Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles adores his godson.

Really, he does. He is also on the verge of buying one of those child leashes he's seen online and inflicting it on the kid, because Eli just won't stay put. This isn't exactly a new development — god knows he's babysat the boy enough to wonder if his ADHD somehow managed to rub off on the youngest Hale — but it is the first time the eight-year-old decides to simply take off on his own. In the middle of Yards Park.

This is Derek's fault, Stiles decides, sprinting after the little menace.

Derek had decided to drop his son off at way-too-early o'clock — also known as six a.m. — and instead of taking a nap until a more reasonable time, the pup insisted on going out to play; so off to the park they went. If Eli wasn't a baby werewolf, Stiles is pretty sure he'd have caught up to the kid by now, and thus the root of the issue is entirely to blame on a certain Sourwolf and his magical genes.

“Eli, c'mon, stop running!” Stiles nearly whines, weaving out of the way of a couple.

Eli does not, in fact, stop running.

When Stiles checks exactly where the kid is running to, he realizes the direction might not have been quite as random as he'd first assumed. There are a couple of food trucks ahead, and his godson is nothing if not a deceptively adorable eating machine.

“Slow down, you're gonna-” Stiles trails off as his warning becomes entirely obsolete, watching as Eli turns his head to look at a truck while running and bumps against a man's legs at full speed, bringing them both to the ground. “Eli!”

He finally closes the distance between him and the pile of limbs on the floor, noticing with a grimace that the man — messy-haired, vaguely familiar, and wearing an eye-catching purple scarf that immediately reminds him of Isaac — had been holding a cup; the contents of which has predictably soaked both his godson and the unfortunate victim of his momentary distraction.

“Ew, ew, ew!” Eli complains, scrambling to his feet and waving his arms around to remove the liquid, which thankfully doesn't seem to be hot.

“Come here,” Stiles calls with a sigh, shrugging off his plaid flannel shirt and kneeling to use it to dry the kid's arms and face. “I'm so sorry,” he adds, glancing over to check on purple-scarf, “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?”

“Just-” the man sits up slowly, visibly winded. The dangers of baby wolves, everyone. “got the air knocked out of me for a second,” he finishes after a breath, glancing down at his beverage soaked button-up and suit jacket with a grimace.

“Eli, what do you say?” Stiles prompts as he stands, having dried the kid as much as possible already, and offers his hand to help the man up.

“‘m sorry, mister.” Eli mumbles, scooting halfway behind him like the shy kid he is when he's not busy being a menace. “I didn’ mean to.”

The man accepts his hand, and Stiles easily pulls him back to his feet, “Apology accepted,” purple-scarf says with a small reassuring smile at Eli. “I'm just glad I ordered an iced coffee.”

“Here, this side's still dry, just-” Stiles pats the dry end of the flannel to the man's chest where his button-down had absorbed most of the liquid, like he'd just done to Eli. “I'll buy you another one! I mean- another coffee, not another shirt; unless you want me to buy you a new one, but this doesn't look totally ruined, so-”

“It's all right,” The man's fingers close around his wrist to stop the movement and Stiles stills, realizing he'd basically assaulted a stranger with his shirt like some sort of overzealous mother and feeling the heat climb up his neck and straight to his face.

“Sorry,” he offers sheepishly when his wrist is released, pulling the shirt back to himself. “I mean it, though. It's the least I can do since my godson ran you over,” Stiles emphasizes the last part with a look at Eli, who returns it via those wide brown eyes — clearly inherited from his mom — that make his resolve to be upset melt into the ground like the spilled coffee. “Don't give me that look, I told you to stop running.”

“I smelled cookies,” Eli says like that justifies taking off like a rocket through half the park, and Stiles only just refrains from sighing.

“The cookies weren't going anywhere,” Stiles rebuts, ruffling the kid's hair and smiling slightly when Eli just leans into his hand instead of fighting it off. “So, coffee?” He prompts, looking back at the man.

Purple-scarf hesitates for a moment before giving a slight nod, “Sure. Thanks.”

“If he's getting coffee, can I get cookies?” Eli asks, stepping closer.

“All you're getting is a shower,” Stiles replies.

Cue the pouting. “But…” Eli pauses, probably thinking of something to say, then looking up at him. “Y'said cookies have dope-mean that makes the brain happy. I want happy brain!”

Stiles chuckles, “Dopamine,” he corrects, “Isn't in the cookie; it's what your brain makes when you eat sweets. It also makes it when you run around like you just did, so you don't really need any more.”

“But- but-” Eli frowns, trying to think of something else.

“If you make it a chocolate cookie, it has magnesium too,” purple-scarf chimes in, making Stiles’ brows rise slightly as he and Eli look at the man instead. “Besides, Most pediatric groups suggest keeping added sugar under 25 grams a day. A small chocolate cookie is only five, give or take.”

“What he said,” Eli says, looking back at him. “Please?”

Stiles mock-sighs, “Fine. One cookie,” he emphasizes, not at all ready to risk giving the pup a sugar rush.

“Yes!” Eli grins.

They get called next in line, and Stiles motions for the man to say his order first before ordering an iced mocha for himself and a chocolate cookie for Eli, who won't stop bouncing on his heels.

Once Stiles pays, he turns to the man. “I'm Stiles, by the way. And this little wrecking ball is Eli,” he pulls the kid closer so he's not interrupting the line they've just side-stepped.

There's another nearly negligible moment of delay before the man nods, “Spencer,” he offers in return.

It doesn't take long before their orders are in their hands, and the trio is stepping away from the food truck. Stiles can't help noticing the way Spencer keeps his movements small, wincing a little every time his soaked button-up drags along with it.

“D'you wanna take that off?” Stiles blurts out, hears how that sounds, and immediately adds, “I mean, like, a change of clothes? That looks uncomfortable.”

Spencer looks somewhere between confused and amused, “you don't have to buy me a shirt.”

“You can borrow one,” he offers instead, and Spencer's brows furrow slightly. “I live five minutes away,” Stiles explains. “And I need to open the bookstore anyway. You can wash up, borrow something, and I can put those through a quick cycle if you want,” he motions to the man's coffee-stained clothes.

Spencer visibly perks up, “Bookstore?”

“Stiles has all the books,” Eli chimes in, cookie crumbs in the corners of his mouth.

He snorts, “Not all of them.” Stiles raises his brows expectantly at Spencer. “So?” He prompts. “I'll let you pick a book to make up for the unplanned coffee shower.”

“You already bought me coffee,” Spencer points out.

“Call it treble damages,” he suggests with a smile, just glad the man hadn't made a big deal out of the whole thing.

He's had to deal with similar incidents before and not everyone was this chill about it at the time. Stiles may or may not have wanted to slap a Karen who kept making snide comments about Eli's upbringing, and the only thing that stopped him was wanting to set a good example for his godson.

If he covertly slipped a little bad luck knot into the woman's purse like a reverse pickpocket, well, Eli didn't need to know.

Spencer's lips twitch slightly, “That's not exactly how treble damages work, but I'll never turn down a book.”

“y’ smell like ‘em,” Eli points out, and Stiles doesn't freeze, already too used to justifying these.

“Eli, we don't tell people what they smell like,” he recites like it's not the first time he's said it — because it isn't.

Eli just keeps munching on the last bits of his cookie and Stiles pretends he doesn't notice Spencer's considering expression. People usually forget Eli's comments quickly enough, chalking it up to a child's creativity and putting it off their mind in a couple of minutes, so Stiles has learned to just roll with it. If he pretends it's normal, people accept it as if it is.

It doesn't take them very long — just enough that they've finished their beverages and Eli's cookie is already history —  to reach their destination: A cream-brick storefront, the scalloped canvas awning above spelling out ‘THE RED STRING’. The big window is all books; a single red cord looping across the panes like a case board line, vanishing and reappearing between spines. The glass door advises customers to ‘follow the thread’, and a bell rings as Stiles unlocks the door and swings it open, motioning his two companions inside as he turns the ‘closed’ sign in blocky black font to the ‘open’ side, which is written in a thread-like red cursive font.

“I've never been here,” Spencer sounds a little disbelieving as he looks around, taking in the ridiculous amount of books cramped together in the not-so-small space.

Stiles raises one brow, tone turning teasing. “And you've been to every bookstore in DC?”

“Pretty much,” the man replies, to his surprise.

Stiles blinks. “Well, we've been here for the past five years, so… maybe fate didn't want you to find us yet.” He shrugs, leading the way to the spiral staircase near the end of the store. “C'mon, I live on the third floor,” he rushes Eli ahead.

“Fate,” Spencer muses, climbing the steps behind him. “So the name is referring to the red thread of fate,” he more states than asks.

“Not the Chinese one, but yes. Mostly.” Stiles replies as they pass the second floor — still as book-filled as the first —  and reach the third, where he unlocks another door and opens it into his living space. “Eli, go get some water, you've been running all morning,” he tells his godson, who speeds over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of juice instead.

Brat.

Chapter Text

The apartment is a single open room with warm wood floors. The kitchen tucks into the right wall; a white fridge, a continuous countertop with a cooktop and a sink, a microwave on top of the right side counter, square white-tile backsplash and honey-wood cabinets underneath it all. Open shelves hold mugs, jars, and a couple other knickknacks.

The living area gathers around a woven rug in the center of the room; a low gray sofa with its back to the kitchen area divides the space, and a second one stretches under the big central window facing the door. Floor-to-ceiling shelves flank the window and are crammed with sun-faded paperbacks, and more books sleep in cubbies under the sofas. A white coffee table sits in the center, and flatscreen TV is mounted on the living room wall — mostly facing the window sofa — with a wooden credenza underneath it hosting additional books tucked around a few gaming consoles, mixed in with various game and DVD cases.

A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stands like a divider to the left of the TV area and turns the back corner into a sleeping nook. Behind it, a low double bed sits under framed photos and wall shelves; next to the half-open door to a slightly overfilled reach-in closet. Opposite the bed, a simple work desk lines the wall. A comfortable computer chair is pulled in, and a closed laptop waits next to a few open notebooks. The whole place reads cozy, bookish, and a bit of a mess, but Stiles tries his best not to let it turn into an actual disaster zone since Eli is a regular visitor.

“Hm,” Stiles closes the door behind them and pauses, actually looking up and down at Spencer. Not to check the guy out — though he's not not checking him out either — but to visually take a few measurements. “Just a sec,” he holds up a finger and rushes over to the closet, nearly tripping over a pair of shoes on the way.

Spencer's got slightly narrower shoulders but also a few inches — maybe three or four — over him in height, so something oversized is probably a better bet than assuming the man doesn't mind his shirt riding up if he raises an arm. It takes a moment to find a slightly faded XXL hoodie he bought to swim inside of during movie night, the red now more of a burgundy color than the bright one it once was.

“Here,” he says once he walks back, holding it out. “Bathroom's through there,” Stiles points at the door next to the entrance. “You can either hop in the shower or grab a towel and wet it to clean off. They're in the cabinet on the left inside, not the one under the sink,” he rambles, pretty much shooing the man inside, who looks vaguely amused as he walks in and closes the door behind himself. He stares at the door for a moment before turning around, only to face a suspiciously smiley Eli. “Not a word, pup.”

“Y' smell like when Auntie Lyd's around,” the brat points out with a grin.

Stiles narrows his eyes at his godson, “Well, you have a pomegranate mustache.” He returns lamely, walking over to wipe said mustache off. “Let's find you some clothes, you're not escaping that shower.”

The pup didn't exactly come with an overnight bag, but he's been around enough that some of his clothes end up staying behind every now and then, so it doesn't take long for Stiles to locate a gray t-shirt — one of the ones he gave the kid, with the yellow Batman logo on it — and a pair of black sweatpants for his godson to change into. By the time they've got it all on hand, Spencer is already leaving the bathroom, hoodie on and previous attire folded over his right arm.

A grown man shouldn't be allowed to look that adorable, especially in Stiles’ hoodie, which has the hood pulled up for some reason. “Looks good,” he blurts out, cheeks warming slightly. “Uh- Eli, shower. Stat.”

“Going,” Eli heads to the bathroom, clothes in hand. “Don't be gross.”

“Shush,” Stiles glares at the kid's retreating back, which is quickly gone behind the bathroom's closed door. “Ignore him. Want me to run those through a cycle?” Stiles offers, motioning at the coffee-stained clothes. “I mean, if you don't have anywhere to be in the next forty minutes.”

Spencer seems to take a moment to consider the offer. “I'm technically free for the day,” he admits before holding out the bundle of clothes, “and don't plan on leaving before exploring the store,” he adds. “You have a Russian section.”

He does. It's on the second floor, so he's surprised Spencer even noticed it as they climbed the stairs. It's not exactly a big selection, but Stiles does have more than a normal bookstore's usual amount of foreign language books.

“You read Russian?” He asks curiously — the interest could be for a gift after all — as he takes the clothes and heads toward the closed laundry closet that nearly passes for a wall next to the bathroom door. “And you can look through those if you want,” Stiles adds, motioning at the nearly bursting bookshelves Spencer keeps scanning with his eyes. “But they don't count for reparations,” he warns jokingly as he goes about putting the clothes in the washer and picking the right cycle.

“I do,” Spencer replies, already heading for the closest bookshelf — the floor-to-ceiling one that's open on both sides, separating Stiles’ bed from the rest of the room. “I think you might own more books than me,” he comments, fingers jumping from one spine to the other as he takes in the titles.

“I take it that's not a common occurrence?” Stiles asks. “And fair warning, the Russian selection is mainly focused on mythology. Actually, most of the foreign titles are,” he adds, since part of the second floor sort of doubles as Stiles’ private supernatural research storage.

The fact that most people who frequent the store never feel an inclination to buy any of the books in that section isn't exactly a coincidence.

