Chapter Seven
...
"You've healed up nicely, Stilinski. Guess I won't have to go so easy on you next time," Tomika said, grinning.
"That was easy?" Stiles asked, jaw dropping.
Tomika just laughed.
When they entered the recruit's room, Stiles realised that Patrick was missing. He looked to Tomika, but she shook her head; Patrick was one of five recruits who had either dropped out or been kicked out in the past month since they'd started at the FBI. The initial group of fifteen recruits were slowly being whittled down, and Stiles wondered just how many of them would remain at the end of the next three months.
"You've got your case exercises starting next week, but first, I want your workbooks to be handed in. They'll be checked over tomorrow while you're visiting the Holocaust Memorial Museum," their instructor said, looking at each of them as they handed in their workbooks. He raised an eyebrow at Stiles' workbook and the accompanying notebook.
"Uh, I got really excited about the topics?" Stiles said, trying not to wince.
"The last time you were really excited about something, you spat in my hair," Tomika deadpanned behind him.
Stiles tried not to grin too much, but he could see that Sean didn't look quite so stern anymore either, so he went to his seat without being reprimanded while he could. Tomika sat next to him, stating that she had to save her hair from him.
...
"All right, Hale, we're working this out. There's not enough room for you to be tiptoeing around me for the rest of the night."
"I'm not tiptoeing anywhere," Derek said from the kitchenette, frowning over at Stiles.
"I just said that there wasn't enough room for that," Stiles muttered.
Derek waited a moment, then looked between Stiles and the bed, which they'd shared the night before. "Is this because you were the little spoon?"
Stiles spluttered and choked, even though he wasn't doing more than breathing. Derek raised an eyebrow at him and leaned back against the kitchenette bench, continuing to eat his dinner calmly. Stiles finally stopped spluttering and he glared over at Derek. "This is not about being the little spoon. It's about personal space."
Derek straightened up at that, suddenly looking concerned. "Sorry. I thought... Uh, never mind," he muttered, turning around to rinse out his bowl in the sink.
"It was about being the little spoon," Stiles admitted a second later. "You didn't hear my heartbeat?"
"I didn't listen. I... I didn't think you'd lie." Derek's voice was soft, his shoulders were tense, and his fingers were turning white against the rim of the sink.
Stiles sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, wondering how he'd gone from accusing Derek of murder to whatever this feeling was, aching in his chest. He doubted Derek would appreciate the reminder of the accusations, especially with Stiles' thought board on the wall right there. Glancing over to it, he saw the list of names, the names of people who had effectively destroyed Derek's life, year after year, people who hated him for nothing more than him being born. It hit Stiles like a freight train that of course Derek wouldn't want to be the little spoon and see those names. He was already being framed for mass murder, Derek didn't need the reminder staring him in the face. Lying to Derek on top of all that was just the shitty icing on an even shittier cake, and Stiles suddenly hated himself.
Stiles stepped into the kitchenette, resting a hand on Derek's shoulder. He felt the tension ease under his palm and fingers, and moved closer until he was pressed against Derek's back completely. "I'm sorry, Derek. I won't lie to you again."
"Promise?" Derek asked, his voice hardly more than a breath of air, his body still tense.
"Promise," Stiles replied firmly and beneath his body, Derek relaxed. "You sure you don't want to be the little spoon though? We can swap sides," he offered with a brief grin.
Derek shook his head. "I can't protect you then."
"Hey, I can take care of myself!"
Derek snorted. "I've seen you in the morning, Stiles. You can't even get out of bed without almost injuring yourself."
"That's a totally different thing!" Stiles muttered. He could practically feel Derek smiling, and slipped off his back, glad to see the tension gone and his fingers no longer clutching the basin.
Derek turned around and Stiles realised just how close they were standing. Somehow, it was different than it had been a moment ago when Stiles was plastered on Derek's back. Face to face was far more intimate, and Stiles didn't know how to handle that. Especially not when Derek was looking at him so intensely, like this thing between them might not be one-sided after all. Then Stiles forced himself to face reality because he was Stiles and Derek was everything that he wasn't.
Stiles rubbed the back of his head and stepped back, thumbing in indication to his desk. "I've got some things to read over, are you okay to entertain yourself for a while?"
"I brought a book, Stiles. I'll keep myself occupied, don't worry," Derek said, turning around again.
Stiles ensured that Derek was actually going to read before he sat at his desk and started reading through the newest set of articles and books he'd been given that day.
...
Even though he knew he'd read all of the articles and three chapters of his book, it still felt like minutes to Stiles when Derek put a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Stiles. It's late; you've got to be up early tomorrow," Derek said, his voice gentle and warm.
Stiles yawned and nodded, letting Derek lead him the few steps to the bed. They settled on the bed, Derek wrapping an arm around Stiles' waist to hold him close. Stiles closed his eyes and dreamed.
