he passed through plains.
When he arrives, it’s dark in Beacon Hills at the height of summer. The air is thick and humid and he can practically taste the shore. To make matters better, it’s night time and slowly trudging towards the crazy hour and no one knows he’s here… except the man manning the checkpoint.
He didn’t recognize him, nor did the man recognize him, but he had a sort of gruff, angry look about him as Stiles handed over his passport and waited for the man to shine a light in his eyes as he glanced over the document.
“What brings you to Beacon Hills?” the man asked.
“I’m coming home,” he said.
The man sucked on his teeth and Stiles wanted to tell him that he’d seen a better bad cop routine from a five year old, but he’d grown since his high school self and only waited for the man to wave him through the checkpoint. As he passed, he read the welcome sign and couldn’t help but feel his mouth twitch.
“Welcome to Beacon Hills”, it said. “When you lose your way, follow the beacon in the hills.”