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A paper fox.
Small and intricately folded using a strange and fibrous paper. Peter and his probies had found it nestled in the crook of a priceless Brancusi sculpture. The angular, wooden sculpture spirals towards the ceiling behind Peter.
“What is this?” Peter asks, turning the origami fox over. There are shiny, metallic purple threads woven throughout the paper.
Lydia takes the fox carefully with a set of tweezers, holds a jeweler’s glass up to her eye so she can see it more clearly.
“It’s a fox,” Jackson says, breathing over Lydia’s shoulder.
“I’m aware,” Lydia says, voice even. Her patience only seems to apply to Jackson. Peter envies him sometimes. “But we are more interested in the materials than the final production.”
Peter inhales, letting Lydia do her work and turns to the rest of the exhibit. A paper fox. He knows it well. When he finds Japanese references, fox motifs and expensive art in one place he knows who was here. A combination of the three is basically a calling card for the international art forger and thief, known mostly as Stiles.
Peter had first run across Stiles when he was a fresh transplant in the white collar branch, working a fencing set-up for antique wine corks. Stiles had glued the antique cork board in between layers of corrugated cardboard and shipped worthless stuffed animals in them. Once the disguised cork board made its way through customs, Stiles unglued the whole mess and fashioned the pieces into wine corks.
His fence, a mysterious character known as ‘Silverpoint’, had sold the lot of wine corks to a fraudulent auctioneering company. That’s when Peter has come in with a sting operation, shutting down the auction and following the trail back to Stiles.
He hadn’t caught Stiles then.
And five years later, he still hasn’t. He’s seen glimpses from across rooms. A flash of pale skin and dark eyes. Stiles has sent him birthday cards with ‘XOXO Stiles’ scrawled along the bottom in spidery writing. Sometimes, a restaurant will return Peter’s card with the bill paid. Or a drink will be sent across the bar. Little things, little moments. Stretched out over years.
Peter’s fingers itch to take the little paper fox back from Lydia.
“Alright, Lydia. Please, share what you’ve found with the class,” Peter prompts and she jumps, just barely.
Lydia’s laser-focus is part of what makes her an excellent agent. It also leads to many missed phone calls and appointments.
“It’s synthetic and organic fibers,” she says, eyes darting to his and away. She inhales softly, organizing her thoughts. “A mix of polymers and cotton. The purple threads are beaded with some kind of small plastic chips. RFID, I assume. The paper is...well. Was money. It’s been bleached and the purple threading has been added in.”
“He left us money?” Jackson asks, peering around the room. “What did he take in exchange?”
“That’s the question, Jackson,” Peter says. He takes the fox back from Lydia and carefully seals it in an evidence bag.
He’s got foxes made from Greek chiton fabric, 13th century parchment, the diary pages of a French courtesan, the missing page from his morning paper, and now money.
“We need to find out what the RFID has to tell us. The museum curator says nothing has been taken but I think we all know that can’t be true,” Peter says, hands in his pockets. “Something isn’t right here.”
“Have we heard any chatter on what he’s been up to?” Jackson asks, turning back towards them.
“He was seen in Yonkers buying a hot dog two days ago,” Peter answers. “We should see what’s around the hot dog stand. Where was he coming from? Where did he go from the stand?”
“Why would a rich playboy eat at a roach cart in Yonkers?” Jackson wonders, forehead creased. “It doesn’t play.”
“Historically, Stiles doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty,” Lydia says. “But I am inclined to agree. He’s basically paying for a wax-paper-wrapped parasite.”
“So, we look around the cart. Who owns the cart? Lydia, get those RFIDs to the tech guys. Jackson, I want all the security footage available around the hot dog cart. I put in the request yesterday, they should have something ready for us,” Peter says. He sighs. “I’m going to comb through the logs. We’ll meet back at HQ after lunch.”
“Got it, boss,” Jackson says. He’s already on the phone by the time he leaves the exhibit room.
“Lydia?” Peter asks, turning to her.
“I’m…Concerned isn’t the right word. I’m wary,” Lydia says. She looks around, folding her arms over her blazer. “Stiles doesn’t steal from museums. This is odd. This is outside his M.O. by a wide margin.”
“It’s early enough I don’t want to theorize. But this looks like the ‘16 soil heist,” Peter says. Stiles had taken three quarts of soil from the Sabre tooth exhibit at the Natural History Museum. The soil, first placed in the exhibit in 1941, had later been used for aging paint in a forged Marsden Hartley.
“You think he took something from the actual museum. Not an exhibit piece,” Lydia gleans. “You need the maintenance logs.”