“Not really,” Spencer confirms, “and I don't mind.” He pulls a title from the shelf, looking surprised. “You have a first edition of the original Solaris.”

Stiles pauses for a moment, a small smile finding its way to his expression, “Yeah… it was my mom's,” he adds, remembering the old Polish book by Stanisław Lem, one of the many books he'd brought along after finally going through his mother's things in the attic. “You read Polish, too?” He can't help but ask.

“Unfortunately not,” Spencer replies. “But I've read the English translation, and watched the Tarkovsky film adaptation. You?”

Stiles closes the laundry closet back up and walks over, “Read Polish? Yes. And I tried to watch the film, but my Russian is restricted to text only,” he sheepishly admits, which is the case for most of the languages he's picked up over the years in order to research different mythologies at their respective sources, or at least as close to the original texts as possible. “And the Soderbergh remake focuses way too much on the love story. I've got nothing against romance, but I like the world building too, y'know? The impossibility of truly understanding something so alien but still trying to scientifically reason it out anyway. If I wanted love in outer space, I'd re-watch Star Wars or something,” he trails off, realizing he'd been rambling.

Spencer looks up from the book cover, “I don't think most people would categorize Star Wars as a romance,” his tone sounds amused.

Stiles’ shrugs, “I'm not most people. Besides, it may be about politics and the nature of good and evil, but you can't not ship Han and Leia.”

Spencer's mouth ticks up, “fair enough.” He carefully places the book back on the shelf, continuing his visual exploration, “Have you read all of these?”

“Most of them,” Stiles replies. Especially the ones on this bookshelf, since it's closest to his bed, which means he keeps his favorites within reach.

“Did you study Philology?” At Stiles’ look, Spencer elaborates. “You read Polish, mentioned reading Russian, and also have books in Old English, Ancient Greek, and Latin.” He points at each one, lingering on Hyginus’ Fabulae.

That particular rendition of myths had been consulted a few times, before Stiles managed to reliably translate Ancient Greek. He'd been tracking a witch who conjured skeleton warriors to fight her battles and tried to get his hands on anything that might help go against the pseudo-Spartoi, which meant acquiring older texts that didn't simply translate the Sown Men into ‘Spartans’ and may contain a hint of how to get rid of them.

“Criminology, actually.” Stiles replies with some amusement at being analyzed through his reading choices. “Languages are more of a hobby.”

That makes Spencer look at him again, “Criminology?” He asks, head tilting minutely, and Stiles just knows he's probably wondering how that resulted in owning a bookstore of all things.

“Yeah,” Stiles leans on the bookshelf — it's secured to the ceiling, he's not about to topple it. “This,” he motions in the general direction of the store below them, “wasn't always the plan.”

“Really?” Spencer asks with another sweeping look at the frankly ridiculous amount of books Stiles keeps to himself. Point. “What was it, then? If you don't mind me asking.”

Stiles huffs with amusement, “You're wearing my clothes, I think you qualify for the basic backstory package,” he teases, smile widening when he catches a slight hint of red on the man's cheeks as he prepares to protest, though Stiles doesn't give him the chance as he goes on, “It's not that interesting. Dad's a small town Sheriff, so I grew up around a lot of law enforcement; though I was aiming for the FBI instead of the Sheriff's station,” he notices a small reaction at that but doesn't pounce on it; just makes a mental note, intent on continuing the story. “So I applied to colleges here, picked AU for Justice and Law, even got into the FBI Honors Internship and everything, but things didn't exactly work out,” Stiles shrugs one shoulder. “I'd been working in this place since moving here; used to be a record store,” he explains. “When the owner decided to sell, a friend helped me buy it off and I turned it into a bookstore instead.”

“So you didn't finish college?” Spencer asks, looking genuinely interested in the very sanitized version of his backstory.

He snorts, “At least three different people would strangle me if I dropped out. Nah, I got my B.A. and a few other certificates. I never said I stopped being interested in Criminology, just that the FBI part didn't pan out,” Stiles smirks. “I've been putting together case boards since I was ten; used up a lot of red yarn until I learned better, which is half the reason this store got this name. The door on the other side of the stairs we came through,” he thumbs toward it, “That's my office for the P.I. work I do on the side. Mostly referrals, but some walk-ins happen to find their way over every now and then.”

“As if by fate?” Spencer suggests in an amused tone, not aware of how right he is. “Ten is a little young for criminal investigation.”

“My dad thought so too,” Stiles smiles slightly at the bittersweet memory. “But we'd been on our own for a year and I'd gotten into my head that if I solved all his cases, he'd have to spend more time at home.”

“I'm sorry about your mother,” Spencer offers, giving words to what he'd only implied and thankfully ignoring the chance to comment on Stiles’ early acquisition of daddy issues — or the likelihood of a ten-year-old solving all of his dad's cases.

Stiles nods. “It was a long time ago,” he says, stepping away from the bookshelf just as the bathroom door opens, letting out a coil of steam and a fresh off the shower Eli in his Batman themed getup.

“Stiles!” The boy hops over and Stiles vaguely wonders if the shower was a hidden checkpoint that restored all of the kid's spent energy. “Can I play Mario Kart?”

“You know there's no screens before lunch,” he reminds his godson, who takes way too much pleasure in beating him in said videogame eight times out of ten. Freaking werewolf reflexes. “Besides, I've got a customer,” he motions with his head at Spencer, “so why don't we all go down to the store and you can pick a new book for today's bedtime story?”

“A scary one?” Eli asks like this is a negotiation instead of a bribe.

“Not too scary,” Stiles advises, not about to spend half the night assuring the kid that nothing's gonna crawl out from under the bed to get him.

“Cool!” The kid announces and runs to the door, throwing it open.

“Don't run on the stairs!” Stiles warns with exasperation before looking back at Spencer, “I'm gonna-” he motions vaguely in the direction Eli ran off. “Close the door when you come down,” he requests, rushing after the kid to make sure he doesn't end up falling down the stairs.

He'd be fine, but the whole werewolf healing thing would be hard to explain.

Chapter Text

Spencer likes to think he has better control of his bodily reactions than to gape, and yet that's exactly what he does as he watches Stiles — an unusual name, probably a nickname — run after his godson and leave him with unmonitored access to the apartment, only requesting that he close the door once he decides to head down. It's an unprecedented amount of disregard for privacy coming from someone who was raised around law enforcement, studied criminology, and claims to be a private investigator.

It's also completely baffling, and not at all what he expected as a result of attempting to fulfill his assignment from Dr. Stein. Is this what ‘normal’ looks like? He absently wonders, eyes taking in the entire apartment once more, now sans its occupants.

Profiling isn't exactly a switch he can choose to turn off in his brain, which means he's already cataloged several facts about the bookstore owner since the man's godson crashed into him with a surprising amount of force for a child he estimates to be in the age range of seven to nine years old.

Stiles hadn't drawn attention to the collision; simply dried his charge, inquired over Spencer's potential injuries, helped him up, and even addressed a then-stranger's soaked clothes in an automatic caregiver sequence likely borne out of years of practice, even without a child of his own to care for — inferred from the lack of photographs in the apartment that would suggest a partner or his own child.

The man had insisted on replacing the spilled drink, offered additional restitution using humor to smooth the interaction, and the use of ‘treble damage’ to categorize his three offers of reparation — while technically incorrect — had suggested at least passing familiarity with the legal system. Coupled with the recent knowledge of a bachelor's in Justice and Law with a likely concentration in criminology from the American University, Spencer figures the misuse had been intentional.

Stiles’ protectiveness of Eli had also been apparent; not overtly, but still quite obvious once all of the small actions came together to form a full picture: constant physical touch in the form of air ruffling, a leading hand on the kid's back, small guiding nudges while he was distracted by eating his cookie, a hand at the back of the boy's neck while crossing the street, and even the clear habit of having Eli be the first to climb the stairs so he'll be able to catch him, just in case.

Protectiveness which clashes with the fact that Stiles was quick to invite a stranger into the heart of his home and has now left him entirely unsupervised.

The man's living space also tells him a lot, even as Spencer does his best not to treat it like a crime scene. It's a lived-in home, cozy in a way that speaks of personal comfort, and just messy enough — a pair of shoes out of place, an empty cup in the coffee table, the half-open closet visibly cluttered behind the still unmade bed — to indicate personal care without obsession. The space is functional without being clinical, and visibly optimized for a child visitor, given the outlet and stove knob covers, anchored bookcases, and corner guards he'd taken notice of.

The overflowing shelves containing an impressive amount of books in various foreign languages tell him that Stiles’ classification of his proficiency in them as a hobby is humble at best, especially given the density and proximity of said titles to the bed, which suggests preference and frequent use. The man's bias toward Solaris’ original epistemic puzzle over the romance foregrounding of the English movie remake also speaks of choosing uncertainty mapped to evidence over narratives smoothed for comfort, something Spencer can relate to.

He hears the thump of small feet on the stairs below, the echo of a child’s laugh over Stiles’ voice — warm, directive — and files the sound with the rest, considering his assignment from Dr. Stein. If the goal is exposure to normalcy, this probably qualifies; no matter how unusual Stiles’ openness with his personal space feels to him in particular.

Spencer exhales, relocks his posture, and decides to do as he was asked. He walks out of the apartment, pulls the door softly until the latch catches, and heads down toward the noise.

He finds the store owner and his charge browsing through the aptly dubbed mythology section, where he'd caught sight of a few spines lined with Russian. A closer look reveals a much wider selection than he'd glimpsed in passing; folk tales overlapping pagan titles, and fairy tales sprinkled among historical roots of certain rites — Afanasyev, Pushkin, Propp, Rybakov, Zelenin, and many others — as well as some more kid-leaning illustrated books he could see Eli looking through, disregarding the language in favor of the images, probably counting on his godfather to translate it later.

True to Stiles’ previous comment, there is a wide variety of titles surrounding the theme, in a plethora of languages, some of which he is unfortunately unfamiliar with on a deeper level but knows enough to identify them. Old Norse, Latin and Ancient Greek make a return, mirroring the apartment bookshelves, but are joined by Welsh, Irish, Japanese, German, Spanish and even a single Persian title named ‘Book of Kings’. All of them are dwarfed by nearly double the amount of books in the English language, some obviously translations while most seem entirely original, all surrounding the themes of mythology and folklore, either fictionally or historically.

The entire space reads more like a library than a bookstore, with deliberate curation — fragile hardcovers up high, sturdy translations and bilingual editions in the middle, illustrations at the bottom — and the kind of wear tracks — thumb-oiling at a lower outer corner, a few cracked spines, edges of notes sticking out of certain titles — that speaks of use, not display.

“Can I pick two?” Eli's voice carries from somewhere behind the bookshelf he's parked in front of.

“One for tonight,” he hears Stiles reply, gentle but firm. “Unless you want to read one by yourself.”

“Dad said to stop reading detective books ‘cause they make me nosy,” Eli announces like the answer to some unspoken question.

Stiles’ chuckle is low but still audible through the open shelving, “Your dad's a silly sourwolf who should be used to nosy by now,” he tells the child, and Spencer pauses at the nickname but logs it as likely to be some inside joke. “Besides, how else will we solve the case of the missing pie?”

“‘s not a case,” Eli says. “Auntie Lyd ate it. She said thanks on your phone!”

A pause. Then, “When did you look through my phone?” with an exasperated tone that makes Spencer hold back a smile. “Nevermind, your dad's right. Go read a science book instead.”

“The one with the volcano?” Eli sounds excited. “I wanna make a big one!”

“Sure, as long as you make it at your dad's,” is the reply the child gets, and Eli rushes past him a moment later, heading down to the ground floor. “See anything you like?” Stiles’ voice makes him look up from the book he'd been accidentally ignoring in his hands in order to listen to their conversation.

“Your Mythology section is…well-curated.” He settles on, diplomatically.

He can't exactly verbalize that he would very much like to set up camp in this store for a few days so he can leisurely leaf through the selection — and he's only seen one section of it so far.

Stiles huffs a laugh. “That’s a polite way to say ‘eclectic’,” he responds. “The Afanasyev is up high on purpose. Some of those are nightmare fuel.”

“I can imagine,” Spencer concedes, though he hasn't read it.

A collection of oral folk tales from across the Russian Empire is bound to have violence sitting close to the surface, not unlike the original Grimm stories; before they were thoroughly sanitized and adapted for children's consumption.

“Have any interesting dreams lately?” Stiles’ question startles him, before he follows the man's eye to the book in his hands.

He'd picked up ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ without much conscious thought, the week's recurring nightmare still orbiting the edges of his awareness and apparently influencing his reading choices.

“Interesting is one word for it,” Spencer replies, turning a couple more pages. “I've been having a recurring workplace dream, but it doesn't take Artemidorus to interpret,” he adds, placing the book back on the shelf before turning his attention back to Stiles, who seems strangely content to make conversation instead of keeping an eye on the suspiciously quiet child roaming the floor below. “I don't mean to overstep, but shouldn't Eli be supervised?”

Thankfully, the question earns a small smile instead of offense for commenting on his child-rearing abilities. “He's fine. Kid grew up around this place; If there was trouble to be found, he's had years to do it,” Stiles explains. “We've got these secret reading nooks,” the man motions for him to follow and walks to a bookshelf in the wall, pulling out a book from the edge and using the now available grip to pull it like a door; revealing a small, cozy square space with a built-in bench, complete with a cushion, some pillows and even a throw blanket, all under an optimally placed reading light. Spencer is half tempted to move into it, regardless of the logistics. “Eli loves them, he's probably already tucked into one of them downstairs with a book that's gonna keep him busy for… maybe twenty minutes.”

