Chapter Text
"Do you understand your assignment, Agent Hale?" Derek's head snapped up from his clasped hands, and he turned his darkened eyes to the deputy director, who also happened to be his uncle.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. You should kiss your family goodbye as soon as possible. We're sending you to Eichen House first thing tomorrow morning. They rarely get new admits, and when they do they always get them before 5am. The shuttle will pick you up at 4."
"Yes, sir." Derek said again like the good agent he was.
The deputy director stood. "Good luck to you, Agent Hale. We hope you can find what we need."
"And I as well, sir." Derek shook his uncle’s hand.
.....
Derek had no family to kiss goodbye (his uncle never cared for any outward expressions of love and Cora was out of the country on a business trip), and so at 4am the next morning he had with him nothing but a simple black coat over a white shirt, jeans, and his hiking boots. He had been told prior to being assigned that everything he had with him would be confiscated and returned after he came back from the mission. The white transport truck showed up outside his house, and he wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. There wasn't much of a chill in California—it was nothing compared to Virginia—but the situation brought along its own kind of freeze. There was a man driving and the side sliding door opened to reveal two FBI-affiliated transporters, a man and a woman. They both beckoned him inside and he stepped into the white truck as they shut the doors around him. The truck jolted into motion, and Derek roughly fell onto the cold metal seats lining the truck.
"Here, we have to put these on you," the woman moved forward, her expression apologetic as she clipped handcuffs onto him. "Now remember, all of your things will be taken from you. You were given a backstory in your case file, is that correct?"
Derek swallowed, jingling his cuffs a bit. "Yeah." His silence filled the whole truck, but he did nothing to dissipate it. He rather enjoyed the sound of nothing, it was worth more than any words. Besides, it gave him time to focus. Derek had been on many undercover missions before: that's what happened to you if you were a Quantico agent with no family. He'd been on ones that embedded him deep into underground boxing circles, ones that found him the bodyguard of a drug lord, ones that ended with him fake married with a fake child. This time, though...this time was different. This time he wasn't Marcos Salvéz the pet shop owner, he wasn't Ian Lewis the club bouncer, he wasn't Orin Adler the bookshop employee—he wasn't even Ben Franks the coffin salesman.
This time, he was Derek Hale, the insane criminal murderer. Horrifyingly not too far off.
Eichen House was based in Beacon Hills, and it was exclusively for convicted murderers. Some serial, others first-timers, but all had taken another human's life. To get into Eichen House, a person already in prison had to be referred by the prison psychologist. They had to reside in their home prison for at least six months before they were able to be transferred to Eichen House. Simply put, all of the convicted murderers in Eichen were clinically insane one way or another.
And now he was undercover as himself (oxymoron. ha.) in order to link a serial murderer to the frequent suicides happening in Eichen. It was all very top secret business, nothing Derek wanted to think about, nonetheless discuss with anyone until absolutely necessary.
The truck slowed to a final stop and Derek stared at his scuffed shoes as the guards led him from the truck and into the darkened back entrance of the building. It was huge and brick, and even though it look gloomy from the outside, the inside had a lot of windows. It was probably very well lit during the day. Derek was taken into a separate room and pat down for weapons before being stripped by techs. They bundled his clothes into clear plastic bags and handed him a dark blue jumpsuit. By some holy miracle, it wasn't orange. They let him keep his shoes (after a lot of inspection and weighing) and gave him no privacy while he slowly changed. He straightened up once he was done and his two new guards roughly grabbed his arms.
"We've got another buff one, Jimmy," the first guard said, squeezing his fingers around Derek's bicep.
"We'll keep our eye on you, bud," the other one smiled, but it was wrong, twisted. Derek held back a shudder. He'd stared into the eyes of a dead man before, but nothing compared to the emptiness of these men's eyes.
They led him through different hallways, too confusing for the untrained man to follow, but Derek knew exactly where they were: he had memorized the blueprints of Eichen months ago. They had taken him to an east wing, which was for slightly higher surveillance prisoners, but not even close to the worst. "You'll be staying alone until we can determine your temperament. Wakeup call is at 7am." Derek could tell they were trying to piss him off with their body language and rough touches, but he refused to give them the satisfaction.
As they led him into the room that was apparently supposed to be his, the first guard pulled him close and put his lips next to Derek's ear. "How many did you kill, huh? One? Four? Seven? The average for a prisoner of your size is about five, pretty boy."
