Chapter Ten

...

Stiles considered his options: 1) run away, possibly have to move to another country to avoid McDouchebag for the rest of his life, 2) lie and play it off as a joke, and never have McAsswipe (or the people who would believe the FBI agent over a new recruit) believe him ever again, or 3) tell McCall the truth.

Rafe waited, looking as though he had all the time in the world.

Stiles thought about the things he'd discovered since he'd come to the FBI: five recruits in his group weren't human and had been sent invitations to join; Stiles himself had been accepted, despite his less-than-stellar academic career in his senior year; McCall's repeated efforts to show how he'd changed and was changing.

Now McCall was waiting patiently for an explanation. He wasn't threatening anyone to get them, or looking at Stiles like he was crazy.

Stiles remembered the agent shooting the Chemist to save him, probably hearing half of the Chemist's rant and not understanding the what or how or why, but still saving Stiles anyway. He had a sudden epiphany that that was what McCall had been trying to do every single day since leaving his family and sobering up: save people.

Like father, like son, he thought, a little amused.

Stiles would have never thought to compare the two, to even think that Agent McBallsack could be half the person Scott was, but maybe he really was trying.

Still, there was a difference between trying to be a good person, being a good person, and actually believing someone about everything that had happened in the last five years. Especially so when the things that had happened to Stiles and his friends were so far beyond belief that there were days he could believe them to be a prolonged nightmare.

Stiles looked away from Rafe and back to the view, licking his lips and spinning his phone in his hands nervously. "Scott was bitten by a werewolf five years ago..."

...

Rafe hadn't honestly expected an explanation. He'd thought that Stiles would cling to his hatred of him - still deserved, he knew that, even if he was... doing better, no longer trying - and would refuse to say a thing. To his surprise, Stiles started talking instead.

Rafe listened to every single word, watching Stiles as he animated his words with his hands at the start, then continuing on to his shoulders dropping, his expression becoming far more serious than Rafe had ever seen before.

Stiles glossed over some details, probably left more unsaid than said, and skirted a few topics completely. Despite that, Stiles not only confirmed Rafe's suspicions about Beacon Hills and Scott, but also told him more things than he probably would have liked to know.

The notes in Stiles' notebook started to make more sense the more Rafe listened. Hank had managed to decode three words out of the pages and pages that Stiles had written: moon, Mexico, and dog? Hank still didn't know if the last word was correct since it seemed to have a different connotation, and Rafe suddenly knew that Stiles really meant werewolf. He felt as though someone had just sucker-punched him with a sledgehammer.

They both sat in silence for a long time, Stiles sitting with his head resting between his knees as he tried to calm down from reliving memories that were on par with the lives of some of the toughest war-torn PTSD soldiers. Bullets and bombs versus fangs and death. Vaguely, Rafe wondered how Stiles had managed to pass his psych test.

Thinking about Stiles' phone call to his father, Rafe thought about how he could present this particular case to the higher-ups without being seen as insane. There were only a few ways to deal with something like this in a legal fashion and while the recruits were still green, it could be spun into a training exercise of sorts.

Rafe stood up slowly, not wanting to startle Stiles and get thrown back again (which was done with magic, apparently?!). Once he had Stiles' attention again, Rafe stood up completely and offered his hand to the younger man. They looked at each other for a second that felt as though it lasted an eternity, but then Stiles took his hand and Rafe lifted him up to his feet.

"I presume you can contact Hale?" Rafe asked. Stiles didn't answer, but he didn't expect one, so he simply continued, "How fast can he get here? We have a day and a half to train the rest of the recruits, and Hogan's Alley will be perfect."

"Wh-what?"

"You honestly think I'm going to let Scott - or anyone he cares about - to be hurt when I have the means to help? I know you think I'm a complete bastard, but I do care about my son. I'll discuss the training with Sean," Rafe said, brushing his clothes off.

"McCall," Stiles said, drawing his attention immediately because Rafe was pretty sure that was the first time he'd called him by his actual name since he was six years old. "Don't think that this is going to get you into my good books. You might be helping now, but that means shit-all with your past actions."

