"Genim. Genim. Wake up, dziecko."

Still half asleep, Stiles sneered, squirmed underneath his seatbelt before peeling his cheek off the glass of the passenger's side window.

"Not a kid," he muttered irritably, pushing himself upright in his seat. "And don't call me that."

Twisting in his seat, he stretched as best he could, rolling the disks in his spine and dropping his shoulders to pop his collarbones. He'd never realized how uncomfortable his beloved Jeep could be but now, having spent nearly 46 hours in the thing over the last three days, he almost cursed himself for keeping it.

Almost.

But now it was all he had, it and the dozen or so boxes and duffel bags crammed into the back. They were mostly filled with clothes, some school stuff, a gaming console, but not much more. Everything else, everything important…

He'd left all that behind - over three thousand miles behind - either up for auction in the estate sale or buried in two side-by-side plots at the back of Beacon Hills Cemetery.

A shiver rolled down Stiles' spine and he reached out to turn on the heat, fiddling with the sliding vents. His Uncle Ulryk must have turned it off again while he was sleeping. He didn't call him on it - he'd been cold ever since he'd gotten the call, the phone call that he thought he might've spent his whole life dreading, waiting for.

10-00, Officer Down.

He'd felt like he was drowning that night.

Drowning, forced into an ice water bath that rushed into his lungs and puddled around his heart, frigid, pounding, sharp little shards of frost collecting all along his insides. He'd tried for his spark, reached for it again and again while he waited in the hospital lobby, while he stood graveside through the service, while he silently packed the things that he didn't care about anymore…

He couldn't find it.

He'd managed to slip away from Ulryk before they left, crossed town and cornered his mentor Deaton in the back of his veterinary clinic. Ever stoic, droning on and on about the Balance, he'd refused to give Stiles even the smallest reassurance, only offering emotionless condolences on his loss and giving him the name and phone number of an associate near Boston.

Had Stiles been in full control of himself he might have burned the clinic to the ground in that moment. He'd never cared for the codicil that Deaton followed, his refusal to involve himself until things were at their most dire. In truth he thought he might hate the man in spite of their relationship, all the lessons and guidance and horrible experience between them. In the end he'd realized that he was merely a tool to be used by the older man, and having shut Beacon Hills' Nemeton down for good only the year before, Stiles was really of no more use to him anymore. His loss, both his losses, were of no more consequence to his tutor than a passing summer storm.

Blinking out of his musings, Stiles could feel the cold building up in the pit of his stomach, all flat disappointment and bitter want of intent, and he scrubbed his hands through his hair in an attempt to shake the dark thoughts lingering at the back of his mind. His father's death had brought about a drastic change in him - where he was once goofy, spastic, cheerful, and sarcastic, soldiering on with a smile even in the face of all his pain, in the last three weeks he'd become withdrawn and blank-faced, locking away all his pain and anger as best he could as he overcompensated for the grief, sorrow, and guilt that threatened to crush him into nothing.

"Are we there yet?" he muttered acidly.

He didn't particularly care of course, but he needed the distraction.

"Soon," Ulryk answered, weaving carefully through the city traffic.

Stiles watched the street through the rhythmic swish of the wipers, the sky an iron grey as rain poured down around them, making the car feel like a bubble of heat moving down a long, cold tunnel. Grey, grey, everything around him, all grey. Boston was a mess of glass and concrete and cars, short, heavy buildings and people dashing around, so much faster than the town he'd grown up in. Only seventeen, Stiles had known he'd be placed in the care of a guardian after his father's death, but he hadn't expected his mother's brother, a man he hadn't seen since late childhood, to step forward and place claim on him.

It had briefly occurred to him that he should be angry about that.

Angry, that he was expected to pack up his childhood home only days after planning a funeral alone, to sell the coffee table with the L-shaped scratch and the bookcase with the lopsided shelves. Angry, that he was expected to leave his school and his town, everything he knew, to move to the opposite end of the country with someone he didn't. But without his spark all the heat seemed to have fled his body, even the surging burn of righteous ire.

Nothing.

The only thing he could summon now was a dull, heavy sort of hatred for the world, and everything and everyone in it.

It was exhausting.

Of course it didn't help that he wasn't sleeping - the thirty minutes or so he'd spent dozing in a cramped twist against the door was probably all he'd get for the day. There would be no jet-lagged collapse in his future.

Probably for the best anyway; Ulryk claimed to have a two bedroom loft but for now there was only one bed. He'd promised to have furniture delivered over the weekend, whatever Stiles wanted, and though it was obvious he was reaching out, trying to make this transition as easy as possible for his orphaned nephew, it wasn't really helping. In all honesty, a night stranded on the island that would be a lumpy sofa felt more right to him than anything else.

"Hungry dziecko?" Ulryk asked, and this time Stiles ignored the Polish 'kid.'