Stiles dreams were usually nightmares, but on the odd days when he actually had a dream instead, Stiles usually found himself replaying recent events in his mind, focusing on finer details he consciously missed while awake.
He was sitting in the room with his FBI peers, but as Stiles looked at each of them, he noticed things beyond the usual familiarity of their day to day lives.
Tomika always looked at each person a second before they spoke, her eyes intent on the speaker like she could see more than she could hear. Jorge had a hint of fangs when he smiled too broadly or spoke too passionately. Teresa blinked with a third eyelid when she thought no one was looking. Li shifted a small part of their features each time Stiles looked back at them: blue eyes, green eyes, pink lips, red lips, round ears, pointed ears, short fingernails, long fingernails. Marcie disappeared completely from sight, even though Stiles knew she was still in the room with him.
In his dream, Stiles felt calm, as if he'd known these things about his peers all along. There was nothing wrong with these things happening. They were all recruits, just like him; just because they weren't human, it didn't mean they were monsters.
Stiles felt a detached sense of curiosity as he looked at himself and saw blue sparks surrounding his own body. Stiles had known for years that he was a spark, but he'd never seen himself like this before, even in previous dreams. He felt much more peaceful than he'd been in years, since the darkness, and the Nogitsune and Oni, and the Dread Doctors, and every other shitty nightmarish thing he'd come across since going into the forest to find half of Laura Hale's body.
In his dream, Stiles looked to the rest of his peers, though none of them seems to be shifting or changing or... reading minds, perhaps? The sparks around his body flickered, spraying out towards Tomika, Jorge, Teresa, Li, Marcie, and one more person that Stiles hadn't paid as much attention to: Sean. Now that he was looking at his instructor properly, Stiles saw that the man had bark instead of skin, eyes green and yellow and red like leaves changing colour, and he knew that Sean was a dryad. He still felt peaceful and calm at this revelation, as though he had expected nothing less. Stiles wondered if his life in Beacon Hills was affecting his life in Virginia.
Surely this couldn't be real, could it? Not without someone or something bringing them all together at once, at least.
Stiles felt himself waking up, the call of an alarm or the lure of sunshine or both, interrupting his dream. He blinked his way awake to one thought: who recruited all of you to the FBI?
...
Stiles headed to the FBI earlier than usual that day, his mind keeping him awake and on edge. He left Derek on the bed, the werewolf stretching out across the warm spot Stiles had vacated to continue sleeping.
Making it to the FBI building far too early to be allowed into the recruits room, he headed down to the gym instead. There was a boxing bag that he could work up a sweat on and hopefully get faster at dodging Tomika. If nothing else, the exercise should clear his mind.
Stripping down to his singlet and shorts, Stiles shoved his clothes in his bag. He grabbed a pair of gloves and pulled them on, tightening the straps around his wrists. He stood in front of the bag and breathed in deeply, hoping to keep his calm and meditative state from the trip into Quantico - Lydia would know if he hadn't at least attempted to meditate; she always knew. Stiles lifted his fists and started to punch and hit and kick at the bag.
"You're here early," a voice commented from the doorway.
Stiles ignored McBastard and continued to punch the bag instead. Rafe ignored Stiles ignoring him and headed over, setting his jacket aside and rolling up his sleeves. He grabbed the punching bag as it swung towards him, holding it steady for Stiles to continue punching. Still, Stiles ignored him and continued to punch, driving his fists into the bag far more firmly.
"Imagining someone's face on there?" Rafe asked with a soft grunt as he was pushed back by a strong punch.
Stiles grit his jaw, stopped punching, and glared at Rafe. "No. See, I know the difference between a punching bag and a person."
"Don't act so high and mighty with me, Stilinski. We're more alike than you realise."
Stiles had a sudden fear that McJerkoff knew about Donovan, but he refused to acknowledge the comment. They were nothing alike.
"We'd both do anything to protect those we love and care about," Rafe added.
"Yeah, well you have a fucking shit way of showing it! And I'm nothing like you: beating up kids isn't protecting anyone," Stiles snapped.
Rafe's jaw clenched. "It was a mistake, and it's one I'll have to live with for the rest of my life. Leaving was the only way I could protect them."
After everything with the Nogitsune and Donovan, Stiles unfortunately knew the feeling.
Rafe mistook Stiles' silence for anger and continued, desperately, "If I could go back in time, I wouldn't do it. I'd do anything but hurt my son again."
Looking at Rafe's face, the emotions he recognised in his eyes from the same expression he'd seen in the mirror, Stiles almost believed him.
"Hey, Stilinski! C'mon, we're heading out," Tomika called from the doorway.
Stiles looked away from Rafe and lifted a hand in thanks to Tomika. He pulled his gloves off, grabbed his bag, and left without looking back.
...
End of the seventh chapter.