Rafe clenched his jaw and nodded. He hadn't expected to be immediately forgiven, but surely doing this would go some way towards making Stiles realise he wasn't the same person he'd been when he and Scott were younger?

"Oh, and since you and I both know that Derek didn't kill those people, you can drop the case against him now, right?" Stiles said, arms folded across his chest. It wasn't a question.

Rafe nodded. "I'll let the relevant people know that we have verified Hale's whereabouts on those dates of the murders."

"How did you get that information about the murders anyway?"

"Anonymous tip. The call was traced back to Beacon Hills," Rafe added.

Stiles frowned. That removed three suspects from his list, at least. He wished he was in front of his wall so he could change the string and cross off names. "Oh, one more thing?"

Rafe nodded and waited, curious as to what else Stiles could possibly want or say.

"If anyone hurts Derek, I want an hour's head start before anyone comes after me," Stiles said.

"Excuse me?" Rafe blinked, not quite sure he'd understood Stiles correctly.

"I'm not bringing Derek in to the FBI just to have him hurt or taken away. If that happens, I will not be responsible for my actions."

Rafe had faced down hardened criminals and terrorists, yet he'd never felt a chill of fear run through him like he did right then. "I'll make sure Hale isn't harmed."

Stiles nodded and waited until Rafe returned inside before sighing and flicking through his phone contacts to wolf. He could only hope that Derek would agree to help.

...

Hogan's Alley was a town built by the FBI to train their recruits. It had the usual storefronts and exterior of an normal everyday town. Usually actors were used to simulate criminals and terrorists, and the recruits were required to shoot them with paintball guns without harming the actor civilians. Today the recruits' training was going to involve a werewolf.

Derek cracked his neck, shifting his features as he did so, fangs slipping out, eyes filtering to blue, and his claws protruding.

Grant fainted. Beside him, Marcie rolled her eyes.

"Doing okay, big guy?" Stiles asked beside Derek, his voice soft yet firm.

Derek nodded, not taking his eyes off the recruits and the two FBI agents that were there: Sean and Rafe. He could scent all of their emotions, the fear, disbelief, wariness, curiosity, amazement. Derek focused on Stiles' emotions instead: calm, steady, and unafraid. Stiles was a little tense beside him, his scent and body language screaming that he would fight every last person if they even tried to come near Derek, let alone hurt him. Derek wondered if Stiles even realised that his fingertips were lit with tiny blue sparks.

"Can we approach?" Rafe asked Stiles, his hands clenched and deep in his pockets. He'd barely resisted the urge to get his weapon out, but Rafe reminded himself that Hale was on their side. Shooting an ally wasn't exactly a way to gain their trust.

"Ask Derek; he can still talk and hear you," Stiles said, nodding to Derek.

"All right. But keep your hands away from your gun," Derek said.

Rafe nodded and stepped forward slowly until he was an arm's length away from Derek.

"We've only got a day and a half, McCall; can you speed it up a little here?" Stiles snarked, voice low so the other recruits wouldn't hear him berating the agent.

"You don't look as... hairy as I expected," McCall admitted, frowning.

"Hollywood," Stiles supplied. "I still haven't worked out what happens to his eyebrows."

Rafe blinked, looked up, and then nodded. "Huh." He seemed to realise himself a moment later, then coughed. "Right. Obviously, you're not feral, but what... do you do?" he asked, at a complete loss for how to continue now that there was an honest-to-god werewolf standing in front of him.

"I'm between jobs at the moment, but Halloween is coming up, so..." Derek shrugged.

Beside him, Stiles snickered into his fist. "Dude, stop being a dork, and go do your thing. I'll get them up to speed."

"Don't call me dude," Derek said, but he grinned and started off at a slow jog towards Hogan's Alley.

"Werewolves have heightened senses, so they're difficult to trap and hunt down. Not impossible, unfortunately," Stiles added in a low mutter. "Marcie, see if you can find him," he said, throwing a paintball gun to her and winking.

Marcie caught the gun and grinned broadly. She headed into Hogan's Alley, her body turning invisible as she stepped through a doorway.

...

End of the tenth chapter.