Chapter Text
He twitched in his seat when the slow churn of the landing gear lowering vibrated below him. Stiles pulled his fingers into his sweaty palms, glanced out the window at the cloudy sky, and tried his hardest not to think about every plane crash in every movie he’d ever seen.
What was he even doing on a plane? What was he even doing in Alaska? A part of him was still convinced the whole thing was some elaborate joke Scott had managed to formulate, because somehow, the situation had morphed itself into every level of hell imaginable as far as Stiles was concerned.
But he knew it was real. He knew because his best friend would never joke about his dad. Stiles remembered bits and pieces of memories as the ranger told him over that phone that John Stilinski had disappeared. He remembered being eight years old and having Copper River Salmon from Alaska on special occasions. He remembered flailing down snow-covered slopes at the ski lessons his dad had signed him up for the winter before his mom got sick.
And when the ranger began to say, “No one knows when or how…because your father wanted it that way…he was disconnected from the world. He was—”
Off the grid, Stiles had finished.
Because when he was ten years old and mourning the loss of his mom, those were the exact words he overheard the lawyers say to Melissa – that there was no use trying to find or contact John. He was gone.
And so Stiles may have gained an unhealthy hatred for those things he connected to his dad.
Snow. Fish. The authority of the law.
He’d moved to San Diego with Scott for school and never looked back North again. He’d gone back to Beacon Hills for Christmas at the McCall’s, but Stiles never felt at ease in that town. He needed distance from the familiar there, to not be reminded of the memories that at first he’d clung to so desperately, but later would have to be buried beneath disappointment, heartbreak, and betrayal.
He’d made a life for himself, savoring a fresh start with no baggage. Nobody outside of Beacon Hills ever looked at him like they knew his mother died a slow, torturous death in front of him; or like they knew his father couldn’t handle the loss of his wife and up and left his son in the hands of his best friend’s mother. When college started, Stiles was free of those looks, and the assumptions that followed them. He grew up and found himself and a fierce independence built on everything he knew he didn’t want to be. He cultivated an avoidance of the things that might drag him back to the places that would reignite the hurt he’d buried.
He and Scott had got an apartment. They’d played lacrosse, surfed, and soaked up the sun. Stiles even missed a midterm once when he’d heard there were good waves at a beach two towns over. And thank the fates that he did, because meeting with Professor Oliver to discuss the makeup test is what sent him on his path of cultural anthropology and archaeology; and thanks to Dr. Oliver, Stiles won an internship at a crazy awesome museum in Arizona, did his field school there, and got a job as a consulting researcher at a contract firm. He’d just returned from finishing a field study in Guatemala when he got the missed call and message from Ranger Camwell.
The Ranger had seemed nice enough, even sympathetic to Stiles' situation after he’d explained it. But it didn’t matter that he had been estranged from his father for almost fifteen years; Stiles was still John’s next of kin. And apparently John’s property in south western Alaska was extensive.
Also remote.
“Define ‘remote’?” Stiles had asked.
Ranger Camwell cleared his throat. “Well, you could take a chartered plane in. Or you could hitch a ride in through the park, get dropped at the bridge, and walk over to the town.”
Stiles sighed at the convolution of it all. All this just to get to this town that was disconnected from the rest of the world. Why did he need to go out there to claim a place he didn’t even want? To declare someone dead he didn’t even honestly know?
“How much would a charter ride be? Say, from Anchorage?”
“Oh boy,” Camwell replied. “Getting someone to take you…an outsider…probably $1400. Actually, more toward a full two grand this late in the season.”
“What?” Stiles squawked. “That’s insane.”
“You know, your dad was sort of acquainted with a guy…I think they were fishing buddies. The guy’s a real mountain man. He makes trips to Anchorage and Fairbanks every week or so. He might be inclined to pick you up and bring you in.”
And that is how Stiles found himself sitting outside the Fairbanks airport, holding his small carryon bag, wearing a light North Face jacket he’d borrowed from Scott, while hitting the call button over and over again trying to get a hold of Neil Cassey, outdoorsman extraordinaire.
