Chapter Text
Stiles hit the side door at his usual hyperactive speed, crashing through will all the grace of the Road Runner, or maybe the Tazmanian Devil, but came to an almost complete stop before he'd taken three steps into the house, the consequence of a lifetime of lectures and stern looks from his Dad about slowing down having piled up into an instinctive reaction even when the Sheriff was nowhere to see him.
He didn't miss a beat in his distraction as he multi-tasked, texting Scott, Lydia, and oddly enough Jackson, all about their plans to reunite for another danger session/study hall that evening at The Loft (or Sourwolf's Cave as Stiles had once jokingly referred to it under his breath to Allison, thereby drawing the entire Pack's super-hearing attention and having his key privileges revoked for an entire week!).
He didn't look up from his phone as he dropped his bag to the floor in front of their years'-untouched oven; palmed an apple from the counter/bar that he or his Dad usually stood over or leaned on while inhaling whatever meal substitute they would consume on the fly before rushing out the door; and toed off his shoes before stepping through the open archway leading from their kitchen, past the dining room table buried under a mountain of probably illegally copied and haphazardly stored case files that the Sheriff had never gotten around to returning to the department ever since he started tracing the supernatural elements and leads he'd overlooked or omitted once his son clued him in on The Secret(s) of Beacon Hills.
Stiles had almost made it to the staircase in the front of the house facing the front door, right off the living room, before his head jerked up from staring at his phone screen and his body whirled around almost quickly enough to make a blur as his windbreaker cut through the air. He tripped over his own feet and almost upset the TV they ignored except for the odd game days the Sheriff might have off when he grabbed for something to hold onto, before miraculously righting himself, both arms windmilling and one leg cocked at an angle behind him to help catch his balance.
Stiles straightened up quickly enough and slid back the way he'd come, back to their dining room.
Their miraculously clear, actually company-appropriate dining room. Their dining room with a dining table whose finish and wood color Stiles couldn't have remembered if he'd had a gun pointed at him, or any of his friends' heads...well, more likely, some beast or creature's claws or venomous tail. Either way.
That dining room table was clear and on top was a runner that Stiles knew had only ever come out when he was still in day school and his mom cooked holiday meals and invited friends and distant relatives. The runner, a tea set that he had no idea whose kitchen John had stolen it from, and...his dad had company. Relatively young, and attractive, company for his dad's age and usual type. To say nothing of the supposed "thing" that was maybe supposed to finally be happening between Stiles's dad and Scott's mom. Really, their mom, since Melissa McCall had been more than an "aunt" in several ways long before the bite that changed all of their lives.
"Son."
"Hey, dad."
Stiles usually wasn't the type to play it cool, or resist the urge to interrogate anyone when he had even the most random question at the tip of his tongue, but several things about this did not sit right. Except John didn't move to speak or offer any explanation about what could possibly be going on and other than looking between the father and son, John's guest didn't seem inclined to break the silence or address the mounting tension either.
"Well. Enjoy..."
Stiles was already turned around and planning on continuing with his day blissfully ignorant, but John interrupted, his voice exuding every ounce of frustration and resignation as usually came with a battle of wills between the two of them. Stiles heard a muffled sound, either a sneeze or a giggle, from behind him but didn't turn around to verify it just yet.
"Stiles...you're welcome to join us."
"Actually. Dad." Stiles tried to sound as disinterested as he could when there was so clearly so much of the weird going on right under his nose, in his own home. "I do have homework, and the gang's all hanging out later, so I think I'll just-"
"Stiles. Sit." John didn't ask the second time.
Stiles turned around. He didn't make another token protest and threw himself into a seat at his father's left, facing the mystery guest, with her wavy dark brown hair and business casual blouse and slacks ensemble. He couldn't tell her shoes, but he could tell they'd be heels and likely meet with Lydia's approval--or at least not her outright disdain, which was practically a standing ovation in Lydia-speak.