“If I step into one of those, you might have to start charging rent,” Spencer jokes, lips twitching when it makes Stiles chuckle.

Maybe he can do normal; on occasion.

“You're not the first to say that,” the store owner informs with amusement. “I've had to wake people up before. I don't mind,” he's quick to add, “but it can give people a scare. I had a customer nearly call the police once, thinking they found a dead body,” from the mirth in his voice, Stiles wasn't too bothered by the close call. “Sorry, I forgot to ask, do you want directions to anything specific? If you want me to leave you to browse, you can just say so; I promise I'm capable of shutting up, on occasion” his tone dips into self-deprecation and Spencer holds back a frown.

“I don't want you to shut up,” he assures plainly, which — judging by his microexpressions — seems to surprise Stiles.

The store owner hides it behind a smile, “Good, ‘cause I lied. I'm pretty sure I even talk in my sleep,” he jokes, quickly moving on when Spencer doesn't indulge the humor at his expense. “Um- I could recommend something? If you tell me what you like to read.” Before Spencer can formulate a reply, he continues. “Besides Stanisław, I mean. Actually, have you read his other books? Śledztwo — that's The Investigation, in the English edition — drove me up the wall, with the whole- wait, that might be a spoiler; have you read it?”

The Polish rolls smoothly off his mouth; Spencer can tell even without being fluent in it, from his familiarity with Slavic languages. Coupled with the fact that the first edition of Solaris upstairs belonged to Stiles’ late mother, he finds it safe to assume she spoke the language; and was probably the one who taught him.

“I have,” he assures, mouth ticking up as he closes the reading nook to browse the shelf that hides it. “Not a fan of non-resolution?”

“It just stops!” Stiles complains like he's been waiting to let it out. “It shrugs, pats you on the head, and says ‘coincidence’ like that's an answer; I've got enough of that in life, I didn't need it in my literature!” Spencer holds back a smile when he starts gesticulating to emphasize his point, “And I get Sciss, really, but statistical irregularity isn't a suspect; I can't read its rights. There's corpses apparently taking moonlit strolls and all he can say is that it's gonna keep happening? Eli could tell me that.” Spencer gives up on browsing the shelf, all of his attention pulled towards the humorous rant like a new center of gravity. “And don't get me started on the stakeout. We bait the trap, we wire the room, we breathe like church mice, and then… nothing. No visible mechanism, no suspect, and the only witness gets hit by a car! And then the sequence ends because entropy gets bored,” the man runs a hand over his face. It shouldn't be so humorous how worked up he seems to be about this — and yet. “That is not an ending, that is a weather report. If I open a detective novel, I want the detective to detect something other than his own epistemic limits.”

Spencer tips his head, keeping a tight grip on his amusement. “Careful with using ‘weather report’ as an insult,” he advises. “Meteorology predicts without a complete mechanism all the time. You can model pressure and temperature and still be right more often than chance. Lem does something similar; he points to a pattern without pretending to name every cause.”

Stiles folds his arms, unconvinced. “If we’re doing forecasts, then I want numbers. Strong winds, chance of culprit by morning.”

“Fair,” Spencer continues, barely hiding a smile. “But structurally, the book isn’t at that stage. Vladimir Propp, a Russian folklorist, mapped common ‘functions’ in tales. What you’re calling the ‘failed stakeout’ sits in a delay function. No ‘villain identification’ yet. Naming one there would be structurally premature.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose slightly. “Then tell Propp my rent’s due on closure. Premature or not, I still need an answer.”

“You wired the room and the events stopped,” Spencer continues, unruffled. “That suggests an observer effect. The act of observing interfered. If the phenomenon only occurs unobserved, that’s not nothing. It just constrains when and how it can happen.”

“So it only misbehaves when nobody’s watching,” Stiles concludes. “Great. Very helpful.”

“A stakeout that records ‘nothing happened’ is still a result,” Spencer adds. “It cuts options. Whatever you’re looking for either doesn’t operate under those conditions, or it does and you didn’t have the right instrument on.”

Stiles snorts. “I can’t file ‘vibes of nothing’ in an incident report.”

“You can file ‘no effect detected under the tested conditions’,” Spencer says, tone purposefully mild enough to be infuriating. “Right now, the only defensible position is the null hypothesis. No special cause demonstrated.”

Stiles points at him with the book he’s holding. “Then the null is obstructing the investigation.”

“It has the right to remain unexplained,” Spencer deadpans.

Stiles pauses, blinks, and narrows his eyes at him. “Uh-huh.”

Spencer shifts to a softer register. “If Lem gave you a named culprit on the last page, which observation in the book would change? The stakeout? The reports? The witness patterns?”

Stiles opens his mouth, stalls, then exhales. “None of them, just my blood pressure.”

Spencer’s mouth lifts, finally. “Then the difference would be comfort, not evidence.”

Stiles stares at him for a second, then huffs a laugh, half glare and half grin. “You’re winding me up.”

“Only a little,” Spencer admits. “Also checking how your argument holds under pressure.”

“Okay, Dr. Stress Test.” Stiles slides the book back onto the shelf and shakes his head. “You’re lucky I like arguments as much as I like being right. Which I am.”

Spencer has to chuckle at that. “I respect the priorities,” he informs, refraining from reviving the argument. “Do you prefer the kind of book where you can point at the killer, or the one where the method just clicks? Say the word and I’ll name a title.”

Stiles huffs. “I thought I was the one doing recommendations around here,” he says, then relents. “Fine. I’ll take a satisfying detective novel I haven’t read. If you can name one.”

He can't help but smirk, definitely up for the challenge.

Chapter Text

Stiles is almost eighty percent sure that the man borrowing his hoodie and arguing with him about crime fiction works in law enforcement; maybe even a branch of the FBI, judging by his comment on Clarice being allowed to interview Lecter — Stiles had brought up Silence of The Lambs while discussing similar titles — as a trainee and his previous reaction to Stiles’ mention of the agency. Either way, too many technical terms slip into their conversation for the man to be entirely unfamiliar with police procedure.

Still, the man doesn't seem to want to talk about it, and Stiles has learned some tact in the past decade.

It takes longer than Spencer probably expected for them to land on a detective novel Stiles hasn't read; though to be fair Stiles keeps sidetracking the conversation, wanting to talk about some of the suggested reads he has read before with someone who seems to like arguing for the sake of the debate just as much as him. They end up drifting to the first floor so Stiles can see if The Judas Window is in stock and Spencer can't believe he hasn't read it, especially Stiles owns pretty much every Doyle book ever and Carr is very Doyle-adjacent. In his defense, Stiles just hasn't gotten around to reading every book in Carr's Henry Merrivale series because c'mon there's twenty-two of them and he reads fast — faster than most people at least — but not that fast.

“Nope,” Stiles declares after checking both his system and the shelves. “I'll have to order it.” They only have five out of the whole series in stock, actually, which will have to be remedied soon. “But I do have-” he pauses, balancing on the tip of his toes to reach a particular title — the bookshelves are way too tall and he doesn't feel like grabbing a bench — before turning on his heels to face Spencer. “This,” he holds out the book. “You said you liked Kerr's Bernie Gunther novels; this has a similar vibe,” he pauses, “You haven't read it, right?”

He has to ask, because it sort of feels like Spencer has read almost everything, and he wonders if the guy even sleeps, if he's got time to work in law enforcement and read this many books. Stiles at least has the excuse of owning a bookstore.

“Death in Breslau,” Spencer reads out the title. “That's the German name for Wrocław before the Potsdam agreement, and the author is Marek Krajewski, so I assume you've read it in the original Polish instead of the translation?”

“Your pronunciation's good,” Stiles notes, pleasantly surprised by how Spencer says the city name. It's not perfect — he half turns the ‘ł’ into an ‘L’ like he'd realized halfway through that it should sound like a ‘w’ — but it's good for someone who doesn't claim to be fluent. “And yes, I've got it upstairs… somewhere.”

“The Russian helps,” He justifies, but still seems to brighten slightly at the compliment. “Polish keeps penultimate stress and mostly avoids reduction while Russian reduces unstressed vowels. Your ‘sz’, ‘ż’, and ‘cz’ are my ‘sh’, ‘zh’ and ‘ch’; ‘c’ is ‘ts’, ‘rz’ is that same ‘zh’, and ‘ł’ is a ‘w’. Polish also adds the alveolo-palatals and nasal vowels, and both languages devoice at the end, so the final consonants behave the same.”

“Not fluent, huh?” Stiles teases, amused by the impromptu phonetics lesson.

That's another thing he's noticed about Spencer, the man is smart. Not just clever, though he is that too, but more in a way that's easily noticeable after growing up around Lydia Martin — except there's no effort to hide his genius in the way she did, and Spencer seems more generally knowledgeable than numbers-driven like his strawberry-blonde math goddess — and doesn't help Stiles’ growing attraction in the slightest.

“Phonetics isn't the same as fluency,” the man is quick to quip, “But thank you. For the book,” he specifies, glancing down at it thoughtfully before looking back up at Stiles, “I have The Judas Window at home. You could borrow it, if you want? Make this a temporary trade.”

“Are you trying to undermine my reparations?” He playfully narrows his eyes at Spencer but breaks into a grin quickly enough, “I'd like-” the abrupt sound of a door banging open interrupts him mid-phrase. “Eli?” He calls, because the noise came from the second floor, not the front door, and his wards still feel intact.

“Wha's that?” His godson's head pokes out from under the book-filled wooden table close to the back wall, where a reading nook lives behind the tablecloth.

“Probably nothing, but stay put, alright?” Stiles tells him and — once Eli nods and retreats back behind the tablecloth — looks at Spencer. He hadn't missed how the man's dominant hand had moved in the direction you'd usually keep a firearm, or how he hadn't jumped at the noise but became more alert — two more hints toward law enforcement. “Can you keep an eye on Eli for me? I'll just go check that out,” he doesn't wait for a response, knowing that the prospect of leaving a child unsupervised will probably keep Spencer right where he is.

He takes the stairs two flights at a time, and the sound of pouring water becomes more apparent as he climbs. Hoping for something as inconvenient and mundane as a burst pipe, Stiles turns at the corner of a bookshelf and heads toward the bathrooms.

That's when the universe decides to stomp on his naive hopes.

Sure, there's water pouring out of the bathroom, enough that he can see it seeping out past the open door, but he doubts it's the result of a burst pipe. Its movement is slow and purposeful, clearly unnatural, as the liquid pools right at the feet of an unfamiliar man.

He is lean and long-necked, looking somewhere late-thirties, with short, mussed dark-brown hair and a few days of stubble along a narrow jaw. His eyes are a cold river-blue, and snap to meet Stiles’ own as soon as he enters his field of view.

“Red,” the man greets, and the deep, pleasant voice doesn't quite fit the incensed tone it's presented in. “You're a hard man to find.”

The ridiculousness of the situation hits him all at once, and Stiles can't help but snort. “I'm really not,” he informs, taking notice of where he's standing — facing the bathrooms, bookshelf at his back — and taking a discrete side step to make sure his back is no longer obstructed. “I've got a phone, bathroom-man. You could have called instead of bursting my pipes.”

“A face to face meeting feels more appropriate,” The man informs. “Especially after what you did.”

“And what do you think I did?” Stiles feigns ignorance, but he has an inkling on what this might be about, especially with the whole water show and after taking the time to look at the man's clothes.

His wards are too good — and that's not overconfidence, it's years of tweaking and experience — to let any supernatural creature with malicious intent past his doors or windows, but Stiles really hadn't planned for one to take advantage of the plumbing of all things. Water-travel is already a pretty big hint, but what gives him away are the hems. Even at a glance, Stiles can spot the dampness on the ends of the man's dark blue turtleneck sleeves and charcoal dress pants, even though his boots remain fully dry while standing on the pooling water.

He's a nix; he can't really help it, not when Stiles can see through the illusion.

“You took what was mine,” when the nix steps forward, Stiles mirrors him by stepping backward diagonally.

His outer wards are useless once the threat is inside; he doesn't have any mountain ash or powdered mistletoe on hand; and he can't let the nix get to the first floor — not with Eli and Spencer down there. What he does have is his environment, and a well-developed habit of coming up with plans on the fly.

Instead of playing along, Stiles does what he does best: be infuriating. He chuckles. “Sorry,” he says — not meaning it at all — when the guy glowers at him. “It's just hard to take you seriously when I know you just came out of a toilet.” The nix takes another step, and Stiles mirrors it once more, toward the center of the room. “And they were people. Slavery's not a thing anymore; hasn't been for a couple hundred years. Did the news not reach Atlantis?”

“People,” the man scoffs. “They were mine. Most hunters know better than to mess with my operation,” he adds, stepping closer. Stiles mirrors it again and makes an effort not to glance up. “You're about to learn why.”

The nix suddenly reaches for him, unnaturally quick, a hand going straight for Stiles’ neck as if reaching with both would be a waste of effort. He doesn't dodge in time, feeling the ice-cold fingers close around his throat with a little too much strength and trying not to panic when the cold starts to seep in, water starting to fill his lungs.

Just a few more inches, he tells himself, using his hands — which had reflexively come up to grab the nix's arm — to haul the creature forward, as if trying to escape the choke hold. There's the sound of something happening behind him, but he's too busy coughing up water and hoping they're in the right place.

Stiles releases the man's arm, hands reaching toward the ceiling instead, and pulls.

It takes the nix a moment to realize what's happening, and by then it's already too late. The round black chandelier drops, hitting the creature's arm on the way down and causing him to release Stiles, who quickly steps back while coughing out water. The light fixture clangs into a perfect circle around the nix, frame kissing the perpetual puddle under his feet, current leaping at the contact and making a white-blue arcs skitter across the water. The nix jerks at the jolt, hissing, and there's a tiny popping noise before the upstairs lights go dark.