Derek shrugged the man from him. If only the guard knew.
"Not gonna talk, huh?" The guard spit idly on the concrete floor. "You will. They can never resist bragging for long."
The two guards left him in the room with a bang of the door, and Derek assessed his new home. A single woven rug on the floor, concrete on the floor and surrounding him on the walls, minuscule window where the walls met the ceiling, single bed in the corner. Side table, simple lamp. Upon further inspection, there was a King James bible in the drawer of the bedside table. Derek didn't mess with the covers on the bed, instead choosing to spread himself out as much as he could on the small bed, punching the lumpy pillow a few times before settling back and running through his plan over and over in the back of his mind until it became imprinted on the inside of his skull.
.....
The morning brought guards banging on his door, yelling, "Time to wake up! Breakfast in five!" to the entire block. Derek flipped himself upright and sprung out of the bed, then walked over and out of the electronically unlocked door. For safety purposes, no one stationed at Eichen knew he was undercover except for the two transport guards that brought him there. They were easily reachable through laundry messages, ones that Derek hoped he would be able to send soon.
He followed the small crowd of prisoners from his hallway into a larger, more open area. It had metal lunch tables spread around it and a lunch line in the back. Derek took his place in line, behind a slew of loud prisoners and in front of a rather large black man. There were no girls in this area of Eichen: when it came to eating, they kept the sexes separate. However, male and female prisoners were allowed to interact during outdoor hours. After he went through the line and received his watery eggs, boiled pork, and raw green beans, he scanned the room for an empty table and found one near the middle, completely abandoned. He took his seat, kept his head down, and drank from the cardboard milk carton that held barely enough milk for two gulps. He shoveled food into his mouth quickly and quietly: prison was no place for taking your time with your meal.
Derek knew that all prisoners were required to stay in the cafeteria for thirty minutes before getting in line to receive their medication, so after he finished everything (except the beans) he sat silently glaring at the light gray tray, hating the color. Couldn't they have at least made them something pleasant? Something like yellow, or orange, or even blue...
"I'd prefer purple lunch trays, I think." A voice from behind him said, and Derek whirled around quickly. Had he voiced his thoughts out loud? Someone set their tray down next to his and the person was about to sit down before he changed his mind and slid to the opposite seat of Derek's. "Or pink, ya'know? I feel like pink could boost morale." Derek looked across the table to see a pale-skinned...boy(?) scarfing down his food like his life depended on it. Which, looking at how skinny the guy actually was, it probably did. Derek flicked his eyes back down to his food and didn't dare acknowledge the boy.
"This whole place is drab. Such a downer, really. Most people here are either too crazy or too conked out to notice, but it's enough to depress you. Believe me," the boy kind of fell forward on the table, propping his head up with his hand. Derek looked up, slightly startled. "I've been here for a long while." He sat up, straightening his back. "That's how I know that you're new. We don't get new people very often, it's quite hard to convince a prison psychologist to get us transferred here." He paused, then smiled strangely at Derek. "I should know, I happened to do it." He stopped again, and the smile slowly disappeared. "Then again, they say I'm clinically insane. I know what's wrong with me, Mr. Man, but the question really is...what's wrong with you?"
The boy grabbed the raw green beans off of Derek's plate in one handful and abruptly stood up. "I'll figure you out yet, sir, you should bet on it." Derek looked up to catch the boy's wink. "I always do." He sauntered off, shoving the beans into his pockets, and Derek watched him walk away with uncharted interest. In every undercover operation, you needed someone who knew too much. You needed someone who had been in the environment awhile. You needed someone who was willing to talk. Maybe this could be his man, but he was odd.
Then again, Derek supposed that everyone here was odd. The kid was definitely nosy, and that could either help or hurt Derek.
He watched as some of the patients began to be rounded up for the med lines, and he followed a few to dump his tray. He then went with the crowd and shuffled to a long line of inmates. There were four lines in all, all with about 15 people in them. 60 patients.
Derek spotted the lunch tray kid in the line next to his near the front, legs jittering, hands fluttering, eyes flicking this way and that. He smiled at the woman giving him his cupful of drugs (there were at least 10 pills in there) and as he chatted she laughed at whatever he was saying. It was curious, though, because it wasn't a fake, just-take-your-meds-and-leave laugh...she was genuinely laughing at what he had to say.