"So, Stiles, it's nice to meet you." Her voice was almost husky, and she sounded like she was delivering a speech she'd delivered several times. "My name is Paige Halliwell. I was talking it over with your Dad, and I think we might have a place for you at our school. It is a very-"
"Actually." Stiles cut his eyes at John, who was playing stoic, clearly having decided he was going to be Switzerland in this WWII showdown still, and for no reason Stiles could imagine. Of all the times to abandon him: A recruiter! They hadn't had to reject anyone's school options since he dropped out in the seventh grade. "Actually I'm quite happy with my current school situation. I don't have regular tutors, but I test with the local high school and all of my certifications are up to date. John," here he shot an arch look at his father's face again, "should have explained it all to you."
The woman--Paige--didn't look surprised at being cut off, but her expression did shift when he mentioned his testing. Didn't she already know he was home schooled? Wasn't she here because of the tests? Ms. Morell had only ever signed off on his arrangement after he sat for the entire battery of middle school, high school, and pre-college assessment tests to make sure he wasn't only on track, but almost entirely outpacing, the national and local averages. What was this (really) about? Before he could demand answers from the only source in the room he could almost always trust, Paige cut him off just as neatly as he had cut her off earlier.
"Well, that makes things much easier. Also clears up quite a few things--like how you could have slipped through the cracks for so long. Transitioning from personal schooling to Magic School makes the legal stuff much simpler on our side of things. Although, self-taught witches sometimes struggle with adjusting to the many different traditions and sources of power they are exposed to, at first. I've already explained to your dad that we offer boarding, but it's not mandatory. Especially since you have enough experience and control not to draw unnecessary attention. Congratulations on that, by the way. More than a few of our self-taught students who don't start training by puberty have had at least one visit by someone from our school, if not more."
The only outward signs of Stiles's increasing confusion and suspicion were tells only his dad or his closest friends would probably have recognized. Or maybe Paige just misread them as being the usual jitters when she had to make a recruitment pitch for Magic School in the first place. Either way she seemed calm and perfectly willing to wait as he sorted through his thoughts.
"I don't -- I thought -- Why would-"
For only the third time in several years, since he went off his meds, Stiles was speechless and not for any of the usual reasons. He was mentally cross referencing the Bestiary and Chris's files and contacts mentioned through the years, Deaton's literally endless reams of information and lore and teachings, and the Hale's own stash/vault cum armory. None of it rang true with anything she was saying. The only thing he did recognize was that she was clearly supernatural.
How she could have overcome the boundaries to keep his dad safe when none of them were home, he'd have to figure out. Later. Discreetly, Stiles programmed and texted the mass alert to the entire pack without taking his eyes off of the woman. The witch.
"Stiles, you shouldn't-" John began and an imperceptible nod from Stiles urged his dad to continue playing possum and not interfere, but John clearly dismissed his warning. "Stiles, this isn't a trick. I've been trying to find a way to tell you for some time now, it's just ... things never really calmed down. You can trust her. Paige is," John paused and really looked at the young woman sitting at the table and for several beats his face showed too many emotions to isolate any one or two. "family."
"I hear ya, Dad. What could there possibly be to be wigged out about? Don't long lost relatives innocently appear around here all the time?"
"Stiles, I'm serious." John paused again and Stiles recognized the expression on his face, it was the same one he had when he had built up a case and already knew everyone's likely protests and derailments were just going to make things worse unless somebody got a clue and listened to him. "As difficult as it is to hear, or to believe, the supernatural doesn't begin and end in Beacon Hills, with your Pack. Paige is from a side of my family that I'd thought we would never hear from and she's caught me up on some of our history that even I didn't know. But the short of it is that she is family and we can trust her." Almost as an afterthought, John added ruefully, "As much as your Pack will trust any outsiders, at least."
Stiles was fighting not to look at his phone, which had been blowing up with messages and calls ever since he sent the SOS; demands for more info and probably instructions to do the most obvious and usually useless things. John reached over and held his hand out even without Stiles breaking and glancing down at the phone he'd thought he had carefully tucked away from sight.
"So either give me the phone or call them off before we have to replace any more doors. Or windows. .... Or walls."
Stiles didn't immediately turn the phone over, taking the time to type out a message himself, before passing it to his dad. Whether or not they stayed away, they wouldn't be making a big, dramatic entrance at this point. At least until he knew more and gave the signal.