“That,” Stiles starts hoarsely, pausing to cough a few more times and grimacing when he tastes metal. “Didn't really go to plan, did it?” He can't help but taunt anyway.

His lungs are still burning and his throat hurts, but the sight of the enraged water spirit trapped in the steel circle almost makes up for it. The upstairs lights are dead; ozone hangs in the air.

The nix paces the circle. “This won't hold me for long,” he threatens, water tugging at his boots like a tame shadow.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Don't need that long.”

He doesn't know the nix's name, at least not for sure, but he does remember the list of names the nix's victims mentioned hearing their blackmailers be called, so that's what he starts reciting. The nix freezes at the first, river-blue eyes narrowing at him as he realizes Stiles’ intention. He keeps going, one by one. When the sixth name makes the puddle ripple, he smirks.

Stiles steps to the rim of the circle. “Nikker.”

The puddle tightens, glass-still.

“Nikker.”

A hairline tremor runs through the water’s skin. Droplets lift, trembling, as if the steel ring hums under them.

“Nikker.”

He comes apart. Skin to spray; spray to mist. A cold bloom of white vapor beads along the steel, the wet hems drip once and then — nothing. The chandelier frame sits in a damp halo, and all that’s left is the faint stink of river-mud.

Stiles coughs, toeing the iron ring with a shaky breath. “Plumbing wards next,” he rasps under his breath. “Mesh on the drains; steel tacks at every sink.”

When he turns around, intending to go check on the two downstairs and hoping the loud noises didn't alarm them too much, he finds himself staring at Spencer, who seems frozen at the top of the stairs, staring at the fallen chandelier.

Well, shit.

“Uh, it's alright,” Stiles is quick to assure, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just an accident. I've gotta call someone about it. Thank god no one was here when it fell, right?” He says, really hoping the man hadn't seen anything much.

People can convince themselves to ignore a lot of things with the slightest nudges, especially when provided with the right excuses.

“It just… fell?” Spencer asks, something in his tone giving Stiles the urge to fidget.

“Yeah,” he shrugs instead. “Faulty installation, I guess.”

“I- I have to-” Spencer stutters out, slowly backing away down the stair steps, eyes still refusing to leave the chandelier. “I need to go.”

Chapter Text

Spencer tenses when he hears the voices from upstairs.

He hated that Stiles hadn't given him time to protest when they heard the banging noise, sprinting up to check on the second floor and leaving Eli behind under Spencer's responsibility. He also has a feeling it was done entirely on purpose. It would have been fine if the noise was caused by something falling, but that's not what it seems like.

There's someone else in the bookstore.

They didn't come in through the front door — they would have heard the bell — or the back door, which is in his field of vision and hasn't been opened. Nobody came in. So why is he hearing a second voice besides Stiles’ on the second floor?

“Eli, I'm going to check on Stiles, okay?” He evenly tells the child, who has obediently remained hidden. “Please don't come out until one of us comes for you.”

“Okay,” He hears from under the table; cloth rustling once in acknowledgement. 

He's already moving. Up the stairs, hand on the rail, pace controlled enough not to be heard by whatever intruder has somehow come in through the second floor. Fire escape, maybe? But a window wouldn't have made that bang; it sounded like a door. Did they bypass the bell and his peripheral vision? He doesn't like any of those options.

Spencer catalogs as he climbs: sound of water where there shouldn’t be water — a continuous sheeted noise, not a burst, not a drip — and the voices, which are slowly becoming discernible. Two men. Stiles, and someone else with a low register. The room finally enters his field of view as he rounds one of the last steps.

Stiles stands near the center aisle, back angled like he’s trying to put his body between the staircase and the bathrooms. The other man is lean, long-necked, mid-late thirties, and very pale. He closes distance with one hand, quickly. Too quick for an ordinary reach, but Spencer has seen speed misread under stress before.

The hand clamps around Stiles’ throat.

He moves. He doesn’t shout; shouting won’t close the distance. His options are distraction, physical intervention, or a throw—none of those are high-percentage against a grip already locked. On the penultimate step of the stairs, he trips.

No, he slipped, Spencer realizes when he catches himself on his forearms before his torso can meet the wooden floor. On what? He tries to see as he scrambles to his feet on the last step of the stairs, thankful he didn't fall backwards but cursing the loss of the element of surprise.

Except neither of the men are looking at him.

Before he can move again, Stiles coughs. No, he gags, like he’s swallowing something. There’s no visible source; no spill on his shirt, and the man’s hand is dry. Spencer’s brain throws out data points and none of them connect: cough strength, facial color, fluid sound without external liquid, a cold sheen in the air like humidity that doesn’t bead.

Everything happens too fast. Stiles hauls on the attacker’s arm as if to pull him forward. The movement reads wrong — too intentional to be a flail — and both of Stiles’ hands leave the man's wrist at once — why would he do that? He needs to break the grip — and go up, palms opening like he’s grabbing something that isn’t there.

The chandelier drops.

Objects are mounted, Spencer's mind tells him. Mounts fail. He clocks the ceiling box, the anchor points, the trajectory. He also clocks that Stiles’ hands moved in the same direction as the fixture at the same time. Correlation is not causation. He repeats that to himself because the timing is exact enough to make his chest tighten.

The black ring hits the attacker’s forearm on the way down, and the grip breaks. Stiles staggers back, doubles over, and coughs hard. Water comes up — he hears it as a rush and a choke and then a spatter — and there’s still no wet on his clothes. It doesn't make sense. People don’t aspirate liters of water without the water being somewhere.

The fixture hits the floor in a circle around the man, clean geometry that shouldn’t happen by accident. The metal frame touches the thin layer of water at the man’s feet — there is water, yes, there's actually water on the floor — and a white arc skitters across the surface in a way that says real current, not a trick of light. There’s a small pop, and the upstairs bulbs go out.

Dark-adaptation takes a moment to hit, so he listens, because hearing will give him more than vision right now. His feet don't move from that last step of the stairs, though he can't consciously say why.

The man paces inside the ring. He seems agitated; not panicking, but tightly contained. “This won’t hold me for long,” the man says, as if he couldn't simply step over the fallen chandelier.

“Don’t need that long,” Stiles replies.

Spencer can move now; he should move, drag Stiles back, check for live current before anyone steps wrong. He measures the gap to Stiles’s elbow, the wet floor, the metal frame. Stiles doesn’t look back at him — doesn't even notice he's there. Instead, he watches the man and starts… reciting. Not prayers, but names. Steady and precise, like a list he’s committed to memory for exactly this moment.

The surface of the puddle under the man's feet ripples at one of the names. It's slight, but it's here. He notes it and hates that he notes it because that means the name did something, which is not a category that belongs in the world he knows.

Stiles steps closer to the rim. “Nikker.”

The water goes glass-still.

“Nikker.”

A hairline tremor runs across the skin of the puddle. Droplets lift like there’s vibration in the metal. Spencer can diagram a tuning fork and a surface wave, but this does not belong to either.

“Nikker.”

The man comes apart. It's not a fall; not a stutter-step. One heartbeat there is a body in a black turtleneck; the next there is spray hanging in the air and a cold bloom of mist that beads along the steel and thins until there’s nothing inside the circle at all.

Spencer’s stomach drops. He forces his eyes to blink, to reset the frame. There is no exit; no body; the circle is empty. The room smells like river mud and burned dust.

He has to move. He has to secure the scene, he has to check Stiles’ airway, he has to confirm Eli is downstairs and uninjured; he has to do ten things in a sequence that makes sense and he can’t pick the first one because he cannot explain what he saw. He doesn't freeze in danger; he's long since trained that out of his muscles. He's not frozen. His feet are on the floor. He’s breathing.

He’s breathing too fast.

Stiles toes the ring, voice rough. He’s talking; something about plumbing and steel tacks, logistics that sound like post-incident notes said out loud. The normalcy of it makes Spencer feel worse. If Stiles is fine, then why does Spencer feel like the room is tilting?

Spencer’s gaze drags to the chandelier again. He checks the ceiling mount because that is a thing he knows: screws, anchors, joists. He thinks about downward force and cut wires and trips. He thinks about how Stiles’ hands moved down at the same time. He thinks about how the lights died the instant the frame hit water. He thinks about how water conducts. He thinks he should say something like ‘don’t touch that, it could still be live’, but the bulbs are dead, the pop already happened, and Stiles is standing right next to it and he's looking at him.

“Uh, it’s alright,” Stiles says, as if reading from a script for customers who have just seen a stack of books fall. “Just an accident.” The cadence is light, practiced. “Thank god no one was here when it fell, right?”

Spencer turns the sentence over until the words ring wrong in his mind. Accident. Fell. Both of those things can be true. His eyes cut to the empty ring where a man stood sixty seconds ago. “It just… fell?” His own voice sounds wrong to him; thin, careful, like it’s walking around broken glass.

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a shrug. “Faulty installation, I guess.”

He is a man of science. If the explanation that fits the available evidence is that the chandelier fell because the mount failed, and the rest is stress, pareidolia, or a misinterpretation under adrenaline, that is the explanation he should take. He tries to lay the facts out in a line: he saw a man; the man grabbed Stiles; the chandelier fell; there was a visible electrical arc; the lights went out; Stiles said some names; the man disappeared. Which of these could be a hallucination? The man, for one. The timing of the chandelier with Stiles’ hands, possibly. The disappearance. The water in Stiles’ lungs has to be explained by something else — laryngospasm? Gastroesophageal reflux with panic? — but that’s weak and he knows it.

His hands start to tremble — not visible unless you’re looking, but he’s trained to notice it in himself —  and he tries to fix his breathing instead of focusing on what he can't fix. In for four. Hold. Out for six. He can do this without drawing attention.

“I-” His voice catches. He hates that. “I have to-” The sentence breaks in the middle, and he hates that more. He's not leaving because of Stiles; he's leaving because his body is telling him to get out before he loses the thread of what is and is not real in front of another human being. “I need to go.”

Spencer steps backward, one tread at a time, eyes still on the circle because he cannot make himself look away from the place his mind says a man should be. Part of him refuses to even blink, expecting the man to reappear if he looks away.

Hallucination is a positive symptom. Schizophrenia has a lifetime prevalence of approximately one percent; male age of onset skews earlier, but late onset is documented, especially under stressors. He has multiple acute stressors: he has a sleep debt that fluctuates; he has a trauma history; he has a genetic risk he can quantify by family aggregation studies if he lets himself.

He reaches the first floor, steps off the stairs, but his hands hesitate to part with the solid banister under his palm. Someone is talking, but the sound is muffled, like it's coming from underwater. Water. Is the water still there? Did he make it up as well? He fights the urge to climb up again, just to see if it was real. The banister is real. His pulse is too fast to count evenly.

Stiles is suddenly in front of him, and he reads his lips more than hears him speak at first. “Spencer!” The exclamation makes him inhale sharply, but successfully cuts through the fog surrounding his thoughts. “I lied,” Stiles says, and Spencer only blinks. “I lied,” he repeats, hand landing light on Spencer’s forearm, thumb settling over the radial pulse like he’s checking a watch. It's grounding, not restrictive, and somehow doesn't make him flinch away. “You didn’t imagine things. It was real. You’re not losing it.”

Did he say that out loud? He can't tell; he doesn't even try to, because the words reach him but don't fit. He wants to test them against the evidence — against the absence of a body, against water-without-wet, against the chandelier falling at the cue of Stiles’ movement — but his chest is too tight to build a sentence.

“Eyes on me,” Stiles says, steady, not loud. “With me, now.”

Spencer looks up because ‘now’ is a command and commands are easy. All he finds are brown eyes with steady focus. No pity. No surprise.

“Good,” Stiles praises, and Spencer's focus narrows slightly. “Breathe with me. In for four, hold one, out for six. I’ll count. You copy.”

Spencer nods once, and they count. The first inhale catches high, and the first exhale stutters at three. Stiles doesn’t react; he just starts the next cycle like he's done this before, and Spencer follows. The air goes lower in his chest. Stiles’ thumb presses a hair firmer over the pulse point, matching the count. Spencer watches his mouth shape the numbers and mirrors the rhythm.

“in- two, three, four. Hold- one. Out- two, three, four, five, six.” His shoulders drop a fraction. The room steadies by degrees. His hands still shake, but less. “You’re safe,” Stiles says, in the same even tone. “I’ll explain later. Let's just breathe for now, okay?”

Spencer wants to say later isn’t a variable he can quantify. He keeps breathing.

The pressure in his chest loosens another notch. He can think in complete clauses again; can label what his body is doing without the labels making it worse.

“You didn’t imagine him, I swear.” Stiles says again, quiet and precise. Spencer isn't sure whether he wants to believe it; whether he can. “You saw what you saw; I shouldn’t have tried to sell you anything else. That’s on me.”

Spencer’s thumb runs the groove in the banister, and he times the motion to the exhale, refusing to consider the possibilities just yet. The urge to leave turns into an option, not a compulsion. They run two more cycles. On the next inhale, Spencer can count for himself without losing the pace.

“In, two, three, four,” he says, voice low, then holds for one. “Out, two, three, four, five, six.”

Stiles nods, relief flooding his expression. “That’s it.” The tremor fades to a background buzz. “You’re not losing it,” Stiles assures once more, like closing a bracket. “Breathe with me for thirty seconds, and then you can ask me anything you want.”

Chapter Text

Stiles’ resolve to gaslight Spencer into believing nothing happened lasts only as long as it takes him to hear what the man is muttering under his breath. He's willing to go to many lengths to keep the supernatural hidden, but allowing someone to think they're having a schizophrenic episode for the sake of secrecy is one step too far, especially when he knows what it's like, to feel like you can't trust your own mind or the reality around you. 