The man would only communicate with Stiles through email, but managed to finally include a cell number he said would be in service on the grid. Stiles pulled out an energy bar, resorting to his stash so soon because of unbridled hunger, convinced if Neil was even coming at all, he would be two hours late. Stiles reached up to take a bite when a voice rattled off from behind him.
“Boy, did you get my packing list and disregard it completely, or do you not understand that this is Alaska?”
Stiles bolted upright, losing his energy bar to gravity as he swung around to see an older man staring back at him. Well. Despite what mountain men usually conjured in Stiles’ imagination, Cassey wasn’t wearing red flannel and suspenders. Instead, he wore faded blue jeans and a midweight tan colored coat. He did have a salt and pepper beard, though, and his long hair was tied back behind a cowboy hat that shaded his shrewd, beady eyes.
“Neil Cassey,” the man said, apparently unfazed that he had just snuck up and changed the rhythm of Stiles' heartbeat. Stiles shook his hand and stuttered out his own name in return. This got him a mild smile from the older man, who started walking away asking, “You pack anything warmer than that jacket? Otherwise, your southern sensibilities are going to get frostbite and fall off. Quick.”
“It’s really not that cold right now,” Stiles offered with a smile. “And I don’t plan on staying too long, you know, just until I can get whatever this is sorted and be done with it.”
Neil eyed him with a puzzled look but kept walking in silence. After scaling up to the second story of the parking garage, they got in a beat up green Bronco and Stiles felt the silence eat at him. Or was that his hunger?
“We can stop somewhere on our way out,” Neil offered.
Yes. Food.
Stiles started to say something but was cut off when the mountain man started singing Folsom Prison Blues. Stiles clutched his messenger bag as Neil sped down the road in the direction of a strip mall. They exited the truck in silence and Stiles stared at the parkas in the window as they approached the store, feeling more and more repulsed by the implication of cold or snow by the minute.
“You might think you’ll get things figured out and be done with it, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be done with you,” Neil imparted in a cryptic mountain man way before walking into the store.
“She who?” Stiles stood outside with his mouth hanging open. “Who is she?”
Neil disappeared into the store behind racks of jackets and fishing overalls. Stiles was briefly struck with the realization that he was in Alaska following a mountain man guide into a store so that he could survive the elements. He’d never wanted to be in a situation where he’d have to survive anything, let alone the brutal things that existed in Alaska.
He took a deep breath and entered the store, seeking out his Alaskan Mr. Miyagi. When he found him, Neil already had two fleeces, a heavy coat, a raincoat, a parka, three sets of long underwear, and five pairs of wool socks. He turned to Stiles and asked what size shoe he wore, and that he hoped it was okay that he just assumed Stiles’ New Balances were not waterproof.
“What do I need waterproof shoes for?” Stiles questioned.
“What do you need waterproof shoes for…” Neil repeated and grabbed a box from the Keen rack. “These’ll do…for now. I might have a pair of snow shoes or boots a size different than yours. You might not be here for the whole winter so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“W-w-winter?” Stiles stammered. “It’s the first week of September!”
“You’re right,” Neil offered. “We should get more layers.”
Stiles would have thrown up his hands in bafflement if not for the ever increasing garments Neil had piled on him. By the time they reached the checkout, he was sure he’d have to remortgage his condo before he could afford all the items deemed “necessary for survival”.
With every beep, Stiles' heart sank lower; $70 for a synthetic pair of long underwear? $30 for a pair of socks? He’d already pulled out his card and was thinking he should just hand it to the cashier before he heard the total, otherwise he might just cut and run and head back to San Diego. But Neil gave the guy an American Express before Stiles even had to talk himself down from disserting.
“Hey man, I can’t let you pay for all of this,” Stiles began, then his eyes fell on the total.
$733.82
Stiles started shaking his head.
A chuckle escaped Neil’s lips before he leaned in and whispered, “It’s your dad’s card, Stiles.”
“My dad is dead,” he replied.
“Maybe so,” Neil stated. “But his card ain’t.”