Derek went back to staring at his hands until he made it to the front of the line. He flashed a grimace at the young bearded man giving him his cup of pills: 4 to be exact, all prescribed by an FBI-affiliated doctor. One was an iron supplement, another was Derek’s usual depression pill (even if someone asked, he would never tell), and two were sugar placebo pills. He downed them, drank the water for a little something else, and then opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out to prove his reliability.
The male helper nodded at him and Derek left his line. As he walked back to his room (they were going to be called for group therapies within the next hour), he glanced around the room for the over-excited boy, but found nothing. His hands found the corner of his insane scrubs, and he fiddled with it incessantly. The FBI psychologists told him that most crazy people (“It’s mentally insane, Derek, not crazy”) had little tweaks that made them do the same action over and over, like having mental problems caused each and every crazy person to acquire OCD-like traits. As if being crazy (“How many times do we have to tell you, Agent Hale? Don't call them crazy. They take offense to that.”) wasn't bad enough.
Once he was back in his room, Derek took a moment to thumb through the bible in his nightstand. The first few pages were fine, but the deeper he went, the messier it got. Previous owners had taken the liberty of writing about themselves in dark markers over the word of God. Derek wasn't a religious man, but even he knew that you weren't supposed to desecrate a bible.
Each page was filled with information. Names, quotes, movie and song titles. Differing handwriting peppered the pages. One person had written, “I miss warm pasta,” another wrote, “I miss my wife.” As Derek neared the book of John, he noticed that someone’s handwriting in particular had grown frantic. In black marker, written over and over, was the declaration, “I did not kill them.” The pained handwriting continued for tens and tens of pages, bleeding through many pages and ruining the words of the religious ancestors of Christianity and Catholicism. “I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them. I did not kill them.”
The repeated statement swam before Derek’s eyes, and he flipped through the pages hurriedly to find the end. He finally came upon it, and a few blank pages of relief appeared until the writing started up again, this time stating “I am innocent. I am innocent. I AM INNOCENT I AM INNOCENT I AM INNOCENT.”
A knock came at the door and Derek slammed the bible shut hurriedly. He had a feeling that the hospital would confiscate his bible if they knew it was desecrated.
A guard that Derek vaguely remembered from the lunchroom entered and eyed the bible. “Many men find God here,” was all he offered, then jerked his head so Derek would follow. Derek placed his bible back in the drawer and trailed his guard. He was led to a room past where they ate lunch, and once they entered the room Derek could tell he was going to hate small group therapy.
There were nine chairs arranged in a circle in the middle of the room. Almost everyone was sitting in a chair, and Derek nodded to the guard before taking his seat. He saw lunch kid pass by the doorway fleetingly. A second passed and the boy peeked his head in the doorway, searched the room for point one second before his eyes landed on Derek, and he smiled. Derek furrowed his brows at the boy, and he flashed Derek his fingers in an aborted wave before disappearing again.
Derek was watching after the boy, wondering where he always disappeared to, when a man in a headache-inducing brightly-colored shirt walked into the room, clapping his hands loudly and smiling wide.
“Hello there everyone! My name is Jordan, and I'm the guy that will be leading these small groups! I see a few new faces, so I'll run through some things. We meet five times a week, Monday through Friday, but I'm available 24/7 if you guys need me. I'll be like your counselor for the entirety of your necessary group activities throughout each of your paroles. Please feel free to contact me whenever you feel you need to. Any emergency, I'm there.” He looked around at everyone, and then, satisfied, smiled brightly at them all.
“Now, during our group therapy sessions we cover a lot of things, but the main goal is to remind you all that you're not alone and also to let y'all share whatever you need to get off of your chest. It's very important to do this, and it will definitely help you get better.” He smiled widely again. “Who would like to share first?”
Derek groaned.
.....
The lunch tray boy found him again during yard time. Derek was trying to get a small run in when the kid almost threw himself in front of Derek, tripping them both and making them fall in a heap on the slightly crispy grass. “Heavy,” the boy wheezed as Derek struggled to get off of him.
Derek glared. “What the hell was that for?”
The boy shrugged. “I don't have to answer. I’m insane, remember?” He grinned. “I don’t believe I ever told you my name, Derek,” he stuck his hand out. “Stiles Stilinski, former student at Berkeley. Pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”
Derek squinted. “I never told you my name.” He cautiously watched the boy as he stood and brushed his big hands on his dark blue patient jumpsuit.