It's been years, but he still remembers how it felt to slowly begin to doubt everything and everyone, including himself. How he routinely counted his fingers to make sure his surroundings weren't the result of a waking dream — not that it helped much in the end. The worst part, after all was said and done, were the small pause before every choice, the quiet question of whether the choice was his in the first place. It wasn't the result of an illness, but even after the fox was gone, the doubt had remained behind. It still surfaces, although rarely, because the feeling of experiencing that kind of distrust in reality doesn't ever go away entirely.

Stiles refuses to be the reason someone else feels anything remotely similar.

He follows the man downstairs, having identified the start of a panic attack — and damn if that doesn't make his stomach clench with guilt — and trying to draw Spencer's focus. Once he manages it, Stiles immediately makes it clear that he lied, voice firm if still a little hoarse, hoping it helps the man trust his own mind once again; nevermind that he might think Stiles is delusional instead. It's worth the chance.

Talking is something he's always been good at, for better or worse, so Stiles does what he does best and talks Spencer through the panic with practiced ease. It's not the first time he's had to do it and it probably won't be the last. At least he didn't use the Lydia method, that would definitely get him either a punch or a lawsuit — maybe both. Doesn't mean he didn't think about it, but he'll blame his ADHD brain for that one.

“What happened upstairs?” Spencer asks after they breathe in silence for exactly thirty seconds, like he'd counted them out in his head.

Stiles opens his mouth, but closes it before he can say anything, brows furrowing in thought.

What happened upstairs was the result of a recent case, but that answer would be woefully incomplete and only invite more questions. Actually, any answer he could give to that question feels like it's not quite enough, not when most of the context is missing. Not when Spencer doesn't know, at least not yet; not for sure.

“I can explain it,” Stiles admits, because it's true. “But I think you could use some proof, first. That you're not hallucinating; and I'm not just indulging it or delusional myself,” he suggests.

“Proof of what, exactly?” Spencer asks, and it lands somewhere between dread and anticipation.

“That there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy,” Stiles can't help but quote, because no other answer quite fits the situation. “You saw something I can't explain until you accept that as a fact,” he justifies, sparing a glance at the door because it would be just his luck for someone to walk in right then.

Then the idea comes to him, and he releases Spencer's forearm — he hadn't even realized the continued contact — to motion towards the ‘open’ sign at the door, flipping it to ‘closed’ with the swirl of a finger.

Spencer's sudden analytical stare once he looks back tells him the man saw exactly what he just did, and Stiles can almost hear his thoughts rushing in real time. He'd make a joke about slowing down before his head starts to smoke if it didn't feel like the worst time for his particular brand of humor.

“You brought down the chandelier,” The man declares more than asks, his intense focus starting to make Stiles feel like a bug under a microscope.

“It felt like a good idea at the time,” he defends with a soft shrug. “It's mild steel, which is like- ninety-eight percent iron.”

He can tell the hint landed like it should when Spencer's brows furrow slightly, gaze drifting away from Stiles and slightly upwards, like he's recalling the exact situation he'd watched happen. Stiles isn't completely sure when Spencer got there, but he's got a feeling it was much earlier than he'd first assumed.

“You're saying that was a ghost?” Spencer asks, not sounding convinced, and Stiles can see where his Hamlet quote and mention of iron might have led him there, but-

“Not quite. He was a spirit,” Stiles clarifies. “Think less vengeful; more Scandinavian.” He doesn't spell it out; partly out of knowing that letting people work things out for themselves instead of overwhelming them with information usually helps — which he wishes he'd learned as a teenager instead of being so eager to shove every fact he knew down people's throats —  and partly out of curiosity over whether Spencer is as savvy about mythology as he is about crime novels.

Stiles watches with anticipation as Spencer stills, that spark of figuring it out lighting up his eyes the way he usually sees in the mirror, not reflected in someone else. “Scandinavian… spirit. Something water-related; freshwater” he adds, and Stiles restricts himself to lightly nodding along. “Not a ghost, so it can't be a draugr. Sjörå… is a domain-keeper; more transactional, female presenting,” huh, Stiles hadn't even thought about a draugr, that's one he hasn't come across so far. “Nøkk? If the steel traps it, and saying its name…”

“Defeats him,” Stiles cuts in. “He's not dead. He's just… gone; for a while. That's a thing with spirits.”

Still, it probably won't be back in his lifetime, so it's mostly a matter of semantics.

“So that man… was a Nøkk,” Spencer sounds out, like he's trying to figure out where that sentence fits into his worldview.

“I call him a Nix, but that's mostly because I've yet to see any musical prowess,” Stiles jokes lightly, hoping to soothe Spencer's probable discomfort at having to slot a new puzzle piece into an image he thought was complete. “Same creature, different neighborhood.”

Sort of. He figures this isn't the best time to get into the etymology of the creature's name and the minute differences in between the German lore available about it in comparison to its Norwegian and Swedish counterparts.

“And he tried to kill you,” Spencer deadpans, eyes zeroing on Stiles’ throat, and he's entirely too aware of the hand-shaped bruise that's probably already formed over the skin.

“Deadlier creatures have tried,” he shrugs, but instead of suitably deflecting any possible worry, it just seems to make the man frown harder. “I'm fine,” he assures, though the raspy quality of his voice doesn't really help him sell it. “Look, a cup of tea and a healing salve and I'll be good as new.”

“Healing salve,” Spencer repeats. “Not ‘ointment’ or ‘bruise cream’, none of which would make that bruise go away as quickly as you imply, so… is it magic, too?” The question sounds almost hesitant, in a hopeful kind of way. Stiles pauses — he didn't expect that, but Spencer is observant — and nods. Then it's like the dam's broken, and the rest of the questions come pouring out. “Does it work because of what’s in it or because of how you use it? Is there a recipe or a rule for ingredients, timing, place? And- you said deadlier creatures, that implies more than the one I saw. How many categories of ‘nonhuman’ are we dealing with? Corporeal things with biology I can measure, incorporeal things that still push on matter? Do they reproduce, recruit, or get made by accidents? Are the classic weaknesses like sunlight, salt, silver, iron actually causal or just narrative? If one rule works on one creature, how far does the generalization go?”

Stiles can't help but smile, letting it stretch into a grin as the questions keep coming. When Spencer stops, probably realizing he can't get answers if he keeps asking questions with no time for replies in between, Stiles holds it for a couple of seconds before chuckling, which unfortunately causes him to go into a brief coughing fit, and he tastes more than feels when some blood comes along with it.

“Sorry,” he rasps. “It's just- this is one of the better reactions I've had to the whole…‘the supernatural is real’ reveal. People don't usually like to hear about the existence of things they don't understand,” he explains, one hand coming up to lightly massage his throat.

“The irrationality of a thing is not an argument against its existence, rather a condition of it,” Spencer replies, and it takes him a moment to place the Nietzsche quote. “Human logic is a tool, not a boundary, and existence isn't limited by reason. This just means there's more to understand.” He looks like he plans to keep going, but pauses and glances down at Stiles’ throat again. “But it can wait until you take care of that.”

“Right, I should do that,” Stiles mutters, casting a glance toward the stairs and then at the back of the shop, where Eli is still tucked into a reading nook. His eyes catch on the clock as he looks back and the time startles him, “Huh.” He looks back at Spencer, considering his options for a moment before speaking. “Wanna have lunch with us? I've gotta get started on that, but I can answer questions while I cook.”

Spencer barely takes a breath to reply, “Yes, please.”

Stiles snorts, wincing at the movement, and resigns himself to answering all sorts of questions for the foreseeable future. “Alright… Eli, come on, I'll let you play Mario Kart if you put on headphones.”

He doesn't raise his voice to say it. Doesn't really need to, with little werewolf ears probably eavesdropping since he went upstairs. Thankfully, Eli already knows not to act on anything he hears unless it's a matter of his own safety, so Stiles isn't as upset about Spencer leaving the kid behind to go check upstairs as anyone else in the same situation might have been.

“Yes!” His godson exclaims, shuffling out from behind the tablecloth and running over to them, eyes widening when he takes in the state of Stiles’ throat. “You're hurt! I thought it was the bad guy choking!”

“It's just a bruise,” Stiles is quick to assure, a little glad that even though the kid could hear, he's still not that good at discerning exactly what he's hearing when it's not just words. “I'm fine.”

“It's red!” Eli protests, grabbing his arm, and Stiles's shoulders fall slightly when he feels the pain receding.

“Eli,” he pours enough exasperation into the name to make his godson look up at him sheepishly, but the kid still doesn't stop the pain drain. He comes by that stubbornness honestly, at least. “Thank you, pup; but what did I tell you about doing that in front of other people?”

“But you told him,” Eli justifies with a pout. “I heard.”

So much for not acting on what he hears.

“What…” Spencer's eyes widen minutely as he looks between Stiles, Eli, and the spot where small black veins are climbing up Eli's arm.

“I was going to ease him into it,” Stiles sighs, looking back at Spencer. “He's draining my pain. It's a thing werewolves can do.”

“Werewolves?”

Chapter Text

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

The famous quote crosses Spencer's mind as he follows Stiles and Eli — who is apparently a born werewolf, as opposed to a bitten one, Stiles explains — back to the apartment.

It's not a very accurate quote. You almost never have only one remaining explanation; even if others become very unlikely, the improbable survivor only must be true if every alternative has exactly zero likelihood, and such rarely happens in practice. Not to account for the fact that you can't ever be sure you've imagined all possibilities, since you can't know what you don't know; and the same evidence can support multiple, incompatible theories, thus evidence alone can’t force a single truth without extra assumptions.

Still, regardless of its inaccuracies, Spencer feels like it definitely applies to this situation.

If there is another explanation for the man vanishing in vapor, the sample of telekinesis, the black veins climbing up a little boy's arm, and the gold shine in Eli's eyes when Stiles had prompted his godson to flash them as proof — because they're still working on his ‘beta shift’, whatever that might be — of his werewolf status, then Spencer has yet to think of it.

Not even a Schizophrenic episode can account for all these variables being confirmed by two outside parties, one of which is a child, unless he somehow managed to hallucinate their existence, which is even more unlikely than the existence of forces one cannot explain.

So, in lack of evidence to the contrary and in the presence of living proof, he decides to accept that the supernatural is real. His entire world has been not uprooted but expanded, and the possibilities running through his mind are almost enough to make him dizzy. Spencer hasn't felt like this since starting college for the first time; he has so many questions.

And Stiles — who set up his godson with a videogame and noise-cancelling headphones in the living room and applied the aforementioned healing salve to his neck before telling Spencer to take a seat and heading toward the kitchen side of the apartment — will probably regret offering to answer them soon enough, so he needs to take advantage of the opportunity before it becomes unavailable to him.

“So, about the nix,” Stiles starts as Spencer sits sideways on the couch — the one with its back to the kitchen — so he can still see his host as he moves around the space. “When I told you I was a PI, I left out the fact that most of my clients are part of the supernatural community. I had this case a week ago…”

Spencer is admittedly entranced as the man narrates — amidst chopping and dicing — the case that became the trigger for the water spirit's attack. The account is a little scattered, though more a result of Stiles’ clear tendencies to go on tangents than any attempt at subterfuge, and definitely not helped by Spencer's myriad of questions, but he learns a lot as the story unfolds from Stiles being called by an in-the-know rowing coach about her roommate's disappearance near the Georgetown stretch of the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal, to the girl's reappearance mid-investigation, and the subsequent events.

The victim was apparently acting strangely — according to the client — and Stiles decided to keep looking into it even though she had shown up alive, only to discover similar short-term disappearances centered around the Canal. The whole plot unravels once Stiles, speaking in enough hypotheticals to be inadmissible in court, narrates his discovery of a hidden room inside a close by long-term rental under the name of a waterfront consultant who was seen interacting with most of the victims a week before their temporary kidnappings. And the answer to what was being kept in said room comes soon after: a collection of rolled-up oiled hides. Selkie skins, Stiles reveals. The consultant had been running a blackmailing ring, using the selkie skins to control his victims and force them to do his bidding.

Naturally, he stole back the skins — is it stealing if they didn't belong to him in the first place, Stiles asks, and Spencer points out that breaking and entering would probably be the bigger issue — and tracked down the victims, returning each hide to its proper owner.

As witnessed not too long ago, the Nix responsible for said blackmailing ring was not pleased with Stiles’ actions.

“I'm kind of glad he showed up,” Stiles admits, to Spencer's bewilderment. “Not that I wanted to be attacked, but I couldn't track the guy down. This way, I don't have to wonder if he's out there, maybe committing worse crimes. It's not like I could call the cops on him,” he adds with a glance over his shoulder, leveling Spencer with a knowing look. “You're in law enforcement, right? FBI?” He must visibly react to the question, likely in surprise, because Stiles rolls his eyes in response before continuing. “You reacted to my failed internship story, and argued over FBI protocol in a fictional novel. You also didn't startle at the door bang; you reached for something that's not on your belt, which I figure would be a gun.”

“Yes,” he confirms. Stiles’ story had already highlighted how competent he is at his job, so Spencer isn't as surprised as he probably should be at having been profiled in return. “I'm with the BAU. That is-”

“Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Stiles cuts him off, tone shifting into genuine surprise, and turns around to face him, knife held loosely in hand. “You work with David Rossi! I've read all of his books; even have Understanding Evil signed.”

“I could probably get him to sign the rest,” Spencer offers, actually meaning it.

Stiles had — even if unintentionally — just significantly widened his perception of the world, and continues to do so. A few autographs are the least he can give him in return.

