Chapter Eight
...
Rafe looked through the workbooks that Sean had given to him to check the recruits' handiwork. He'd already read through five workbooks, three providing answers they thought wanted to be heard, one that seemed to be relaying thoughts that other people had rather than thinking for themselves, while the fifth was a little more passionate about certain topics.
He picked up the next workbook but his hand stopped when he saw the handwriting. He'd seen enough of Stiles' work to realise that the workbook and notebook belonged to him, but set them aside to check last. Rafe had a feeling he'd need all of his wits to get through them.
When the second-to-last workbook was checked, Rafe stood and stretched, leaving his office to get a coffee before he went any further. He didn't admit to procrastination itself, but coffee breaks were a necessary evil in life, so if Rafe had two or three coffee breaks a day, he would consider it a mental break if nothing else. Certainly not procrastination.
With his coffee mug washed and dried, there was nothing else to do but check Stiles' work. Rafe inhaled deeply to calm himself, as his therapist had instructed, and headed back to his office.
...
The Holocaust Memorial Museum had Stiles swinging between complete and utter hatred of the human race and the things they did to each other, to wanting to protect every last human from everything, including themselves.
Stiles felt small and insignificant, his heart pounded in his chest, his hands shook, and there was a heavy lump in his throat. He would have felt utterly ridiculous if not for the fact that his peers looked in similar states of shock and awe. They were all quiet, whispering as they made their way through the exhibitions and displays, the lists of names and numbers of the dead, the murdered innocents and victims.
"Humans are idiots, huh?" Tomika muttered beside him, her voice shaky.
Stiles nodded, trying to be subtle about wiping his tears and probably failing. Tomika smiled sadly and dug in her messenger bag to pull out a pack of tissues.
"Don't worry. I've been here before and I still get choked up about it. The Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial destroys me," she added, barely a second after Stiles had thought about their second field trip later that week.
"You're a telepath?" he asked, his voice quieter than a whisper, not wanting to raise his voice for a multitude of reasons.
Tomika raised an eyebrow at the question, but shook her head firmly. "Later, Stilinski."
"Have either of you seen Marcie? She's disappeared," Grant said, looking anxious.
While they weren't children, they were still meant to have a 'buddy' to encourage friendship and camaraderie between them.
It probably also saved Sean from looking after twenty people when they could look after each other instead, Stiles mused, giving up and just wiping at his tears with the offered tissue.
"I haven't seen her. She might be in the bathroom," Stiles suggested.
Grant nodded in thanks and headed towards the bathrooms.
"Come on, there's seats over here," Tomika said, leading Stiles through the exhibition areas to a quiet nook with a padded seat.
He sat down gratefully, sighing as he looked at the exhibition across from them.
"Banshee," Tomika admitted after a long moment of silence.
"What?!" Stiles asked, eyes wide and voice far too loud for the museum. He ignored a few people who looked over to glare at him, and stared at Tomika, the banshee.
She shrugged. "It wouldn't have been my first choice, but I didn't get to choose. My Gram taught me everything she knew since we realised what I was."
A million questions were running through Stiles' mind, but he could only bring himself to ask, "What got you interested in joining the FBI?"
"I thought I'd be able to help people. Besides, the invitation was pretty convincing."
"Wait, what invitation?"
"You didn't get one?"
"No. Did everyone get one?" Stiles asked, looking down the corridor to where most of their peers were; Grant had found Marcie, he noticed.
"I know Patrick did. Marcie, Li, Teresa, and I think Jorge as well. The rest of the group are human, as far as I can tell. I thought... I thought you'd get an invitation since, y'know, you know," Tomika said, frowning.
Stiles shook his head. "Nope; I just applied and hoped I'd get into the program."
Tomika's frown turned into a grin and she bumped his shoulder. "Well, someone up there must like you."
Stiles nodded briefly, his stomach feeling like lead, because he was ninety-eight percent positive that Rafe was the reason he had been accepted into the FBI, and it sure as fuck wasn't because the man liked him.
...
"Hank, have you figured it out yet?" Rafe asked as soon as the man picked up the phone.
"Not yet, sir."
"Why not? It's a code and you're a code-breaker, aren't you?" Rafe snapped, frustrated.
"Well, yes, but it's unlike anything I've ever seen before. I've decoded a few letters, but not enough to create full words, and I've run it through every program we have," Hank replied, sounding just as frustrated as Rafe, but entirely more impressed as well.
"You have fifteen hours to work it out," Rafe said, hanging up the phone.
Hank winced and put his phone down, returning to the notebook of one Stiles Stilinski.