“I have it handled. Get those RFIDs to tech,” Peter says. Neither he nor Lydia enjoys people in their bubbles so he gives her a nod instead of a pat on the shoulder.
She leaves then, taking the social cue gracefully and he sets his mind back on the problem at hand.
They’d received a call for a break-in a little over an hour ago. Once they’d arrived, they’d found the origami fox and nothing else amiss. All staff on shift denied making the initial police call. No alarms were triggered. Nothing was reported missing.
The Brancusi exhibit takes up one of the smaller areas of the Moma. It’s a clean room, white and stark. There’s a wall of windows on one side and a large gallery door on the other. Cameras dot the hallway and Peter’s got some junior agents going over the footage for any sign of Stiles.
Lydia’s steps finally fade and then Peter hears a rustling from above him.
“No,” he says in disbelief, turning and peering up to the top of the sculpture.
“Hi ya, Agent Hale,” Stiles says. His cheeks are flushed, his smile just a little too wild to be handsome.
Peter finds himself speechless. Stiles is leaning over the edge of Brancusi sculpture, some twenty feet in the air. He’s wearing a bright yellow plaid shirt and his hair is in a complete disarray. The last time Peter had spotted him across a gala, Stiles had been in a gorgeous satin blue suit and he’d had a close buzz cut.
“Your shirt is miserable,” Peter says in greeting. His mouth is dry.
“This is Burberry, Agent Hale,” Stiles says, sitting up. “I’ve been assured this is a top designer.”
“Maybe if it were 1988,” Peter says. His heart jumps as Stiles makes the simple climb down the sculpture. He visibly searches for weapons on Stiles’ person but finds none.
“I’m not armed,” Stiles says, raising his arms. “Don’t worry.”
“You and worry are a package deal, Stiles,” Peter says. He takes his hand off his own gun, not sure when he placed it there.
“I didn’t think I’d ever be this close to you,” Stiles says. He’s still smiling, just barely, like he can’t help it. “Did you get the birthday cards?”
“I got them,” Peter hedges. They’re all stuck to his fridge with magnets. Laura calls them his love letters. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re so very welcome,” Stiles says, stepping a little closer. He’s less than two meters away from Peter. “I wish I was here for something more fun. But I arranged this meeting for a personal reason rather than business.”
“Why are you here?” Peter asks. The windows are behind him and the sunlight makes Stiles’ eyes shine like gold. They aren’t dark like Peter thought.
“I need your help, Agent Hale,” Stiles says. The smile fades completely.
Peter’s close enough to see the tired, purple smudges beneath Stiles’ eyes. The slight tremble to his hands. The line between his eyebrows that doesn’t quite fade. Stiles looks rough.
“What can I do for you?” Peter asks.
“Arrest me,” Stiles says.
“That’s easy enough,” Peter responds. He puts a hand over his cuffs. “But I’d like to know why now? And here?”
“Someone wants me taken off the playing field, they said I put myself into jail or a grave. I figure I got better chances behind bars than under a tombstone. And...They’ve got someone special to me,” Stiles says. He crosses his arms. “I’m not in a place to call their bluff.”
“So, I put you in jail. And this mysterious someone lets your friend go?” Peter asks. “How do you know they’ll let them go?”
“I have to hope,” Stiles says. His eyes are dry but Peter hears the catch in his throat. “If I have faith in anything, it’s in my friend.”
“Why me? Why not turn yourself into some precinct?”
“I know you. As much as you know me,” Stiles says. He steps closer. Puts his hands up. “I know you’ll help me.”
“You don’t know me,” Peter argues. The cuffs have warmed under his hand. Stiles is close enough to touch now.
“I do. You’ve been looking after me all these years. But I’ve been looking back,” Stiles says. He shrugs. “Arrest me, Agent Hale.”
Peter finds his center, steels his nerves and cuffs Stiles.
He’s walking Stiles out to his car when a thought occurs to him.
“What‘s on the RFIDs?” Peter asks, easing Stiles down into the car.
“An essay I wrote once. I’m sure your basement boys in the tech department will get a kick out of it,” Stiles says. He’s got a devilish grin on his face and Peter can’t help but smile as he shuts the door.
***
Six Months Later
“So, who’s the woman?” Peter asks, sitting on the bench across from Stiles. He sets two coffee cups down beside a manilla folder. This the first time he and Stiles have been face to face since the trial.
“The woman?” Stiles asks, chewing his nail bed.
“The one you’re in here for? Your ‘special friend’? The one who had you confessing for exactly enough criminal activity to get four years behind bars?” Peter asks. He pushes his second coffee across the table and Stiles takes it absently. “Is it Silverpoint?”
“Oh. It’s not a woman,” Stiles says. “You guys actually call her Silverpoint? I love that.”