“Really?” The obvious excitement in the man's face makes Spencer's lips twitch. Here's someone with literal magical powers, including but not limited to telekinesis — as far as he knows — and he's excited about an autograph. It's kind of endearing. “That'd be awesome, thanks.” He turns back towards the cutting board. “Anyway, the point is, what exactly could he be arrested for? Owning some seal skin? I can't prove in court that the skin controls the selkies, given their, y'know, mythological status in existence. And with the skins, he can make them deny everything.” A beat. “And before you suggest letting the supernatural be known, I want you to think of every moment throughout history where someone discovers something they can't explain; a minority that is visibly different from the norm; and try to tell me with a straight face that it would end well.”

The truth is, Spencer realizes, he can't.

The downfall of understanding human behavior is being acutely aware of their capacity for harm when faced with a potential threat that doesn't conform to the norm. It wouldn't matter if every single supernatural creature was completely pacifist — which he has already established as false — and never intended to pose a threat; the potential would still be there, and it's always enough for action to be taken. Not to speak of the search for knowledge; the urge to understand — and make use of — these mythical beings would lead to the kind of medical experimentation that would make Josef Mengele proud.

“You're not wrong,” he admits. “But does that mean complete self-policing?”

“I wish.” Stiles sighs, and his tone takes a turn toward derision. “As you've witnessed today, intended secrecy doesn't mean people can't find out by accident. That's how hunters usually start.” The word isn't said kindly. “Normal people- well, for a given definition of normal. Maybe they have a bad experience with the supernatural, or they learn about it and figure it's the perfect excuse to let their inner psychopath out without technically hurting a human, or none of that happens but they're raised in-the-know to hate anything different, you get the point. They hunt down the supernatural, sometimes whether they deserve it or not.”

“The authorities would look into those crimes," Spencer feels the need to point out, because some of those supernatural beings still look human — as evidenced by Eli — and unlike what happened with the nix, their death would still be a murder in the system.

Stiles scoffs, “Not when they've infiltrated the authorities.” He pauses, considering, and drops something into a pan — Spencer isn't exactly paying attention to the recipe, too preoccupied by literal mythology come to life — before turning to face him. “That's unfair of me,” he admits. “I've had my fair share of run-ins with hunters who didn't care that I'm basically human, not when I sided with those they hunt, but they're not all morally corrupt sociopaths. Some of them do good work when self-policing fails due to such a small community that's pretty much scattered worldwide.”

“Basically human?” He can't help but ask, incredibly curious about the man's abilities.

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugs, then turns back around to stir something. “I mean, I am human, for all intents and purposes. I've just got… an extra spark.” Before Spencer can ask for a proper explanation, he goes on. “It didn’t mean much at the start, but… Okay, I don't know how to explain this without years of context that I don't really want to get into. Something happened. Well, more like I did something, but still. It kind of ignited that spark; created a… connection, with a different kind of energy. This-” He glances toward the open shelves, waves a hand, and Spencer watches with fascination as a pepper grinder floats over to Stiles’ waiting hand. “Is more air current control than telekinesis, if we're being technical. It took a long time and constant practice to be able to manipulate it this well. This, on the other hand…” Stiles sets the grinder down on the counter, extends a hand to the side, and a small flame bursts into existence in his palm, “was dangerously easy.” The sight of it makes Spencer jump to his feet, walking over to examine the flame before he can think better of it. “Careful,” the man chides, pulling his hand away before Spencer can touch.

“Is it hot? Are you immune?” He immediately questions.

“I can control the temperature, but you didn't know that.” Stiles half-answers, looking at him with a mix of amusement and exasperation, “You just shouldn't react to fire by wanting to touch it, Spencer.” In complete contradiction to his words, Stiles holds out his hand once again; palm up, the contained flame in the center burning in a light yellow that slowly shifts into blue-green hues. “There, you can touch.”

Any minimal embarrassment over his reaction — it's magic, there's a reason he learned sleight of hand and the tricks he calls physics magic, and it wasn't to pick up girls like Morgan wishes he'd use it for — goes away at the prospect of touching actual magic, and he doesn't hesitate to bring his hand closer to the bluish flame, marvelling at the absence of heat. Instead of smoke, there's a faint mineral smell that reminds him of ozone, and a soft hiss instead of crackling.

“You can hold it,” Stiles informs, to his delight. “It won't burn if it falls.”

Spencer doesn't hesitate to lightly poke the flame, finding nothing exactly solid but the slightest of resistances, like waving past a fan in the lowest possible setting. He considers the lack of solidity, then cups the flame in between his palms, allowing Stiles to drop his hand.

Cupped in his hands, the heatless flame causes a slight feeling of carbonated fizz against his skin. “It's… self-contained chemiluminescence,” he mutters as if speaking too loud might extinguish it.

“It's handy when I don't have a flashlight,” Stiles adds. “So- yeah. I'm a regular avatar. Sort of. Water's a work in progress, and the only earth related thing I can do is feel telluric currents.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Spencer doesn't manage to stop himself from asking the question that's been hovering at the back of his mind. “You're clearly intelligent and aware of dangers I didn't even know existed, so why would you invite a stranger into your home?”

Stiles pauses his stirring, releases the spoon, and turns to face him fully. “Because,” his tone softens slightly as he looks down at the flame still cupped in Spencer's hand. “You're a good person.” Before he can ask how the man could possibly tell that with such certainty after a few minutes of walking from the park to the store, Stiles continues. “I don't say that as a compliment. It is one, sure, but what I mean is I've got warding all over this place; if you manage to come in through one of the doors, or even a window, you're not a threat to me or mine. If you can walk into my home, I know you're not the kind of person I'd need to keep out of it.” He frowns, “I just didn't think of warding the damn pipes. That's definitely next on my to-do list.”

Spencer stares for a moment, long enough for Stiles to turn back to the stove, as he contemplates the sheer magnitude of being able to ward a location against intention.

He then proceeds to ask all about it.

Chapter Text

The last time Stiles remembers talking this much about magical theory was when he spent a week with a coven in New Orleans; not that he's complaining, especially with the kind of questions Spencer asks. It's not like he hasn't thought to ask why at the mechanics of magic before, but the end result has always been more immediate than the how, especially in his line of work. Still, he didn't anticipate getting into an argument about quantum mysticism while cooking teriyaki chicken stir-fry when he woke up this morning.

And by argument, he means intentionally goading Spencer with guru-sounding ‘power of belief’ lines and holding back laughter when he launches into a lecture about entanglement being real but not able to carry controllable messages, and how Quantum Bayesianism is at most predictive, not reality-altering.

It takes Spencer five minutes to catch on, and Stiles just smirks over his shoulder, mouthing ‘payback’ in return. The agent narrows his eyes at him and finishes the little lecture, as if keeping on listening to him was supposed to be a punishment. It's not. If Stiles didn't know he works for the FBI, he'd definitely guess he's a college professor.

“Alright, food time, save some questions for later,” He declares once he's done cooking, starting to fetch plates, cups and cutlery and setting them on the counter next to the stove. “Feel free to serve and eat wherever, we couldn't really fit a dining table here,” Stiles explains, motioning at the food — the stir-fry, steamed rice, cucumber salad for some crunch and because it's quick and easy to whip up — and walking over to get Eli, since the noise-cancelling headphones actually live up to their name after his personal additions.

They end up eating around the coffee table, with Eli sitting on the rug, practically under it, while Stiles and Spencer stick to the sofas.

“Did you call Aunt Lyd?” Eli asks after a few bites.

“I'll call her after we eat,” Stiles replies. At Spencer's curious look, he explains. “Eli stays with my friend Lydia when something like today happens. I need to upgrade the warding before he spends the night again.”

“Aunt Lyd has a pool,” his godson helpfully adds.

“This happens a lot?” Spencer asks, which- fair enough.

“Not as much in the past… five years” Stiles informs with a shrug. “My wards weren't always this good, and there's always loopholes I can't see until they're used. Eli knows some of the contingency plans, just in case.”

“Hide in a nook and call Dad. Or aunt Lyd, if dad's not here.” Eli recites obediently. “Or Mr McCall if it's a normal bad guy, but Stiles beats them up!”

Spencer gives him a look, “does he?”

“It was one time,” Stiles stresses, but can't help being a little glad that Eli wasn't traumatized by the situation and saw it as him being badass instead. “You shouldn't threaten someone with a knife you don't know how to use, that's all I'm saying.”

The agent looks at him for a moment. “You have a point,” he decides. “But not the one you think you're making,” he adds before Stiles can feel too pleased about it.

“Rude,” he mutters with a mock glare before focusing back on his plate.

“Does Aunt Lyd have baking soda?” Eli asks before they can delve into another argument.

“What-” Stiles starts, due to the randomness of the question, before remembering what he sent his godson off to read and letting a smirk bleed into his expression. “I don't think so, pup. How about we make a little bag with all the things for your volcano, just in case Lyd doesn't have them? Then you can surprise her with it.”

“Yes, please!” Eli grins. “I'll make the bestest volcano.”

Spencer looks at Eli, then back at Stiles, who just smiles innocently like he's not anticipating the glorious mess his godson will make at Lydia's place.

“If you've got citric acid,” he starts leadingly, apparently tapping into the wavelength of their mischief, “the explosion can be even bigger.”

“Really?” Eli's attention immediately snaps to Spencer, who blinks and then nods, proceeding to explain the process to the enthusiastic eight-year-old. They're lucky Stiles does have citric acid, or else Eli might ask Lydia to buy some and ruin the whole surprise.

He wishes he could be there to see it.

By the time the bell on the entrance door announces Lydia's arrival, they've finished lunch, packed a backpack with everything Eli needs for his volcanic adventure, and returned to the first floor. His godson hasn't stopped asking Spencer questions since he realized the man would keep answering them, mostly about dinosaurs — which Spencer seems to know a lot about, but the same could be said for every subject so far — since he asked about putting some plastic ones under the volcano, but pauses as soon as he hears the clicking of her heels outside, looking at the door the moment it opens.

“Auntie Lyd!” The kid abandons Spencer mid-phrase and runs over to the redhead, hugging her legs. “Did you know there's chicken-size dinosaurs?”

“Oh? Did the bigger dinosaurs roast them for dinner?” She asks with a smile, ruffling his hair.

Eli giggles, “Dinosaurs can't cook.” he informs her. “They didn't have stoves!”

“I'm sure that's why,” she replies indulgently. “Why don't you grab a dinosaur book to bring along? Then we can both learn more about them.”

“Kay,” Eli says, rushing off to the bookshelves.

Lydia watches the kid go for a moment, then turns her eyes on him, taking in Spencer's presence by his side as she walks over. “Stiles,” she starts, narrowing her eyes in a way that makes him tense even though he's got literally nothing to hide. “Please tell me you're not handing him off for a booty call.”

He nearly chokes on thin air, and glares at her, “I- no! What the hell, Lyds?” He glances at Spencer apprehensively but the agent seems somewhere between amused and bewildered.

“Well, you didn't exactly explain in your text,” she points out, one hand on her waist while motioning at Spencer with the other, “and Mr tall, puppy-eyed and messy-haired is wearing your movie night hoodie. You don't let me wear that hoodie.”

Stiles snorts, “First of all, last time you borrowed a hoodie I never got it back,” he says, not too bothered by that fact but also not likely to make the same mistake twice. Lydia will take any chance to empty his wardrobe then drag him shopping for something approved by her fashion sense. “And second, I wasn't about to text you that a nix broke into the store and attacked me. You'd call my dad.”

“He worries,” She doesn't even deny, looking entirely unapologetic.

Stiles occasionally thinks his dad might have enjoyed the time he dated Lydia more than he did, from how much he still keeps in contact with her after they broke up.

“Too much,” he agrees. “Which is why you won't tell him about this, since it's already over and done with. But he did get in through the plumbing,” he nods at her surprised look, “I know, disgusting, but I'll have to update the wards, so… thanks for doing this.”

“Fine,” She sighs. “But you owe me,” Lydia pokes his chest with one perfectly manicured nail. “And since Stiles has failed basic manners, hello. I'm Dr. Lydia Martin,” she extends a hand, which Spencer shakes, bemused.

Stiles wonders how he got saddled with bad manners when she came in asking if he was planning to sleep with the guy.

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he introduces himself, which doesn't surprise Stiles in the least, given the past few hours of conversation.

Her brows rise slightly, “I know you,” she says in a tone of realization. “You lecture at Georgetown. Aren't you with the FBI?” She looks at Stiles. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing's happening, don't worry about it,” Stiles cuts off that line of questioning before it can take root. “Eli, I know you've got the book, stop eavesdropping and come get your bag. Aunt Lydia's got papers to grade.”

Eli dutifully returns, book in hand. “Bye Stiles, bye Spencer,” he says, giving each of them a quick hug — to Spencer's visible surprise — and grabbing his bag. “C'mon Aunt Lyd, I've got a surprise!”

Lydia opens her mouth, closes, and levels him with a look that promises vengeance.

Stiles just grins and waves, “Bye, Lyds.”

“This conversation isn't over,” she informs him before turning on her kitten heels and following Eli out of the store.

Stiles waits until the door closes behind them before offering Spencer an apologetic smile, “Sorry about,” he motions in the general direction of the entrance, “that. I promise she's usually less… blunt.”

“She was worried,” Spencer says, sounding like he understands what just happened, maybe better than Stiles honestly. He seems to hesitate a moment before adding, “I do lecture at Georgetown, but I haven't seen her there.”

“She's not a student,” Stiles explains. “She's an assistant professor in the Department of Mathematics & Statistics, so she probably heard about it from one of the professors.” He tilts his head thoughtfully, voice taking a teasing tone. “Or the students. You seem like you'd be popular.”

Spencer looks vaguely amused at that, “Well, I get a lot of auditors.”