Before they left town, Neil took Stiles to a super grocery, got him an ice chest, and forced Stiles to buy enough food for a month. Stiles also bought a rotisserie chicken and ate the entire thing in less than five minutes. Neil watched on, shaking his head from time to time while he munched on salmon jerky. He’d offered some to Stiles, who shook his head and gave him a big, “No thank yewwwwwww” in reply. By the time they were packed up and ready, it was nearing 10 pm, and Stiles was feeling the effects of his long day of travel.
“I’m pretty worn out. How long’s the drive gonna be?” he asked.
Neil remained ever stoic on the driver’s side, but titled his head to give Stiles a brief glance. “Well, tonight we’ll drive to the campsite in Chitina. Then I’ll fly you into McCarthy in the morning. I know you have a meeting with Ranger Hale at 11 so we’ll be on a tight schedule.”
Stiles shook his head. “You mean Ranger Camwell. I’ve been talking to Ranger Camwell about the incident report and all the things.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know!” Stiles squirmed. “All the things! The things you have to do to declare someone dead when they died on National Park land.”
Neil sighed. “Well, Camwell went back south to Washington for the season. It’s Hale in charge up there now for the winter.” Stiles couldn’t hide his disappointment. Not only had he established a working relationship with Steve Camwell, but the ranger had basically promised to make the situation go as smoothly and quickly as bureaucratically possible—something that was beginning to worry Stiles the more he spoke with Neil. As if sensing Stiles’ apprehension, Neil added, “You’ve nothing to worry about with Hale. He’s fair. Very much a rule follower. Can’t say I’ve ever seen him smile, but we’ve had worse NPS up there. Though you won’t hear anybody else—save me—admit that.”
“What? Why?” Stiles asked.
“The only people McCarthy locals don’t hate are McCarthy locals. They absolutely loathe the Park Service and interlopers.” Neil smiled.
Stiles didn’t know what to make of what he was hearing. He was under the assumption the only driving force of the McCarthy economy was the sightseeing and backpackers that came through the town to visit Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. “So who are the interlopers?”
“Tourists,” Neil answered. “You.”
“Me?” Stiles croaked. “Don’t they know I don’t want to be there?”
“You better not tell them what they do or do not know.”
“Dear God, where are you taking me?” Stiles groaned. “My father was not a local. He was born and raised in California. Did they hate him?”
Neil sighed. “No.”
Silence settled over the car and Stiles eventually drifted off. When the truck began to slow, he could see civilization again which he assumed was the small town of Chitina. They pulled up to a small tent cabin; the bottom half of the structure was made of logs while the top half consisted of canvas rising up to a high point in the center.
Stiles fell out of the Bronco and followed Neil inside. After they were settled in, Stiles curled up in a sleeping bag on the bottom bunk but he couldn’t quite get warm or comfortable.
“Stop squirming,” Neil said from the top bunk.
“I’m cold.”
He heard a sigh and then the clank of keys on the floor below.
“Go get the long johns.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. After making his way outside in the dark and feeling his way through the cab of the truck, he’d grabbed the damn $70 synthetic glorified tights and was heading back to the tent—er—cabin, when he heard a loud crush of gravel behind him.
He froze.
Crunch. Crunch.
Stiles turned around in time to see a large shadow on the other side of the campground, a shadow that was imminently approaching his personal space. At an alarming rate. He froze.
And then when it was about twenty feet away, realization dawned on him, and he made a break for the door of the cabin.
“BEAR!” he screamed and flailed his arms above his head. “THERE’S A BEAR!”
Stiles ran into the cabin, slammed the door, locked it, and repeated, “Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica. There’s a bear. Oh my god. He’s out for a midnight snack. And I’m all plump and ready after that chicken, and, Jesus, he’s got my scent! He’s gonna get us!”
“Calm down you idiot,” came Neil’s disinterested voice. “It’s just a bear.”
Stiles scoffed, “Just a bear. Just a bear he says. Just big shiny teeth and long sharp claws.”
“Go to bed, Stiles,” Neil said.
“Bed, he says, as if I could sleep knowing there are bears out there.”
“If it comforts you to know, they’ll be hibernating soon.”
Stiles shook his head and climbed into bed, his eyes still glued to the door. “Sadly, I find little comfort in that at this current moment. How are you not freaking out right now?”
He heard Neil chuckling and waited for a response. There was none.