“I didn’t realize you swung that way,” Peter replies, ignoring the Silverpoint comment. He takes a drink of his coffee.
“I don’t generally?” Stiles says. He takes a sip as well. “Wow. Kona? I haven’t had coffee this good in awhile.”
“It’s from my favorite café,” Peter says.
“Derek’s café?” Stiles asks, smiling over the cup. “He makes these beignets. Have you had them? Once I ate so many I threw up.”
“You know Derek’s café? What do you mean you don’t generally?” Peter asks. He’s greedy for any information he can get on this man.
Stiles peels the outer layer from his coffee sleeve, he looks up at Peter. “I told you. I’ve been looking back at you.”
“I’d be worried if you were anyone else. But I know your record. You’ve never so much as knocked a security guard out,” Peter says. “It’s a unique boundary to hold.”
“Ever played Go?” Stiles asks. He’s peeled the coffee sleeve entirely and now he’s shredding the paper into skinny strips.
“I’m more of a chess guy,” Peter answers. Something sorrowful flits across Stiles’ face and disappears in an instant.
“Go is chess times four. And all four games are happening at the same time,” Stiles says. “You try to stay a few steps ahead—like chess. But chess is purely analytical. Go requires some intuition.”
“Is there a point hidden in all this?”
“Yep. To answer your first question, the reason I turned myself in is because my best friend was kidnapped. Your second question, I stepped around it. I’ll answer it because I’m trying to put us on the same footing. I don’t swing. Sometimes people are pretty and I like to look at them. But it would take a lot for me to actually throw my dice in with someone,” Stiles says in a rush. He takes a moment, squinting across the table. “Third question, I don’t kill because there’s no elegance. There’s no finesse.”
“You like finesse in your thefts?” Peter asks, unable to hide the smile in his voice. He’s enthralled in Stiles. He feels a little star struck. “You said four chess games. What’s the fourth question?”
“That folder,” Stiles says. He points at the case Peter’s brought in. “Let me see it.”
“You don’t want to talk terms before you agree to consult with the FBI?”
“I’m not agreeing to consult. I just want to know if it would be worth it to negotiate terms,” Stiles says. He walks his fingers across the table to tap the case. “If this is an interesting case, you’ve got some skin in the game. If it’s boring, I’ll pass.”
“You’re a discerning criminal,” Peter says. His voice is too soft for his taste. He clears his throat. “I think you’ll find this fascinating. It’s very on brand for you.”
“On brand? What exactly is my brand, Agent Hale?” Stiles asks, drawing the file to himself. He opens it.
“Clever. Effortless. Unsolvable. Unexpected,” Peter says and Stiles drags his eyes up from the case to grin.
“I want visitors again,” Stiles says. “I miss talking to people who don’t want to beat me up.”
“Are you being pushed around in there?” Peter asks and Stiles shrugs.
“I have chronic motormouth and no upper body strength. What do you think?” He says. “It would be good to see a friendly face.”
“The best friend? Or Silver?” Peter asks and Stiles laughs.
“I can’t get over the whole ‘Silverpoint’ thing. She used that name for like six months and burned it because it was, and I quote, ‘too kitschy’,” Stiles says. He flips through the case and closes it again. “I’ll help. For visitor privileges.”
“I can probably get you one a month,” Peter says.
“One a week. I’m not a dummy. I know you could pull the strings to get me daily. But I’m not unreasonable. One visitor a week and I’ll work this case for you,” Stiles says.
“Deal.”
***
Three years, Two Months Later
“So,” Peter says. He’s standing in the doorway. Stiles is on the ground, slumped miserably against a wall. He’s holding a photo in his hands. “You ran.”
“Peter?” Stiles asks, turning slowly. He looks like he’s underwater.
“You ran. With less than four months on your sentence. Why?”
“They took Scott again. He came to say goodbye. They let him—,” Stiles cuts off. He stands and slips the photo into his pocket. “Are you taking me back in?”
“I have to,” Peter says. “Everyone knows where you are. Everyone knows I’m here with you.”
“Do you ever wish that it was just a little different?” Stiles asks. He moves in front of a window. The nightlife of New York City silhouettes him. “Scott is a good person. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Who has him, Stiles?” Peter asks. He moves closer. “Let me help you.”
“I knew you would. Four years ago. I said I knew you’d help me,” Stiles says. His voice is cold, ruthless and icy. “And they gave Scott back. So I thought I didn’t need you. But they took him again.”
“What can I do?”
“Let me go,” Stiles says. He turns, the wet shine of his eyes is the only feature Peter can see in his face. “Let me save Scott.”