“It's the cadence,” he makes a vague hand motion while trying to remember the word he actually wants, “Uh- prosody. You sound nice.” Stiles pauses at how that sounds, mentally curses Lydia for putting ideas in his head, and adds jokingly, “I mean, there's a reason I just sat through that quantum mechanics lecture.”

“I thought the reason was payback,” Spencer points out teasingly.

"That too," Stiles nods in response, glad he didn't manage to make it weird. “So… I need to fix a chandelier, and draw some runes on toilet bowls. I'll trade more answers for you holding the ladder for me?” He finishes hopefully, not really wanting Spencer to leave yet.

Besides, from how many questions he's answered so far, he figures there's a lot more coming.

“I can do that,” Spencer agrees, but it doesn't take long for him to continue, “What kind of runes? Because people often default to Viking-Age Old Norse, but ‘runes’ is a family of Germanic scripts; Elder Futhark, Anglo-Saxon Futhorc, Younger Futhark, and later medieval sets, while some say ‘runes’ when they really mean Icelandic magical staves like Ægishjálmur or Vegvísir, which are early-modern sigils-”

Stiles holds back a smile and leans on the bookshelf behind him. Warding can wait a few more minutes.

Upgrading his wards goes quicker than usual with Spencer continously asking questions, first about said wards — which he doesn't mind answering since they're more about the magic than specifically about his particular choices, so it doesn't feel like he's asking about Stiles’ own security system and more about the subject of security itself, or about how any system works in general — then about numerous supernatural species; in whichever order they pop into his mind at the time. Stiles ends up sharing a few more cases as examples, and when he's not sure about the existence of a creature or other, they end up speculating on the chances of their existence.

When he's done drawing runes on every water exit, for lack of steel drains — though they're already on his shopping list — and the lights on the second floor are back on after mounting the chandelier into place, they end up right back at the mythology section, with Stiles pointing out which books have the largest amount of trustworthy information and which ones aren't worth using as a reference for reality when it comes to dealing with certain beings.

He's halfway through a rant about how annoying it is that werewolves can smell chemosignals — with no idea how he arrived on that tangent — when a beeping noise makes him pause.

“Sorry,” Spencer pulls out a phone from his pocket, though calling it a phone might be too flattering to the old brick in his hands. “Kristy's in labor.”

“Who’s Kristy?” Stiles asks, trying not to feel personally offended by the affront to technology that is that phone. FBI pay can't possibly be that low.

“My friend's wife,” Spencer frowns slightly down at the phone, looking conflicted, then pockets it. “I- uh, should probably… go.”

It kind of sounds like the last thing he wants to do, and Stiles tries his best not to read much into it, since Spencer probably just wants to keep asking about the supernatural.

“This isn't Howl's Moving Castle, y'know?” Stiles comments with some amusement, earning a confused look that simply demands explanation, “Don't tell me you've never watched Ghibli.”

“Okay. I won't tell you,” Spencer replies, then goes silent.

Stiles snorts, “That's practically a pop culture crime, but what I meant is the store's not gonna grow legs and walk off,” he clarifies. “You're welcome back at any time.”

Spencer seems to settle a little more at that, but doesn't turn to leave. “Why didn't you ask about my job?” He asks in a pensive tone.

Stiles blinks, not having expected that question. “You just… didn't seem to want to talk about it. I get that,” he replies with a slight shrug. He's not nearly as nosy as he used to be.

Spencer's answering smile almost makes him look away, “Thank you.” Before Stiles can try to downplay it, he goes on, “And I'll definitely come back to the store, but… could we do this again, sometime?”

“What, talk for nearly eight hours straight?” Stiles blurts out jokingly, because it sounds more believable than wondering if Spencer might be hinting at a date.

“Sure,” Spencer agrees, “but maybe over coffee?”

“I-” he stares for a moment, then nods maybe a little too forcefully, “Yeah, definitely, I love- talking,” smooth, Stiles. He fights the urge to facepalm when Spencer chuckles. “Uh- gimme your phone,” he makes grabby hands instead of eye contact and is rewarded with the ancestor of a proper smartphone being handed to him. He creates a contact for himself — just named ‘Stiles’ — and hands it back, “There. You can text me to set that up. Or if you have more questions. Or just whenever,” he stops before the urge to dig a hole and crawl into it gets too strong.

What is it about him and stupidly smart and attractive people?

“I will,” Spencer assures.

It's only a few minutes after the agent leaves that Stiles realizes it.

Spencer's still got his hoodie.

Chapter Text

Spencer heads to the hospital in a bit of a daze.

The text about Kristy had landed like a reminder that reality still exists no matter how many new aspects of it have been revealed to him, and he really wanted to stay, but the last time he talked to someone for so long about something non-work related, he'd been defending his thesis. He didn't feel like pushing his luck.

Besides, he's got Stiles’ number, so hopefully it won't be the last time. Especially if he's reading things right.

Men are a little easier to read than women, if for no other reason than the fact that he is one, so when Dr. Martin's implication that Spencer was a booty call — which, did he really look the type? It feels like a misconception that wouldn't have happened a few years ago — made Stiles flustered instead of defensive, he figured there might be at least a little interest.

Coffee was ambiguous enough, just in case.

He opens the new contact on his phone as he walks, looking at the saved number. It has a California area code, he notes, since all Stiles mentioned about his hometown was that it was small and his dad was the Sheriff. He taps on text, and sends a ‘Hi, it's Spencer’ so Stiles can save his number as well.

The reply comes quicker than expected.

Stiles: hi, is this the FBI? I'd like to report a hoodie theft.

That stops him in his tracks before he can cross the hospital door, and he doesn't need to look to confirm that he is, indeed, still wearing the man's oversized hoodie. In his defense, it's a very comfortable hoodie. He almost didn't accept to borrow it, since certain textures on clothes made his skin itch, but had been pleasantly surprised to find the borrowed hoodie didn't. Plus it smells nice. He suspects magic has to have something to do with how soft it is, given how worn the fabric looks.

Magic, he shakes his head in disbelief and finally walks into the hospital, heading toward the maternity ward while crafting his response.

Spencer: Sorry, but it's actually an active hostage situation.

The reply takes longer this time, enough for Spencer to start overthinking his own.

Stiles: does that count when I also have a hostage? [IMG]

Attached is a photo of Spencer's now clean clothes on a hanger, with a kitchen knife being held up to them like a threat. So that's what took him a while, he realizes, lips ticking up in response.

Spencer: I think this calls for a hostage exchange.

Before there's time for a reply, Spencer steps into the maternity ward's waiting room, finding the whole team — sans Matt, of course — scattered through it.

“Anything?” He asks when they spot him, approaching the group with a small wave in greeting.

“No, not yet,” Tara replies, while Rossi and Emily shake their heads, the latter's brows rising slightly as she takes in his appearance.

“That's a new look,” Emily comments, sounding amused.

His phone beeps before he can respond, and he quickly checks the text instead of attempting to justify his fashion choices — or lack thereof.

Stiles: what if I have extra demands?

Spencer: It depends, what are they?

Stiles: well, you did say you have a copy of the judas window.

Stiles: and you forgot your book

Stiles: double exchange?

“Who's that?” He looks up from the screen for a moment to see JJ had come back from the call she'd been making when he arrived.

“A friend,” Spencer offers, noncommittal.

It doesn't say a lot, since he's not known to have friends outside of work. Well, it was about time for that to change.

Spencer: Deal.

A thought crosses his mind, making him chuckle lightly and earn a few curious looks as he does, but he just can't help it. He was suddenly reminded of Dr. Stein's homework assignment. When she told him to have a normal conversation, he's pretty sure she didn't mean he should somehow stumble upon the existence of the supernatural; it just doesn't quite ring as ‘normal’. Still, he finds that he doesn't mind it at all.

Normal is overrated.

The exchange happens on Tuesday, after Spencer leaves the BAU at five-thirty on the dot, book and washed hoodie already stored in his bag since that morning. It would have been on Monday, but Stiles was busy buying some materials to finalize his protections at the store and make sure no nix will be able to sneak in a second time.

They meet at The Secret Garden Café, because it's a good halfway point between Quantico and the store where they can meet in the middle; it's also a restaurant, which means it stays open after six, unlike other cafés he'd looked at. The outside tables are decently scattered around the garden so it's easier to have some privacy, unlike in the booth of a coffee shop.

They make their orders, and Spencer asks about Eli, learning that his dad — who works in restoration — is back from a two-day work trip to New York, so he's no longer staying with Stiles. It happens every other month, according to him, and Stiles doesn't sound like he minds it much; though whenever a trip clashes with a case, Eli ends up with Lydia instead.

As soon as their orders arrive, Stiles grabs a pen from his pocket, sketches a quick rune array onto a napkin, and asks if he's thought of any more questions since Saturday. He did. He even made a list. He also gets completely sidetracked by newly arising questions about the rune array on the center of the table, which he learns is Stiles’ version of a muffliato and leads to a long discussion over which other Harry Potter spells he's tried to recreate, and ends up with him learning that the store owner is fluent in latin and equally annoyed by the mockery of it they use in the books.

They leave just a few minutes before closing, and end up talking all the way to Stiles’ car, where he offers Spencer a ride home instead of letting him take the metro. Stiles drives a well cared for light-blue 1980 Jeep CJ-5, which he learns is named ‘Roscoe’ and belonged to his mother. It immediately explains why he owns such an old model; emotional attachment trumps a modern update. He would know, with his 65 Amazon that spends more time parked than in use, though it's definitely less maintenance-intensive than a Jeep with off-road hardware.

The ride feels too short, and Spencer almost asks Stiles to come up so they don't have to stop talking, but he has work in the morning and hasn't had company in nearly four years, so he should probably air out the place before thinking of inviting someone over.

His phone beeps as soon as he makes it into the apartment.

Stiles: let me know when you're done with the book

Stiles: we can make another trade

That's when he realizes he hasn't told Stiles how fast he reads, which naturally means he sits down with it right then, goes through the book in about five minutes, and immediately texts back with his thoughts on it, which boils down to engrossing, unpleasant — though no more than most cases he's worked on — and worth it. He likes the historical forensics more than the characters, and knows to brace for more darkness than deduction from other works by this author. When Stiles asks if he lied about not reading it to be nice — why would someone do that? — Spencer explains about his reading speed and eidetic memory.

Instead of another text, he gets a call, and ends up on the receiving end of a rant about the impossibility of what he just stated. Stiles spends the next twenty minutes trying to convince him that what he does doesn't count as ‘reading’ when his mind isn't processing the words one by one and instead capturing pages into mental maps that feel like he's read it due to his complete lack of recall loss. Spencer stops trying not to smile halfway through, but still pretends he disagrees for the other half before admitting he's not wrong but people don't care about semantics, just the result, which is getting through a 75k word book in four-ish minutes either way.

After that, the meetings just… keep happening. Sometimes he stops by the store after work, and other times they pick a restaurant or park to meet and talk at. He eases up a little on asking about the supernatural when Stiles calls him out on overthinking past cases, citing that his dad did the same thing when he found out, and adding that most of them were probably completely normal, especially in the past ten years. When Spencer asks how he can be so sure, Stiles admits to a few contacts in the FBI who are in-the-know and charged with making sure such cases end up in the hands of people who know what they're dealing with.

A week and a half after they meet, the team flies out to Illinois for a case, and Spencer is forced to cancel their plans. Instead of being justifiably upset about it, Stiles assures him it's fine, and he'll probably have to do the same eventually when he's the one with a case, though his are more sporadic than Spencer's. Stiles still checks in over text, apparently worried, and even though Spencer can't talk about the case, it still reminds him to stop and breathe for a moment before moving on.

Spencer visits the bookstore in the afternoon after he's back from the case, and when it closes, Stiles insists on cooking them dinner instead of going to a restaurant. They eat on the sofa, watch half of a Star Wars marathon, and argue about the force in relation to Stiles’ magical abilities. It's such a contrast to how he usually spends his post-case time that it nearly gives him emotional whiplash; getting to sit down, relax, and laugh after the stress of having his teammates kidnapped. Again.

It's nice.

It also irrationally concerns him, since he doesn't usually get to keep nice things for long.

His thoughts prove not so irrational when a call from Emily reaches him when he's about to get into Stiles’ jeep one morning, having planned to grab breakfast together.

She doesn't give him a lot of details, just that it's urgent, and to brace himself because Catherine Adams is involved.

“Understood,” he tells her, hanging up, and is met with Stiles’ knowing look from the driver's seat.

“New case?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer. Spencer nods, apologetic. “That's alright. Hop in, I'll drop you off.”

“You don't have to-” he starts, but is swiftly cut off.

“I'm already here,” Stiles insists. “Besides, we can probably grab a coffee on the way, and I have the whole drive to talk you into a Ghibli marathon once the case is done.”

Spencer smiles slightly and gets into the passenger seat, “I'll do it when you agree to a Doctor Who one.”

“But the special effects are so bad,” Stiles complains with an exaggerated whine, and Spencer predictably comes to the defense of the old episodes of the series.

From the amusement dancing in the man's eyes, Stiles absolutely did it on purpose, but he'll never pass up an opportunity to rant about Doctor Who to a captive audience.

Spencer makes it into the office with a lingering smile and a cup of coffee, the former of which falls at the sight of Emily and Rossi's expressions in the meeting room, reminding him of exactly who is the root of their latest case.

“Catch me up,” he says, facing the screen.

“Garcia got an email from an anonymous server,” Emily obliges, pressing a button on the remote and causing a picture to pop up on the screen.