He'd already come to accept the fact that his uncle was far more in touch with his roots than either Stiles or his mother had been. Strange then - that he made no mention of the family Spark, gave no indication that he was aware of it at all. When Stiles had packed up all his druid crap, all his books and notes and ingredients, all the parts and pieces he'd collected over the years, locking them into a heavy, leather-bound footlocker, the man hadn't asked after it at all, just lifted it up into his arms and carried it down to Stiles' jeep. He didn't question what was inside, why he wanted it, didn't comment on his mother's name carved deep into the lid in intricate, curving letters…

"No," Stiles intoned coldly, flatly, and he could feel the questioning glance that was flicked his way but his uncle didn't chastise him, even though he'd done nothing but pick at the fast food they'd both been living on for the past few days.

"Ok then."

Five more minutes passed in silence, only the muted sounds of rain and traffic fighting their way into the car. Stiles felt a restlessness beginning to build in his legs and his fingertips, much like the static charge of his spark flaring up but different, and he knew that he'd been in the car too long. If he still had his spark he thought it might be leaping all over the place right now, eager, hungry, too-long contained. He was half a breath away from suffering the chill of a rolled-down window just for a shock of fresh air when Ulryk hit the blinker, downshifting with a bark and grind of gears and pulling into a fenced-in lot at the back of a tall brick building, grungy and dark and swallowing up the entire corner lot of the block they'd circled in the downpour.

"Where are we?" he asked, his voice low and wary as he unclicked his belt and leaned forward to peer up through the rain and the growing dark at the side of the building, his hand already on the door, all his instincts preparing him to battle or bolt.

There was something here, something that hung heavily in the air like charcoal smoke, and it was so sharp and choking and electric that he could feel it even inside the protected confines of the jeep.

Something he knew but didn't know, something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Home," Ulryk answered simply, and Stiles fought not to flinch.

'Yours,' he thought. 'Not mine.'

"This is a gym," he said out loud, a flat, unyielding accusation.

"Of course." Ulryk cocked an eyebrow in his direction, evidently just as confused as Stiles. "I always own gym."

"Well, yeah," Stiles conceded.

He knew that. He'd known that. There was more than one hazy memory of private boxing lessons still kicking around in the far, hazy corners of his brain, from a time long past before his uncle had walked out of his life like so many others had.

"I just… didn't know you lived in one," he muttered, second-hand bitterness tainting his words. He didn't really care where he lived anymore.

"Above," Ulryk chuckled gruffly. Reaching over, he curled one strong hand around the back of Stiles' neck and squeezed, rocking him roughly back and forth before letting go and stepping out of the car.

For a minute Stiles just glared at him through the window - a short, stocky man with dark blonde hair just beginning to go grey at the temples. His skin was weathered and there were laugh lines at the corners of his clear blue eyes; the face of a man who was cheerful and honest, but who would be both stern and fair when called upon. He was built like a brick wall, years spent in the Marine Corps and then the boxing ring making him thick and solid. In many ways he reminded Stiles painfully of his mother, in the line of his chin and his thick, Polish words, and the young man wondered whether he would come to love or hate his uncle for that.

Sighing, Stiles pulled his hood up over his head and stepped out into the rain, leaning into the backseat to grab his pillow. He'd gone on last minute trips with Deaton before and he'd learned how to do it right. No one ever wanted to lug a heavy duffel in after a day of driving, to dig through all their suitcases for pajamas. Stuffing a pair of sweats and a toothbrush into his pillowcase was a hell of a lot easier - everything else could wait. Rounding the front of the Jeep, he caught the keys that Ulryk tossed him and locked up before following his uncle through the rain towards a dented metal door at the back of the door, near the gate of the lot that opened out onto the street.

"Is back hallway to gym," Ulryk said, his low voice booming as it echoed round the dimly lit alcove next to a stairwell. Peering down the wide hall, Stiles could see a single door on the left side and a long glass window after it, opening out into wide, empty blackness. "I have office, and second floor is…"

"The catwalk," Stiles supplied absently, still staring into the black.

It had been a long time since he'd been in a gym - not since he was little. He'd loved the sporadic boxing lessons as a child, had taken classes in martial arts for many years - most of them failed attempts at controlling his frenetic energy and his hyperactive tics, at learning his body and searching for ways to make his long, gangly limbs work. Having a father who was in law enforcement and a mother who was a spark meant that he got more self-defense lessons than he could count, learned more ways to protect himself than he could name in front of normal people.

But then his mom had died and he'd inherited her spark alongside his own, and the fumbled transfer had supercharged the damned ghost of a tree out in the Beacon Hills preserve. After that he got so much exercise running for his life that he didn't think he'd ever need to set foot in a gym again.

Still, he remembered. Remembered the smell of the locker rooms and the chalk, the way it felt to pummel your fists into a bag or to have the air driven out of your lungs as you were flipped onto your back onto the mats.