“I can’t do that, Stiles,” Peter says. “SWAT is coming up the stairs right now.”
“I know you can’t,” Stiles replies. He turns back to the window. “I knew before I asked. But I hoped.”
“Arms behind your back, Stiles,” Peter says. He can hear SWAT moving up the stairs. “Please.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Stiles says. He folds his arms behind his back and the handcuffs click.
“You have the right to remain silent…”
***
Two Months Later
Stiles leaves prison wearing the clothing he wore in. A truly terrible yellow shirt. Corduroy burgundy pants. Stupid sneakers. A top-of-the-line anklet monitoring system.
He looks more like a college freshman on house arrest than a world-class art thief.
“How’s the fresh air smell?” Peter asks, leaning against his car. Stiles grins, spins in place once, and sticks his hands in his pockets.
“I’ve got a new lease on life,” Stiles. “The hills are alive. Or maybe they have eyes. I haven’t watched a movie in four years.”
Peter watches Stiles gangle his way into the low, bucket seat of Peter’s sports car. He’s been meeting with Stiles regularly for four years now and he’s still just as far from understanding the other man. He knows facts.
Stiles was born in Beacon Hills. Both sets of parents deceased by the time he was eleven. He flitted through foster homes on a bimonthly cycle and eventually dropped from the system around thirteen. He resurfaced at eighteen with the first of many subtle, clever, unexpected heists.
He knows Stiles can’t walk past Japanese art without a terrible twist to his mouth. He knows that Stiles can forge any painting known to man and the majority of sculptures. He knows Stiles is a genuine genius and that Peter wouldn’t have caught him on his own.
He knows facts. But not the man.
***
Settling into bureau business with Stiles is like settling into a bathtub with a cat. Nobody enjoys it.
Jackson’s regressed into a teenage thug. Lydia is showcasing her intellect in iridescent, pointed maneuvers. Something about Stiles has them both on edge from the very first moment his Converse tred FBI carpet. Peter wants to fire everyone.
“Lydia, my dear. Please. Sit down, eat your canapé. You’re regurgitating information we already know,” Peter says, waving a hand towards her seat. She falters, eyes going soft for a moment, and then she plops into her seat.
Stiles watches her go carefully.
“Jackson,” Peter says and he watches Jackson’s face crumple into one of displeasure. “Should I even bother asking if you have any thoughts?”
“I have a few,” Jackson says with a pointed look at Stiles and Peter exhales loudly.
“Okay. Stiles, you’re the newest member of my team. I’m going to share some general information,” Peter says. He flicks his fingers at some non-essential staff and they vacate the room. Peter stands and takes his place at the head of the table.
“I’m all ears, Agent Hale,” Stiles says, thumping his pencil crazily against the table. Peter is certain that if you put a breaker on his wrist you could power a building.
“I don’t like passive aggression. I don’t like any aggression, to be frank. But passive aggression is particularly unbearable to me,” Peter says. He meets his probies’ eyes one by one. “I think it’s cowardly. If you have an issue with someone, you discuss it. Or else I have to get involved and hold hands and swaddle feelings and, to be perfectly honest, I am not a skilled comforter.”
Jackson shrinks in his chair and Lydia stills like a deer.
“So, I’m going to just say this for clarification. If anyone has a problem with anyone else, speak now or get over yourself. Our job doesn’t allow us to be anything besides a cohesive team. Stiles is here as a consultant, sure. But for the next four years, he is on the team,” Peter says. Jackson won’t meet his eye and he can finally spot a mulish bend to Lydia’s upper lip. “Stiles, do you have any issues to bring to the table?”
“Agent Whittemore’s cologne makes me sneeze. I have an extremely refined palette,” Stiles says immediately. His sincere face is perfect aside from the mirth shining in his eyes.
“Look, I’ll cut the crap,” Jackson says. Stiles turns his hidden delight from Peter to Jackson. “It’s like being in the same room as your worst test score. And the test score can talk and eat deviled ham in the stake out van. And insult your cologne. Which, by the way, is Amouage Bracken.”
Stiles smiles with the edges of his eyes and Peter chuffs into his own hand.
“Speak for yourself, Jackson,” Lydia says. She crosses her leg over the other purposefully. “I’m pleased to have such a unique perspective on our side.”
“I am delighted to hear that, Lydia,” Peter says. She won’t be an issue again. Lydia is ruthlessly efficient in every aspect of her life, including her emotions. Jackson needs a softer, guided touch.
“Jackson, we’re doing lunch. Cancel your lunch date with the basement kid,” Peter says.
“His name is Danny. And IT isn’t even in the basement, Peter,” Jackson protests but Peter can tell by the smug little curl of his mouth that he’s pleased to have Peter’s attention.