She probably keeps talking, but Spencer doesn't quite register it, not when he immediately recognizes two of the three faces in the photo. The first he's only seen once before, but it left an impression. Lydia's strawberry-blonde hair is in slight disarray, and she's glaring at the camera from where she seems to be tied to a chair. The woman in the center with short black hair isn't familiar, but is clearly unafraid to show them who she is and that she's responsible for this kidnapping. The third face is the one that makes his breath catch; it's a child. An eight years old, very familiar, and annoyed-looking child.

“Reid?” He zones back in at the call of his name.

“You recognize them,” Rossi points out, which was probably made obvious by his reaction.

“That's Dr. Lydia Martin,” he informs, throat uncomfortably tight. “She's an assistant professor at Georgetown.”

“So you've met her,” Emily confirms, then pauses. “Is she the one-”

“That's Eli,” he interrupts, eyes refusing to leave the child. “He's...” His voice trails off. He's Stiles’ godson, who's somehow been pulled into a plot by Catherine, which is undoubtedly aimed at him in particular. Stiles’ family is in danger, because of him.

“I have to make a call,” Spencer states, ignoring his team's questions as he grabs his phone, already pulling up Stiles’ contact. The call rings twice before it's picked up.

“Hey, I thought you'd be working the case already,” Stiles greets with a smile in his voice, making Spencer's chest tighten.

“I am,” he admits, then stops stalling. “I need you to come back.”

Chapter Text

When Stiles gets the call, he's just clipped on a visitor pass.

In his defense, he really did plan to simply drop Spencer off at work and leave, but a text from one of his contacts at the base — who is probably misusing company software since they likely flagged his DBIDS pre-enrollment being checked at the gate — had asked him to stop by, so he'd gone up to the front desk to get a lanyard and an escort to ViCAP.

Spencer comes as his escort instead, looking like he's aged five years since Stiles last saw him.

“What's wrong?” He asks as soon as they're alone in the elevator, because something is most definitely off.

Spencer's brows furrow slightly and he looks like he's trying to choose the right words, which doesn't exactly fill him with confidence. Stiles just hopes this isn't because the man's team decided to run a background check on him, since that's the only reason coming to mind for why he'd be summoned to this particular branch of the FBI.

“We need to talk,” Spencer finally settles on, making Stiles’ stomach drop.

“Okay,” he chuckles halfheartedly, more out of nervousness than amusement, “That's never good to hear. Are you breaking up with me?” He jokes, “because we'd need to be dating for that, y'know.”

The stunned look on the man's face immediately makes him wish he'd kept his big mouth shut.

“We're… not?” Spencer asks in a small voice, and Stile's stomach decides it's a great time to practice some gymnastics.

“Are we?” Stiles blurts out. “It's just- you never called it a date, and I was too scared to call it a date even if it felt like a date since I'm bad at reading interest when it's actually directed at me because it feels like wishful thinking, and I've already got a bad track record with ridiculously attractive geniuses feeling like I'm, y'know, better in small doses instead of relationship material, but… uh…” he takes a deep breath just as the elevator doors open to a thankfully empty lobby, glancing down at his feet as they step out, then turning back to look at Spencer, “I'd like that. Dating, I mean. With both parties aware of it,” he adds sheepishly.

He can feel the blood rushing up to his face, but he's too giddy at realizing that maybe wasn't wishful thinking to get self-conscious about it.

Spencer's slips nearly pull into a smile before his expression falls, taking Stiles’ hope down with it. “You might change your mind after this,” he states a little mechanically, and starts walking toward the glass doors.

Stiles wants to protest; wants to do something dramatic like grab his arm and pull him into a kiss, or rant about how their non-date dates have been the highlight of his month and how every time he reads a new book or learns a new supernatural creature exists, Spencer is the first one he wants to tell about it, because he actually listens when Stiles goes on his stupid tangents instead of brushing him off, and actively adds to the conversation instead of treating him like a walking google that's only to be consulted for answers. He wants to say Spencer would probably have to kill someone for Stiles to reconsider wanting to date him, and even that might be a maybe on the likelihood scale, because his morals can be very flexible if the situation calls for it.

He doesn't do any of that, of course.

Instead, he follows one step behind his maybe-future-boyfriend as they walk into the bullpen. It's not somewhere he's been before, but not too different from the floors he's actually been to, so the double desks, file cabinets and copy machines don't feel entirely foreign as they walk past them.

The feeling of eyes on him is immediate, even though a quick glance around doesn't reveal anyone being obvious about it. He does spot a familiar face, a blue-eyed blonde he's seen in press conferences before, and his mind pulls up the name Jennifer Jareau. From the few times Spencer mentioned his team — they don't talk about his job much, and Stiles doesn't mind since it's not like they've ever fallen short of other subjects to discuss — he figures this is probably who he calls JJ. David Rossi isn't anywhere to be seen, as the one other person he might recognize, and he'll probably be able to clock Penelope Garcia just based on a few of Spencer's comments about her general sunshine demeanor and love of glitter.

Spencer leads him to a closed room in silence, opening the door for him and waiting on the inside, hand still on the handle. It would be chivalrous if it wasn't putting him on edge.

Stiles walks in expecting an interrogation room, but finds a medium sized meeting room with a large round table in the center, eight empty chairs equally spaced around three-fourths of it, and the empty space facing the flat television mounted on one of the walls. It's currently on, but displays nothing but a dark blue background with the BAU logo in the center.

The door is closed behind them once he steps inside, and Spencer walks over to the table, picking up a remote control. “You might want to sit down,” he advises.

Stiles complies, settling on one of the chairs closest to the screen, still confused about why he's there in the first place. “Spencer, what's going on?” He asks, unable to wait any longer.

“We received a photo.” Spencer starts, which doesn't explain much. “It-” he clears his throat like he needs to prepare for the next words. “It shows Dr. Martin and Eli. They're alive, but restrained. They haven't been reported missing, but we're treating it as a kidnapping.” He clicks a button in the remote, and a photo pops up on the screen. 

Stiles’ world stops, just for a second.

Lydia is on the left side, tied to a chair, looking slightly less flawless than usual, and very upset about the whole situation if her glare at the camera is anything to go by. The woman in the center looks vaguely familiar, but not enough for him to remember where he might know her from, and to her right is the sight that makes his blood boil. Eli is also tied to a chair, bushy little eyebrows pulled into an annoyed frown, probably at the fact that the kidnapper has an arm around him.

“The source is anonymous,” The agent goes on. “We're tracing it. I- can't get into operational details.” A beat. “I'm sorry.” When Stiles still doesn't speak, he adds, “You'll be updated as-”

“You received this,” Stiles cuts him off, mind already going a mile a minute. When he spots the way Spencer's face contorts with guilt, he shakes his head. “No, I'm not blaming you. Think about it,” he corrects. “Whatever this is, it's not about me. My brand of enemies wouldn't exactly want the FBI involved.”

“I know,” Spencer's apologetic tone has yet to leave. “It's about me. There's this person I put away, they've done this before, but I never thought-”

Stiles lets himself take in Spencer's posture properly – averted gaze, hunched shoulders, feet pointed toward the door, white-knuckled grip on the remote — before standing from his seat, stepping closer to the agent, and enveloping him in a hug that immediately cuts off his unnecessary apology.

He waits until Spencer sets down the remote and actually returns it before speaking. “For a genius, you can be pretty dumb sometimes,” he softly informs. “You didn't make anyone kidnap them, Spencer. This sucks, but it's not your fault.”

Spencer's forehead rests on his shoulder, and Stiles feels some of the tension leaving the agent's frame. “You're the one who didn't realize we were dating,” the comeback is a little weak, but Stiles still huffs in amusement.

“I never said you had a monopoly on being occasionally dumb,” he shoots back, slowly ending the embrace as he steps back to fully face Spencer. “Now,” he looks back at the photo, taking in the full picture. “How are we getting my family back?”

Spencer blinks. “Stiles, you're technically a civilian,” he points out. “I can't share sensitive case details, even if I wanted to. Talking to you alone was already pushing it with my unit chief.”

He opens his mouth to protest before closing it, because he's not wrong.

This isn't a supernatural issue; it's a normal, run-of-the-mill human crime. But still… That's his godson, and he doesn't like being on the sidelines when his family is involved. If it were just Lydia, Stiles would completely trust her ability to escape the mundane variety of psycho, but Eli is there, which means Lydia can't scream without hurting him too. As long as they're together, Lydia won't escape.

Then it comes to him. “What if I wasn't just a civilian?" Stiles turns back to the agent. “Give me five minutes, and I can get the clearance to work on this.”

Spencer's brows rise slightly, “Wha- how?”

“I just need to make a call,” he says, not exactly answering. “Please?” Stiles insists, knowing he needs to cooperate with the people who have more information on the situation than him if he wants to get involved in a federal case. This isn't Beacon Hills. “They're my pack, I can't just wait around.”

Spencer just watches him for a moment, before sighing softly and nodding. “Make the call,” he says. “I'll talk to the team.”

When Spencer steps out of the meeting room, Emily and Rossi immediately approach him.

“How did it go?” Emily asks, since they hadn't talked in an interview room where the team could watch.

“Did he mention why they haven't been reported missing?” Rossi adds before he can answer, making him realize he completely forgot to ask half the questions he'd planned to.

Stiles has a habit of derailing his thoughts like that.

“It went… better than expected,” he admits with some relief.

He doesn't know what he'd expected, exactly, but it hadn't been for Stiles to take things as calmly as he did. He thought he'd have to be the one doing the comforting, or at least bear the brunt of the blame for the situation, not that he'd end up the one being comforted.

Especially after the talk in the elevator.

It's not that he hadn't realized they never actually referred to their meetings as a date, but they still got together for date-like activities. Except…most of those could be labeled as friendly too, since they lacked the usual physical contact aspect. Well, the romantic physical contact aspect, since he's long since learned that Stiles is very touchy with people he trusts, partly due to his pack's influence. He was surprised to discover he doesn't mind, though it can be a little distracting on occasion, but he'd enjoyed having someone for himself outside of the office too much to risk trying to escalate the casual touches into something they might have to stop and pin a clear label to. Still, hearing Stiles outright state that they weren't dating had hurt, for the few seconds he thought he might have made up the whole thing in his mind.

He still hates everything about the current situation, but at least that particular misunderstanding has been properly cleared up.

“And I didn't ask him yet,” Spencer adds before Rossi can repeat himself. “Could you get the rest of the team?” He asks the older man, who nods and goes to do just that.

“What do you need everyone for, Spencer?” Emily's tone is thankfully nonjudgmental.

“I want their thoughts, and your permission,” he adds, since she's the unit chief. “On Stiles working the case with us.” Before she has time to protest, he continues. “I know, he's a civilian, but he's also a competent private investigator, and… he said he can get the clearance for it with one call.”

They both glance at the room, watching through the half-open door as Stiles talks on the phone, still facing the television.

“And you believe him?” She asks, sounding a little incredulous herself.

Spencer's lips tick up, “I'm learning it's a bad bet to underestimate him,” he settles on as a response. “Emily, this is his family,” he adds with a more pleading note.

That only makes her brows climb a little higher, “You're one hundred percent sure he has nothing to do with this? That this isn't a ploy to insert himself into the investigation?”

Spencer tenses slightly, but doesn't let his tone turn defensive. “I'll vouch for him,” he says, meaning it.

Even if he doesn't know everything about Stiles — just as Stiles doesn't know every facet of his personal life either — he knows for a fact he's not involved; not after the way his eyes darkened in anger — carefully contained, but still there — at the sight of Eli in that photo. He's seen Stiles with his godson; even if he were the kind of person she's suggesting, he'd never put Eli in danger like that. His brand of protectiveness is too instinctive to be faked.

“This is Catherine Adams we're dealing with,” The unit chief sees fit to remind him, but he only nods in acknowledgement. Emily gives him a searching look; turns her head slightly to give Stiles — who is now typing something in his phone while pacing in front of the television — the same treatment; then nods. “If he gets the clearance,” she warns just as the rest of the team starts to arrive.

“What's going on?” Penelope is the first to ask, peeking into the meeting room only to spot Stiles and turn back around, “Who's that?”

“That's Stiles,” Spencer replies, getting the group's attention. “I already told Prentiss and Rossi this, but he's Eli's godfather, and Dr. Martin's friend. The two hostages in the photo,” he adds, remembering that half the team hasn't seen it yet.

“Why isn't he in an interview room?” Luke asks, and Spencer looks to Emily for support, but she just looks back at him expectantly.

That's fair.

“He's also my- friend,” he stumbles slightly over the word, not sure what label would be appropriate, but figuring no labels will affect their friendship. “And a private investigator,” he ignores Rossi's groan at that, “he wants to help.”

“This is a federal investigation, not someone's cheating husband,” Rossi protests.

“He said he'll get the clearance,” Spencer rebuts. “Look, we all know Cat's doing this to get to me,” it's not the first time, but it'll hopefully be the last. “Those two are as good as his family, and his proximity to me got them in this situation. If I don't let him help…” if Stiles could somehow tip the scales, with magic or otherwise, and Spencer locks him out instead… he won't forgive himself for it, no matter how much Stiles insists it's not his fault.

“Do you trust him?” JJ asks, piercing blue eyes trained on his.

Spencer nods.

“If you think he might help,” Tara cedes easily enough.

“We'll have to tell him about Cat,” Luke points out.

He knows. He hates it. He'll live with it if it means making sure Stiles’ family comes back alive.

“I'm sorry, I'm still stuck on the friend part,” Penelope thankfully cuts in before he has to answer. “Wait, is he the one you've been texting nonstop, Mr. Technophobe?”

“It's not nonstop,” Spencer protests, voice an octave higher without meaning to.

He hadn't thought they'd notice it. He hasn't been texting that much… Has he?

Rossi levels him with a knowing look, seemingly more accepting of the inevitable outcome. “Alright, kid. Introduce us to your friend.”