“You didn’t have to,” Stiles said nonchalantly. “The voices tell me all I need to know.” Derek wasn’t sure if the guy was just messing with him or not, because he had a twinkle in his eyes and sarcasm dancing in his tone. “Tell you what. You tell me what’s wrong with you and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. Wanna trade secrets?” He looked eager, as if he already knew Derek’s secret and was greedy to have his suspicions confirmed.
Derek mulled it over for a second. He needed a person on the inside; someone who could trust him. He needed secrets, and he needed an informant. Except this time, the informant couldn’t know what was happening. If anyone found out he was a fed, his entire cover could be blown and the operation would have been for nothing. In about ten seconds he made up his mind. “Aggression, arsonist tendencies, and depression.” Derek said, standing and crossing his arms.
Stiles whistled. “Whoo Derek Hale, you have some real issues.”
“Do I know you?” Derek asked shortly, getting close to the boy. That was the second time he knew part of Derek’s name without asking for it. His last name wasn’t said even once while he was in the institution. How could Stiles have that information?
“Nope! But to keep up my end of the bargain, I’ll tell you what they think is wrong with me.” Derek braced himself while Stiles leaned in further, like he was telling a secret. “Extreme schizophrenia, psychosis, and bipolar disorder.” Stiles’s eyes positively danced as he looked up at Derek. “All good things come in threes, don’t you think?”
Derek really didn’t know what to think. He knew everyone here would be pretty messed up, but here was a seemingly nice kid, he honestly couldn’t have been older than 19, who had violent and life-altering mental disorders that caused him to...what? Kill a person? Rob a bank? Sell drugs? He didn’t really know what psychosis consisted of exactly, but he knew that people with schizophrenia saw and heard things that weren’t there but were incredibly real to the victim. He also knew that bipolar disorder could cause someone to hear voices in their head, along with causing violent and whiplash-like emotional changes.This kid could potentially be insanely dangerous, along with just plain insane.
Derek turned to look back at Stiles and saw that he was kneeling down to pick a purple weed. “Desert sage,” he said softly. “This was my mother’s favorite flower.” He looked up. “I also believe another one of its fond admirers was your mother, Derek Hale.”
“I…” Derek said, and when he looked at the flower he realized he recognized it as one of the many wildflowers his mother used to forbid him and his sisters from mowing over whenever they did their chores. “How did you know that?” He choked out.
Stiles smiled sadly, touching the tiny purple flowers softly with his fingertips. “They need incredibly dry dirt to survive. Good irrigation. We never watered our lawn.”
“How did you know that about my mother?” Derek asked again, crowding Stiles for a second time.
“Some of us aren’t actually crazy, Derek Hale.” The boy’s amber eyes bore holes through Derek’s as he stood again, a single dime-sized flower resting crumpled in his palm.
Derek backed away slightly, thinking he made a mistake associating himself with the strange mental patient. “What are you in here for? What did you do?” He was slightly scared as he asked, ready to bolt.
“Haven’t you ever heard that we’re all innocent here?” Stiles asked teasingly, but his eyes looked almost dead now. “What do you want to hear? That I held a gun to someone’s head? That I robbed a small convenience store? That I delusionally claimed that I was a member of ISIS?” He laughed bitterly. “Well I’ll tell you, Derek Hale. I’ll let you in on my secret.” He spit the word as if he had been privy to Derek’s private thoughts.
“I caused the death of my best friend. You glad that you know? You feel safer? Do you feel better than me because even though you kill people, your kills are justified?” Stiles advanced step by step, hands balled into fists at his side. Derek backed away. “You think because you were given a badge with your gun that every kill you make is worth it? That your conscience is clear? Let me tell you, Derek Hale, that you have plenty of ghosts. You are no better than me, the man who ruined his own life by not being there for his best friend. Your badge means nothing. Your family follows you in your dreams because they walk behind you every day as your shadow, and they will never leave. You will always be haunted by your past because you yourself know that you are not good enough. I know you, Derek Hale. I know your soul. You may be decent inside, but the ghosts of your past and the bodies in your mind will always hold you captive. No matter how many good deeds you do, you can never save yourself from your failures. They will always be there, haunting you for as long as you live. How’s that for your fake depression?”
Derek watched, absolutely dumbfounded and gobsmacked as the boy he just met a few hours ago walked off, letting the crumpled flower in his hand flutter to ground at Derek’s feet.