His team is a good one. He likes his team. He likes Stiles. It would all be a lot easier if the team liked Stiles too.
***
With Jackson soothed, things creak along just a little bit smoother. It’s been a month and Stiles is loud and obnoxious and he trips over nothing. Peter doesn’t understand how he escaped capture for a decade. But he’s also whip-smart and easily solved two cases in these short thirty days, so maybe Peter has an idea.
Peter sits at home most nights, reviewing the footage of Stiles’ visitors. A dark-haired woman with insane dimples is the lone visitor for the bulk of Stiles’ sentence. The log book deems her as Stiles’ legal counsel. One month before Stiles had broken out, a man had come to visit.
Scott Deaton. He had a boyish scrawl, messy with the letters squished together. He had pressed his hand against the glass like a sorrowful wife from a movie and Stiles had pushed back just as tenderly.
Tonight, Peter’s disturbed from rewinding and playing and rewinding the video of Scott’s visit by someone knocking on his door. Laura went to bed hours ago and Peter’s espresso cup is empty.
“Hey, G-Man,” Stiles says, proffering a bottle of artisanal mead. “I wanted to celebrate a month well done.”
“Right,” Peter says, taking the bottle. He only hesitates for a moment before letting the door swing all the way open. “Entrez-vous.”
“Nice place,” Stiles says, spinning around to take in the full open plan style of the apartment. He nudges a pair of bright yellow pumps with his toe. “Is it just you and the missus?”
“You know I don’t have a missus,” Peter says, investing the mead’s label. “Take your shoes off.”
“Ah, of course,” Stiles says. He unlaces his high top converse, pulling up his pant leg enough to show his ankle monitor. “Peter Hale is a no-shoes-in-the-house guy.”
“Whatcha watching?” Stiles asks, peering into the living room at Peter’s paused television. “Wow. Seriously?”
“I’m trying to understand something,” Peter says. He fetches two tulip glasses from his cabinet and a wedge of Roquefort from the fridge.
He contemplates hiding the postcards ( love letters , Laura says in his mind) stuck to the fridge with magnets but ultimately he decides to leave them. Stiles sent them, he probably won’t judge Peter for keeping them.
He adds a sleeve of crackers, a cheese knife and a small charcuterie board to his haul and rejoins Stiles in the living room.
Stiles is on his sofa with his feet tucked up underneath himself. He looks small like that, gazing up at his friend on the television. Peter sets the cheese and crackers up and uncorks the mead with a pop. It’s a small batch mead and the bottle is hand-numbered. He sets it on the coffee table and rewinds the video.
“Look at his hand,” Peter says after they’ve watched ten minutes of security footage. “Scott points to this specific tattoo but I can’t make out what it is.”
“It’s an arrow,” Stiles says, leaning forward on the couch. “He got it for—For Silverpoint.”
“Scott and Silverpoint are an item?” Peter asks and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“Sometimes,” he says, shrugging. “We’ve all been ‘an item’ at some point.”
“Have you known each other long?” Peter asks, pouring them each a glass. He swirls the mead in his glass and inhales the aroma of it on instinct before taking a drink.
It’s good, crisp and fruity with an undercurrent of warm honey and spices. When he swallows, Peter realizes Stiles is watching him with a faint smile.
“I knew you’d be a food person,” Stiles says, taking a sip from his glass. He grins and it makes him look beautiful. “Your face . Wow. Take another drink.”
“Answer the question, Stiles,” Peter says. He suppresses his own smile.
“I’ve known Scott since we were 13. We met Silver when we were 16,” Stiles says.
“13,” Peter parrots. “You left foster care together?”
“Yes,” Stiles says, face blanking. He recovers just as quickly and reaches down to fix himself a cracker. “Not Ally though. Fuck. I mean Silverpoint.”
“Was Silverpoint in the system too?” Peter asks, glossing over Stiles’ mistake.
“No,” Stiles says. “She probably should have been. It might have been better.”
“And you three just decided to start a life of exotic crime together?” Peter asks, taking another drink. It is a good mead.
“I don’t think I could have been anything else,” Stiles says. He has a distinctly wistful expression on his face. “I wouldn’t want to be anything else.”
“You’re doing well at being one of the good guys,” Peter says.
“Good and legal aren’t synonymous, Agent Hale,” Stiles says. “Just like foster and care.”
“Is there anything you’d like to discuss in regards to your time in the system?” Peter asks, his little detective antennas perk up.
“Christ, no,” Stiles snorts. He fixes another cracker and offers it to Peter. “I’d like you to eat some of this obnoxiously good cheese so I can watch your face when it hits your taste buds.”