Until that moment he hadn't realized he'd missed it.

Stiles shook his head, blinked as he broke from half a dozen memories he wasn't sure he wanted. He was already halfway up the stairwell, trudging along at Ulryk's heels as his uncle took the steps as spryly as a man half his age.

"Third floor is loft," he rumbled, glancing at Stiles over his shoulder as they came to the top landing, another dented metal door standing silently, almost ominously. Pulling a black, leather-tab keyring from his jacket pocket, he jangled through the keys and turned the lock, swinging the door open. "I have key made for you," he said with a smile, stepping inside easily and flipping a light switch.

Stiles didn't respond, just crossed the threshold slowly, reached out to taste the atmosphere as he got a look around from beneath the edge of his hood.

The loft was large and open, bright somehow despite the heavy gloom that showed through the large paned-glass windows. The floors were made of shiny, blonde wood and the inner wall was light-colored, exposed brick. The ceiling was all open beams and metal, riveting visible even though they were much higher than regular ceilings, long, shaded lights hanging down and glinting off of the gleaming, stainless-steel kitchen to his left.

Edging carefully past his uncle, he stepped further into the apartment, towards the short table that apparently served as a dining area and some sort of office. Ulryk clearly was no neat-freak - there were books and papers strewn a bit haphazardly across its surface, but it gave the place a homey, lived-in feel where the industrialized surface of the loft might've robbed it of any intimacy. Running his finger lightly around the rim of an empty coffee mug at the edge of the table, Stiles swallowed down an acidic lurch of his stomach at the thought.

Behind him Ulryk had hung his coat in a handy closet, placed his wallet in a decorative bowl on the little runner-table just inside the door. Fishing inside it a moment, he picked something out and held it out to Stiles, holding his gaze calmly until he moved forward to take it. It was the key he'd promised, square and silver, and another, larger, heavier, and made of what he thought might be brass.

"One to loft, one to gym," Ulryk explained. "Your home now, Stiles."

Stiles ground his teeth together, unwilling to snarl the hateful words that came unbidden to the front of his mind. His uncle meant well, wanted him to feel comfortable, safe. Welcome. It wasn't his fault that Stiles couldn't feel those things. So instead of talking, instead of denying or lying, he just nodded and jammed the keys deep into the pocket of his jeans.

Ulryk seemed to understand this, and offered him a sage nod in return.

"Is late," he said. "You sleep. Tomorrow, I show you room, show you gym."

"Fine," Stiles replied dully.

He wouldn't sleep, so it didn't matter.

Ulryk nodded again and gestured with one hand, and Stiles, bone-weary and exhausted, followed without hesitation. Rounding the brick wall he entered a large, neat living room, a comfortable-looking leather couch and two matching armchairs grouped around a charcoal colored rug and glass coffee table dominating the space. There was a flat screen on the opposite wall between two more windows, an entertainment center below it full of DVD's, and along either wall large, built-in bookcases painted white.

Digging out his sweats and his t-shirt, Stiles dropped his pillow onto the couch, peeling out of his hoody with a shiver. The apartment was just a little bit cool, and he wondered if he would be able to find the thermostat when Ulryk wasn't looking.

"We get you bed tomorrow, dziecko," the man said quietly, moving in close to Stiles' side so quietly he jumped. Reaching out, he pulled his nephew into a tight bear-hug, making no never-mind about the fact that he was perhaps three inches shorter than Stiles was.

"It's fine," he muttered, supremely uncomfortable but making no move to break away. Instead, he focused on keeping himself together, keeping himself from shattering in the man's grip the way he hadn't wanted to since he'd broken in Tara's an hour after he'd reached the hospital. The deputy had held him for hours that night, but it hadn't been nearly long enough.

"It will be," Ulryk said in reply, and it felt strangely like a promise. Releasing Stiles at last, he took a step back and pointed. "Remote is on table," he gestured, and Stiles wondered if he actually did know that he was having trouble sleeping. "Light is there. Bathroom, first door down hallway."

"Right."

Ulryk grunted, nodded.

"Good then. Dobranoc, dziecko."

"Good night."

Stiles watched silently while the man disappeared down the hallway, turning lights as he went, leaving him in the low, warm glow of a lamp that stood between the couch and one of the chairs. Changing quickly out of his stale, travel-creased clothes, Stiles paused in the dim light, ran his fingers lightly over the tattoos he kept carefully hidden under long sleeves. Normally they would flare with power beneath his touch, make him feel protected, at home. Tonight they stayed silent, and it sent another chill down his spine. Tugging his hoodie back on, he wrapped his arms around his ribs tightly and dropped bonelessly onto the couch, sighing as he sank into the airy cushions.

Just as comfortable as it looked.

Leaning forward, he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and clicked on the television, turning the volume low and flicking through to an old Mets game.

It was going to be a long night.