Symbols were scrawled alongside runes, words written in archaic and classical Latin, numbers and Roman numerals, a scattering of Japanese and Spanish, weather icons for rain and clouds and lightning, nestled in closely with crude drawings of trees and flowers, beakers and syringes, cats and a theatrical mask (only tragedy, never comedy), and a curved triskelion repeated more often than not. It was all written in different colours, which obviously had some sort of significance as well, some of the triskelions in blue while others were black and there were a few scatterings of orange.
The sum of it all was that Hank was about to have one hell of a challenge on his hands. He couldn't wait.
...
When Stiles returned to his apartment later that evening, he was emotionally exhausted. He'd texted Derek during the day to let him know how things were going, and that he'd be too wiped when he returned to even think about cooking dinner. Derek had replied that he'd take care of it, and Stiles came home to a small smorgasbord of food.
Or perhaps his apartment was just thatsmall that it looked like a buffet?
"What didn't you order?" Stiles asked, his stomach growling and mouth watering at the sight and smell.
"Seafood. It doesn't taste the same," Derek said, wrinkling his nose.
Stiles grinned and set his bag down. "Fine by me."
Derek passed him a plate and sat on the floor, filling his own plate with food. "How was your day? You smell upset."
"Yeah, that kinda sums it up," Stiles said, reaching for the dim sim and nudging the egg rolls closer to Derek. "It was upsetting and I still feel out of it. Though I found out that Tomika's a banshee."
"Really?"
Stiles nodded, dunking his dim sim in the sweet and sour sauce before taking a generous bite. "Oh, faf's goo'," he said through a mouthful.
"Don't talk with your mouth full; you weren't raised by wolves," he said, grinning.
Stiles pointed at him, his cheeks bulging, and forced himself to chew and swallow. "What did I say about getting a sense of humour?!"
Derek just laughed, and in response, Stiles stared.
He hadn't seen Derek laugh like this before and he was beautiful. More than what he looked like, Derek was beautiful both inside and out, and Stiles hated that some people couldn't see past his outer beauty to see the wonderful man inside. Derek didn't deserve so much that had happened in his life - both packs taken from him, people hunting and hurting him, people abusing and using him - and despite everything that had happened, he was still an amazing and wonderful and good person.
Derek stopped laughing after a moment and took an egg roll, his cheeks pink and warm. "Come on, eat up or I'll wolf it down," he said, snickering at his own joke.
"I see how it is: the big bad wolf's got dad jokes," Stiles said, forcing himself to grin and not get so caught up in his head and emotions.
"You laughed," Derek said, raising an eyebrow pointedly, still looking so happy.
Stiles nodded and shoved the rest of his dim sim in his mouth so he wouldn't ruin whatever this was.
A month or two after Braeden helped Malia with the Desert Wolf, Derek had returned to Beacon Hills. He hadn't said much about why he was returning, nor for how long, but there was a handshake between Derek and the Sheriff that made Stiles suspicious. Derek had dinner at the Stilinski residence weekly and spent time with people beyond the pack. He had a regular running routine around town that Parrish often joined him on (after a week or so of being followed by the 'yummy mummies' in town, they both decided to change their route to the woods instead); he started cooking and bringing containers full for Melissa when Scott was out with Kira or busy with pack business; and after the first full moon since his return, Derek had started showing up to the Stilinski's outside of their usual dinner, armed with a movie, pizza, and books from the Hale vault.
Stiles had seen another one of those handshakes between his father and Derek, frowning when it went on for a second too long, his frown deepening when Derek pulled away with a white fingerprint impression on his hand. Something obviously wasn't right, but Derek had finally brought the book about emissary's and besides, there was pizza and movie to consider. Stiles didn't know what to think of it then - or now, to be honest - and any time he tried to question his father, the Sheriff just shook his head and didn't respond. Stiles didn't even try to question Derek.
Stiles was startled out of his thoughts by Derek poking him in the shoulder. "You're thinking too much," was all that Derek said, then shifted closer to Stiles so he could get to the pizza.
He didn't move away once he had his slice, as Stiles had expected, and taking comfort in Derek's warmth and presence beside him, Stiles leaned against his shoulder. They kept talking and eating throughout the night, and when it was later than either of them realised, they packed up the last of the food into containers, Derek taking the pizza boxes out to the bin while Stiles changed into his pyjamas and did his teeth.
Derek returned, finished his own nightly routine, and climbed into the bed, wrapping his arms around Stiles' stomach, his breath warm against his neck.
Maybe this wasn't as one-sided as Stiles had originally thought.
...
End of the eighth chapter.