“I live to serve,” Peter says, taking the cracker and popping it into his mouth.
“And protect,” Stiles says wryly. He stands then and Peter stills. But Stiles just walks over to Peter’s bookshelf. He plucks a tan book from the shelf and turns back to Peter with a smirk. “You would be a Kafka guy. Tell me, Peter, what duties would you shirk if you turned into a little bug?”
“Helping you find Scott,” Peter says. Stiles turns and reshelves the book. “Making coffee for my niece in the mornings. Babysitting Derek’s cat when he goes on food tours of America.”
“I don’t think it would matter if I became a cockroach,” Stiles says. His back is still towards Peter. “I might as well be one. I’m helpless now.”
“What exactly am I supposed to say to that?,” Peter asks dryly, cocking an eyebrow,and Stiles turns back to him. Stiles’ mouth is set in a firm line but the skin around his eyes is blotchy.
“Nothing,” Stiles says, eyes drifting. They snap back to Peter and a smile cracks on his face. “Or—Wait. Tell me more about your niece.”
“She lives here,” Peter says.
“Ah. I was hoping the heels were yours,” Stiles teases despite the redness around his eyes. “What a shame.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Peter drawls. He takes a drink of his mead. Mulls over the night’s many conversational topics. “What does Silverpoint have to do with the people who took Scott?”
Stiles has the gall to put on a surprised face, lashes fluttering and plush red mouth falling open. It’s just a little too blatant and Peter laughs.
“You can’t play a player, Stiles,” Peter says. “Spill.”
“If I answer that question, I betray Silverpoint. Her identity, her aliases. It’ll all be burnt. I can’t do that to her,” Stiles says. He holds a hand over his mouth and exhales. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s not my answer to give.”
“Even if it saves Scott?” Peter asks and Stiles laughs bitterly.
“Even then,” he says and drains his mead. He stands. “I should go.”
“We haven’t finished the bottle,” Peter says. He pushed Stiles too hard. He regrets it.
“Enjoy it,” Stiles says. “Night, Peter.”
He jams his feet into his Converse without tying them and then he’s gone out the door.
Peter sighs and eats another cracker.
***
Next time, Peter knocks on Stiles’ door. It swings open to a laughing Stiles who abruptly sobers up.
“Hello-oh no,” Stiles says, closing the door so just his face is poking out. “Hello, Agent Hale .”
“Stiles,” Peter says politely, trying not to be offended. “May I come in?”
“No,” Stiles says and Peter watches him flinch at his own words.
“Oh, Stiles,” a woman’s voice calls. Stiles winces. “I’m getting cold. Come warm me up.”
“You don’t swing, huh?” Peter asks, more amused now than anything.
“Just get in here,” Stiles says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He holds the door open and steps aside.
“God, Stiles,” the woman hisses and Peter sees a whirl of black curls and pale, creamy skin disappear behind a privacy screen.
“I didn’t tell you to take off all your clothes and yoo-hoo at me like a weirdo,” Stiles protests. He closes the door and sighs. “Peter, meet Silverpoint. Silverpoint—“
“Do not call me that,” the woman says. She slides out from behind the screen in a leather jacket and a floaty white dress.
“This is your legal counsel?” Peter asks, laughing to himself. He recognizes the woman from the prison security tapes. “Silverpoint is your legal counsel? And she trotted in and out of a max security prison for four years?”
“One, I passed the bar exam so I am perfectly qualified to offer legal advice. Two, nobody looks past a well-made business card,” she says with a gorgeous grin. Peter finds himself a little charmed despite himself. She holds out a neatly manicured hand and, when Peter takes it, she gives him a firm handshake. “Three, don’t call me Silverpoint. It’s way too Bond girl.”
“What should I call you?” Peter asks, releasing her hand. He glances over at Stiles who is leaning against a pillar with a private smile curving over his face.
“Call me Ally. My full name is Allison Argent and my grandfather has Scott.”
***
The Argent family isn’t foreign to Peter. A long time ago, nearly a decade ago, the eldest Argent daughter had focused her sights on Derek. She’d wooed him with money and gifts and when Derek had eventually spurned her she’d burned down the Hale house.
She’d killed the majority of the Hale family and then disappeared into the wind. Someone had paid off the arson inspector and the local PD and it had been dropped and deemed an accident.
Peter has found himself the guardian of two traumatized teenagers.
He’d forced himself to move on, for his family and for himself. But there is a box in his bedroom full of every last shred of questionable activity the Argents have ever been a part of.
The next time he shows up at Stiles’ place, Ally lets him in. She’s wearing a men’s button up and knee high socks and, as far as Peter can tell, nothing else. She leaves him standing in the doorway and returns to her perch on Stiles’ dinner table, crossing her long legs casually. Peter closes the door with his foot, he’s lugging his box of evidence and he sets it on the table beside Ally.
Stiles is carefully winding a red thread around pins on a corkboard. He turns to grab another skein of yarn and jumps when he sees Peter.
“Jeez,” he says, clutching his chest like an old woman. “You need a bell.”
“How did you evade me for so long?” Peter asks wonderingly and Ally laughs like a bell ringing.
“He didn’t do it alone,” she says and cracks open his box. The very top image is a blurry photo Kate Argent. Allison pulls the photo from the box and holds it carefully in her lap
“Give me that,” Stiles says, plucking it from her fingers. She balls her hands in her lap. “Look, it fits perfectly.”
Stiles pins the photo above a little paper slip that reads ‘KATE ARGENT’. There’s a red string winding from her pin to a security video screen capture of Scott and a woman with cascading blonde curls.
Peter begins sorting his documents into piles by person and then further by place. At some point Stiles begins pulling from his pile, seamlessly blending their evidence together until they have a timeline of every crime the Argents have committed in the last five years.
“Last time,” Stiles starts, sitting at his table. “Last time, Gerard Argent made Scott steal a book.”
“ Le Bête du Gévaudan ,” Ally says, clearing her throat delicately. “An Argent heirloom.”
“This time, he wouldn’t say what they wanted,” Stiles says. “But they’re collecting spears.”
“Spears,” Ally says with a nod. “They’re after the spear from the story.”
“I’m familiar,” Peter says. “So, we find the spear. We use it to lure Gerard or Kate or whoever out.”
“Oh, is it that all?” Stiles asks, irritation bleeding into his voice. “Let’s just find a spear from—from—“
“The eighteenth century,” Ally fills in. “Easy.”
“Easy?” Stiles scoffs and she slides off the table to grab his face with both hands.
“I have stolen things that would make Agent Hale arrest me on the spot,” Ally says. “I have stolen insane, improbable things and I didn’t even smudge my eyeliner. And so have you.”
“I’m not listening to this,” Peter says and he wanders off to find a bottle of wine. He finds one already breathing on the counter beside two stained wine glasses and he pours himself a glass. The fridge is covered in notes, scraps of paper and three photographs.
One is of Ally and Stiles and Scott. They’re in a field of wildflowers and Peter is struck by how absolutely gorgeous they all are. Stiles is yelling something, arm looped around Ally’s neck, and Scott is watching both of them like they put the sun in the sky.
The second is a faded, creased photograph of a tiny Stiles with a man wearing a police badge and a woman with Stiles’ moles.
The third photo, the one Peter recognizes as the photo Scott left Stiles on the night Stiles escapes prison, is of Stiles and Scott. They’re young, barely teenagers, and they both look haggard. The picture is pixelated, taken with a cellphone in a mirror, and Stiles and Scott are both smiling despite their tired eyes. It brings something sour yet hopeful to Peter’s throat and he forces a drink of wine into his mouth.
“It’s safe to come back,” Stiles calls and Peter brings the wine glasses and bottle with him.
“We’re going to find the spear,” Allison says, tapping a photo on Stiles’ cork board. The focus of the photo is a statue depicting a girl running a great beast through with a spear.
Peter hands her the refilled wine glass with the lipgloss on the rim.
“Find the spear,” Peter says, handing Stiles his glass.
“Find Scott,” Stiles finishes. He raises his glass and they toast.
“Find the spear, find Scott,” Ally says and they all drink.
***
“Is Isaac your contact?” Stiles hisses, clinging to Ally’s arm as she marches through the store. They’re in Macy’s at lunch hour and it’s absolutely swarming with people. “It is! I see him. I hate Isaac. Isaac is the worst.”
“He’s not the worst,” Ally says, neatly untangling herself from Stiles. “What about Theo?”
“Nobody is worse than Theo,” Stiles says and he transfers his sprawling grasp to Peter’s forearm. He looks at Peter gravely as Ally spins to smile at them. “But he’s the second worst.”
“What about Matt?” Ally asks cheerfully, backing away from them. She turns again, green skirt fluttering.
“Yeah, okay. So, Isaac is the third worst?” Stiles asks Peter. He turns, still gripping Peter’s arm, and cups a hand around his mouth, “Is that really better, Ally?”
“What’s the big deal with Isaac?” Peter asks, freeing himself from Stiles’ grip.
“It’s the—the scarves,” Stiles groans. “And the whole French-fancy- perfect- hair thing. And the scarves. They’re stupid. He’s stupid.”
Ahead, Ally breaks into a dash and a man who must be Isaac catches her dramatically when she hops into his arms. The nearest civilians watch them am race. They are attractive people doing something deeply romantic. They kiss deeply, like star crossed lovers, to the point that passerby’s stop watching and avert their eyes.
“Alright, kids,” Peter says as he and Stiles approach. He smiles conspiratorially at Stiles. “We’re merging into public indecency territory.”
Ally and Isaac break apart and Ally slides her feet down until they’re on earth again.
“Je pourrais t'aimer pour toujours,” Isaac says, still holding her close. He presses a kiss to her forehead and squares a glare at Peter. “But you brought a fed with you. That’s nearly as bad as bringing Stiles.”
“Look, buddy—,”Stiles starts but Ally distracts everyone by pulling a thumb drive from behind Isaac’s ear.
It’s on a fine gold chain alongside a house key and she dangles it in front of him.
“What is this?” Isaac asks, smiling. He takes the chain from her.
“It’s all of the information we have assembled. I want a third— fourth set of eyes on it,” she says.
“I see,” Isaac says and he plucks the house key up and holds it to the light.
“Why did I need to come along to this?” Peter asks, and Stiles turns wounded eyes on him.
“Because we’re Stilinski’s Three,” Stiles says.
“Try Ally’s Four,” Isaac cuts in.
“When do I get to use this?” Isaac asks and Allison laughs.
“You can deliver my intel with that,” she says.
As Stiles and Isaac bicker, something tingles at the back of Peter’s neck. He turns, searching for the eyes he feels and then he spots a hooded figure in the crowd. They have big sunglasses on but he recognizes that jawline anywhere.
He’s off like a shot, dodging neatly between civilians and the hooded figure turns too late to escape. Peter snags them by the back of the hood and he pulls, not gently, until they turn to smile sheepishly at him.
“You’ve got about three seconds to tell me why you’re tailing me, Jackson,” Peter says firmly.
The anger in his voice turns Jackson’s expression from one of guilt to one fear. Peter forces himself to release Jackson and he sticks his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t throttle him.
“I knew you were meeting with some...unsavory types. I wanted to back you up,” Jackson says. He’s trying to put on a brave face but Peter knows that his ego hinges on Peter’s next words.
“You’re a good agent, Jackson,” he says, putting a hand on Jackson's shoulder. “And a better friend. But I would have put in a surveillance request if I wanted this on official bureau books.
“I’m on your team, Peter,” Jackson says earnestly and Peter‘s lingering anger slips away. “No matter who you’re playing against.”
“Where’s Lydia?” Peter asks, peering around for his probie. He knows she’s not far.
Jackson points upwards where Lydia is riding the escalator down to them. She’s traded her usual dark pantsuits and French twist for a green romper and milkmaid braids.
“I told you not to dress like a car burglar,” she says to Jackson in a pithy voice as she approaches. Only the tight grasp she’s got on her handbag betrays her nerves.
“She’s got a point,” Peter says, folding his arms. “Wear civvies next time. You stick out like a goth thumb.”
“Well,” Lydia says. She starts to tuck hair behind her ear, a nervous tell, and turns it smoothly into a wave. “I spy Stiles. And Silverpoint? And someone who actually has an ounce of fashionable integrity?”
“That’s Isaac,” Peter says. “If you make fun of the scarf, I think Stiles would buy you a car.”
“I don’t want a car,” Lydia says, lifting her chin. “I want to know how he pulled off the 2015 Guggenheim theft.”
“So, what’s the mission, Peter?” Jackson asks, heading towards Peter’s art thief crew. “What’s all of this about?”
“It’s too much to explain here,” Peter says and he follows Jackson through the crowd. Warmth flushes his chest. He really does care for these meatheads. Lydia stays close, practically tucked behind his elbow and Peter is a little worried about her until he realizes she’s taking cell phone pictures of Stiles’ motley group.
“No recon on our own side,” Peter admonishes her with a wry smile and she slides her phone into her purse.
“Sorry,” she says, obviously unapologetic. “But these are arguably some of the most skilled forgers of this decade. I’m sure this Isaac is someone of interest too.”
Peter gives her a look and, when she returns it, he gets the same warm feeling in his chest he had with Jackson. He stops, watching her approach the group. Jackson is looking Stiles into a headlock, laughing at something Silverpoint says, and Lydia lifts her chin and grins at Isaac before gesturing to his scarf pointedly.
He meets Stiles eyes when he finally gets himself out the headlock and Stiles bounces over to smile at him winningly.
“You were wrong,” Peter says, stifling his return smile.
“Wrong?” Stiles asks, thrown.
“It’s the Hale Six.”